Intersting how the little men with hammers inside your head coexist with the demons... in equilibrium, neither jostling for space, but each content with its own time on centrestage, spotlight, manipulating the rest of you with a shockingly easy panache, till your world tilts. Maybe it is the thought of packing that brings on the panic attack. Wishful thinking. The knot in my stomach absorbs the dull thud of my heartbeat. The Red Dahlia deeply unsuitable reading for a mind not in equilibrium, as is the minging weather. My calm demeanour seems to harness my heartbeat in the hollow of my throat, amplifying it, the reverberations ringing in my ears. A part of me wants to curl up and never move again, while the other keeps an eye on the clock, urging me to discard the chocolate silk for a more practical tracks and t-shirt. An hour to establish a victor.
The numbers float in front my eyes as my fingers put them in their proper places, operating on autopilot. It offers to assistance in ordering my mind, and my thoughts continue to wreak havoc like shards of broken glass.
Masters
While I’ve always tremendously enjoyed the irreverence of the Aussies on court, I don’t think I’ve ever lusted after a single one of those boys…. The French, are another matter altogether. But last night, despite the coy towel draped over his nipples in response to the wolf whistling crowd, I felt my breath drawn to a standstill at the sight of the undulating muscles across his back and shoulders as Pat Cash changed out of his sweat tee. That Aussie has one of the most beautifully sculpted torsos I have ever seen, the kind that invokes the spirit of Michelangelo within you, and you can appreciate the compelling need he might have felt to try and capture the play of light against the exquisite musculature. Spellbound, I drink in the sight, unmindful of the poetry in motion cliché, as they bunch and ripple before disappearing under a clean shirt. I feel like a disappointed adolescent shooed away from the soft lines of a semi naked Athena by a crotchety museum guard. My fingers and palms itching to mould the contours, feel the shift and play of movement underneath, test it's strength and give. Just like that bronze at the Fric.
The black hole that is my memory swims into light…and I can see straining muscles, pulling and heaving against the yoke of a haathgaadi, thwarted by the unruly traffic in suburban Bombay. A lithe, dark body, interrupted by a grimy ganji and the sheen of sweat. A row of men, outside MTNL, chanting and grunting in unison as they manhandle the recalcitrant cable into submission. Shoulders bunched, muscles thrown into relief as they pull together, backs rippling with every heave. There is nothing more fascinating than the sight of a living torso. The primeval knowledge that it’s flesh and bone, muscle, tissue and blood, knitted together in just the right way. So fragile, yet so strong, so undeniably obvious. The potentcy and vibrancy of life conveyed through motion. The sheer beauty of it, breathtaking. My God. That man has such a beautiful body.
Emma’s sniggering makes me realise I didn't just say it in my head..... apparently, another body to behold is that of Roger Federer. I squint at her in disblief. As desparate as I am to see him move on court at least once in my life, he allegedly has the anatomy to drive Emma to ask in hushed tones if it was wrong for her to want to see him naked...... Damn! The vision of Roger naked serves only to crease my forehead with an unbecoming scowl. Somethings really shouldn't be messed with and the Federer backhand is one of them. My meanderings into the world of sculpture that I covet is reined in as we watch Cash annhilate Pioline in striaght sets. Another semi-Aussie victory in a superb doubles finale (McNamara/Pernfors vs Woodforde/Leconte) topped by TFL's incomptenence at Earl's Court while it's pouring outside drives the Renaissance back to the 15th century, as I trade Greek sculpture for Greek profanity......
The black hole that is my memory swims into light…and I can see straining muscles, pulling and heaving against the yoke of a haathgaadi, thwarted by the unruly traffic in suburban Bombay. A lithe, dark body, interrupted by a grimy ganji and the sheen of sweat. A row of men, outside MTNL, chanting and grunting in unison as they manhandle the recalcitrant cable into submission. Shoulders bunched, muscles thrown into relief as they pull together, backs rippling with every heave. There is nothing more fascinating than the sight of a living torso. The primeval knowledge that it’s flesh and bone, muscle, tissue and blood, knitted together in just the right way. So fragile, yet so strong, so undeniably obvious. The potentcy and vibrancy of life conveyed through motion. The sheer beauty of it, breathtaking. My God. That man has such a beautiful body.
Emma’s sniggering makes me realise I didn't just say it in my head..... apparently, another body to behold is that of Roger Federer. I squint at her in disblief. As desparate as I am to see him move on court at least once in my life, he allegedly has the anatomy to drive Emma to ask in hushed tones if it was wrong for her to want to see him naked...... Damn! The vision of Roger naked serves only to crease my forehead with an unbecoming scowl. Somethings really shouldn't be messed with and the Federer backhand is one of them. My meanderings into the world of sculpture that I covet is reined in as we watch Cash annhilate Pioline in striaght sets. Another semi-Aussie victory in a superb doubles finale (McNamara/Pernfors vs Woodforde/Leconte) topped by TFL's incomptenence at Earl's Court while it's pouring outside drives the Renaissance back to the 15th century, as I trade Greek sculpture for Greek profanity......
Good morning??
A decadent breakfast of strawberries with dark chocolate starts my day off well, and I contemplate the frosty cast to my window with a philosophical glint in my eye. The sky is clear and blue, and I feel benevolent. That is before I check the weather....
1˚ C (feels like 1˚C). Gak! It's freezing!!! The glint of philosophy is replaced by a shiver that rustles it way all the way down to my toes snugly encased in fluffy slippers. My mind darts around in panic as my arm reaches for the thermostat. Is there anyway I can avoid leaving the flat?? The traditional 'work from home' is always an option, but I have to pick up the Chilean visa and as if I wasn't being punished enough, I'm meeting Emma for the tennis tonight!
Wardrobe check. Time to delve for the polar costumes!! My preoccupation with the dire state of the weather is fragrantly interruped by the aroma of Thai herbs.... Fuck! Lunch! I rescue the rice from the fate of a mud pie, and save the prawn curry from premature evaporation... naturally, as Murphy and his ilk dictate, the rice is perfectly fluffy, each grain flaunting it's personality. The prawn curry however, has turned into a weapon of mass destruction, powered by 2 cunning red chillies that snuck past my viligant guard and are now on their way to a liaison with 24 virgins in heaven....
1˚ C (feels like 1˚C). Gak! It's freezing!!! The glint of philosophy is replaced by a shiver that rustles it way all the way down to my toes snugly encased in fluffy slippers. My mind darts around in panic as my arm reaches for the thermostat. Is there anyway I can avoid leaving the flat?? The traditional 'work from home' is always an option, but I have to pick up the Chilean visa and as if I wasn't being punished enough, I'm meeting Emma for the tennis tonight!
Wardrobe check. Time to delve for the polar costumes!! My preoccupation with the dire state of the weather is fragrantly interruped by the aroma of Thai herbs.... Fuck! Lunch! I rescue the rice from the fate of a mud pie, and save the prawn curry from premature evaporation... naturally, as Murphy and his ilk dictate, the rice is perfectly fluffy, each grain flaunting it's personality. The prawn curry however, has turned into a weapon of mass destruction, powered by 2 cunning red chillies that snuck past my viligant guard and are now on their way to a liaison with 24 virgins in heaven....
L'Hiver....est arriveé
With a snap to take your head off! Last night I fluttered about, feeling great empathy for the whirling leaves as a freak typhoon wind swept clean all the trees on Oxford Street. 'Oho! It's very fresh', says the 6'4" Aryan blond. 'Fucking freezing', splutters the 5'7" Dravidian brunette.
This morning dawned bright and blue skied.... the cold snap a practised squatter, stabbing through a coat and two layers of t-shirt. Enough messing around with the autumnal haze, methinks, and tonight I crank up the ante. Heat layer, sweater, coat and gloves, prepared to swelter in the cavernous bowels of the underground. Public travel has its rewards, and the compartment smiles as the doors open again to the cheery voice of the driver, "Could you remove any clothing, baggage or limbs that are blocking the doors please... thank you"
The closest seats any of us have ever had court side, thrills us, even more than the sight of Rafa's tight butt (why the boy won't get comfy undies, I will not comprehend! It really is most unbecoming to keep yanking at your rear end like a 4 year old {although I hasten to add... that butt, is definitely all adult}). I feel very pleased with myself watching two of the top 10 players slug it out (Nadal vs. Davydenko), and feel my heart head towards arrhythmia in the second set as Nadal finally ups his game, and the court erupts into some splendiforous rallies, interrupted by brilliant shots! I'm definitely not going to be able to watch Roger play live without medical attention close at hand :S. Oh well... as they say, death is the only certainty, and it certainly was a well deserved win for Nikolay tonight!
Toast.
Is what I feel like. Kept out too long, dry and crumbly... and it's not even 4 o'clock. The only thing that's worse than feeling jet lagged without having gone anywhere, is a hangover before you get into bed... The desire to moan piteously while grabbing my head is intense, but in the interest of health and safety in the workplace (theirs, not mine), I curb my baser instincts and settle for death through tedium as I hurl myself into the world of Intra Company Agreements, more disagreeably known as ICA's... death to the drone!
Riiise and shiiine...
Nothing says rise and shine better on a Monday morning than a pounding headache and throbbing eyeballs. I balefully eye the Pinot Gris that has nothing to do with my delicate condition and contemplate remedial action to curb overwrought emotional manifestations. Given that not very much surprises me usually, why am I so taken aback when it’s me? Its like my brain disengages from the proceedings, leaving my emotions fraught with instant, unbearable hurt. The confusion magnified as the howling wind rattles the window and I crawl under the duvet and curl up, unable to get warm. The desire to call for back up, overwhelming.
Morning brings light, and the little men with hammers…..
Morning brings light, and the little men with hammers…..
Discordant notes
A finely tuned instrument, at one with its musician. Joyous, free and uncaring of anything else. A perfect melody, replete in a world of it's own. Each note, each vibration, each movement in perfect sync, flowing from one to the other, invisible threads spun around them till they are as one.
One false note. That's all it takes to throw the duet off kilter. Harmonies clash with one another and confusion reigns. You stop, then pick up where you left off... except now there are two different threads. Occasionally entwining before breaking apart, the rhythm lost, out of step. Faltering. Discordant.
It plagues me. For I neither now why, or how to fix it....
One false note. That's all it takes to throw the duet off kilter. Harmonies clash with one another and confusion reigns. You stop, then pick up where you left off... except now there are two different threads. Occasionally entwining before breaking apart, the rhythm lost, out of step. Faltering. Discordant.
It plagues me. For I neither now why, or how to fix it....
My eyes blink open under protest, as the raucous whine of the hair dryer reminds me why men think women are from outter space. I feel overcome by XY choromosomes as my attempt at sophisitcated indiffernce is struck a severe blow as I gape (as covertly as possible) as the stylist does a weird back brush turning poker straight hair into the tufty end of a 4 month old lion cub! Dementia strikes, or perhaps the hairspray finally got to her? I give up any pretension at sophistication as I now openly stare as she rolls the hair tail tuff end in, into a bun, and spends the next 14 minutes, teasing, spraying, tweaking and stabbing it into a fake chignon. The ozone layer doesn't stand a chance, as tongs, pins and other instruments of torture appear in response to blondie's, 'I have to leave in 5 min'. Regretfully, my study into the mystique of the perfectly coiffed woman is cut short as my masseuse herds me away...
Rose from Brazil assures me that my bum will be all perky and lifted within ten sessions. I valiantly contain the snort that threatens to erupt at her earnest conviction and gurgle out a 'Really?'. She nods at me beaming...and even tells me she'll talk to the manager to see if they can offer package deals for 6 or 10 sessions to make it even more attractive to the gluteusly challenged amongst us. Her hands have left me like putty, unable to take offence at her candid appraisal of my cellulite situation and I smile back benignly and promise to call for an appointment soon.....
A rose by any other name...
...is still a rose. The most over hyped flora known to mankind, and a guarantee of unadulterated boredom if a woman gushes on about how much she loooves roses...
My mouth makes a moué at the absence of Tulips and Irises, but the crushed orange petals make me waver, and my hand reflexively reaches for a bunch. The unusual colour nestles like a sunset in the dark green foliage, a perfect foil for the chintzy mosaic vase that came with the flat. They please me inordinately, and bring to mind the whole dilemma of a rose by any other name as I curl up in one corner of the couch....
Rudra. God of storms (and other less inspiring sounding things), the Wild One. A strong name. A good name. A name I want (and not for the rottweiler!). A purely masculine name? Or could I bandy it on both sexes? I can just hear myself turning it into a Rudrarakshasa when miffed.... last night throws up some more interesting possibilities, and I wonder - would I choose sound over substance? Perhaps the double barrel route - Aharya Sattvika....
I seek...Abhinaya
There is no better way to spend a hideously dark, wet and depressing day than to gape at the sheer mastery of Aditi Mangaldas and Priyadarshini Govind. Armed for the filthy weather, Somya and I were taken aback as we clomped our way into the lobby at Saddler's Wells to the sight of jhumkas, bejewelled dupattas and a severe la di dah factor. Damn! Another lost opportunity to ruin another sari......
A stunning launch into a virtuoso Kathak piece, Aditi leaves you stunned with her fluidity of movement, beauty of line, and tautness of form. Her chakkars leave you gawping, and she demands adulation from the audience. Superb. Even her lack of abhinaya doesn't mar from the breathless feeling she engenders. Her second piece is a contemporary one, and brings how tiny she actually is, and her roped body is unlike any Indian classical dancers I've seen. Her powerful control of her body slams home as the incessant flit of her fingers, like hungry flagella mesmerise you as the other dancers fade into incoherent movement in the background. An interesting piece, with some stunning lightning and synchronisation, melding the classical with the modern, but would have been better served with some serious editing (not to mention a complete eradication of the Ishq bit with the disco footwork!). I feel conservative, but her classical Kathak rendition did it for me.
Next on, the doyenne of Bharatnatyam, Priyadarshini Govind. Aditi may have mastered the body, but Priyadarshini rules the heart and soul. Unlike Aditi, she starts off without a whump, but with each step, each look, each note, draws you in tighter and tighter. Eyes that ensnare, a smile that enchants, gestures that tease and charm. A beautiful woman, gifted with abhinaya that renders beauty obsolete. As you watch her weave her stories, your feel sympathy for the Gods... the distraction afforded by an Apsara, apparent. Her piece depicting the tussle between a devotees faith in Shiva, while being led astray by Krishna is spellbinding in it's innocence, coyness and honesty, while her courtesan telling off her lover for his lack of attentiveness turns your smiles into peels of laughter. She is all that is warm, sensual and deeply emotive.
Two women bound together by classical dance, yet the antithesis of each other in many ways. While the evening was theirs, it was made by some exquisite vocals and bols, and superlative musicians who elevated the performances and stole some of the thunder with an inspired jugalbandi between pieces.
An evening that leaves you with a warm, satisfied glow, and feeling very pleased with yourself indeed, the lingering memory begging for an encore. Waah!
Kurbaan,
with a K (I try and stop my eyes rolling to far into my head). My second Hindi film in London, not unsurprisingly brought to fruition by Dimple, yet again.... this time, my reluctance subdued, but not entirely cowed.
Terrorism. A word used ad nauseam in our contemporary 'with us or against us' world. The film. Unexpected. The story line, the brutality, the realism, the performances, the ruthlessness, the honesty, all so easily juxtaposed on everyday life. Extraordinary.
Loopholes? Aplenty. Daft? Cringeworthy. Tighter editing? Possibly. Too many songs? Naturally. Clichéd ending? Surely a rhetorical question and yet.... I feel it. The truth, just so many shades of grey. Human nature, so fallible, right and wrong indistinguishable. Empathy where there can be no justification. Justification for the absence of empathy.
It makes you think. A male dominated film, where the women move you. The taut production like a cobweb drawing you. Melodies that weave a hauntingly beautiful veil around moments. The lilt of pure Urdu lingering in the air. The quiet violence visceral in it's matter of factness. Powerfully compelling characters that stay with you. It leaves you a little sadder, a little emptier, a little older. Maybe even a little wiser.
Ali Maula rends it's way around me even as I see Nasreens strength of conviction in Kiron Kher's magnificent eyes, her lovely face framed by the blue hijab, and the hairs on my arm rise. It's going to be a long night....
Confessions of an apologetic agnostic
You were expecting an ode.
I believe we’ve already established, that my talents clearly lie in different directions. Yet, the haiku like perfection of succulent, sweet flesh laced with the crunch of flimsy deep fried claws, ajinomoto laced tempura batter (and a sweep of sweet chili sauce) clearly demands the citation from Sweden that was so callously misappropriated earlier this year.
Soft shell crab. The kind that makes me want to get down on my knees and pray. I feel my aura being permeated by a higher being as my teeth sink into it, tongue savouring the pure flavours, mouth engrossed in the texture..... and I contemplate an utterly un PC though - this must be what the jihadis are won over with.... Nothing tastes better than vulnerability, and my guilty qualms about the pillage of defenceless creatures is lost to my baser instincts.
I feel conflicted - it doesn't seem right for an agnostic to feel religious over dessert and let me assure you, that exhaustive empirical research has gone into establishing that a deep fried soft shell crab is inherently superior to any sweet, gooey, wobbly, multicoloured post-prandial offering, and a perfect lude to end your inter with (It's late!! and I've already been the envy of felines and hypnotised by medicine).
Thai Rice. Opposite Maida Vale tube station. A revelation - funky decor (backlit tables flanked by leather banquettes and exposed brickish type stuff on the walls...), a jhol bhaat moment to delight in and home delivery! Oh.... did I mention dessert?
Marie darling, if only you could have seen beyond your brioche, and kept your pretty head.....
Ataxia
1. Noun, Pathology. Loss of coordination of muscles
2. Greek for "absence of order"
3. Impedimentia's second cousin
4. Rastafarian calling for a cab
5. A succinct moniker for a Rottweiler
6. Apara post manhandling in a yoga class
7. All of the above
Needless to say, my erratic romance with language continues (despite Pakeezah's rather challenging roshogolla in mouth rendition), and I am held in thrall by ataxia, hypotonia, dysmetria, dysdiadochokinesia and even dyschronometria and now, infestimally less in awe of Goscinny & Uderzo..........
P.S. - think I broke the spell checker with this post
Exotica
Life never fails to throw up fortuitous encounters of the strange kind... how sweetly ironic is it, to come across a blind man who has a yen for auburn tresses?? Although, on reflection, I suppose it's just as well, our susceptible hero is visually impaired - auburn sounds a lot sexier than it looks :p. It's one of those words that conjure visions of exotica, except it turns out to be a converted shed housing a sorry collection of reptiles (don't ask, but it's somewhere out Vancouver way..). But it does make me think of Rangali, and the pure decadence that begs indulgence... and Oho!! Indulge I shall! Just as soon as I'm done with my second born to pay off next year's Kenyan safari.. no. 3 is on its way ;-)
Winter Shagathon
Now there’s a headline you don’t see often enough….
The louches have just reinforced my distinct lack of Britishness. Given that I don’t run, cycle or swim across locomotive distances (hurdling the pavement for the bus is running and marathons during times of peace are pointless; I have an inner ear disequilibrium issue that causes unrestrained wobbling and I can’t help it if my genetic disposition inclines me towards viewing pools as an accessory), I’m often left bereft in summer when all good English send out coercive emails bragging about the millions of miles they will conquer in order to raise thousands for their favourite charity, and now, it seems the menfolk are ticking it over to the Fall!
No more. This winter, I shall gird my loins and thrust myself into the thick of it all….. An endeavour of this magnitude requires strategic planning, unwavering determination, stringent training and some capital investment. Steely eyed, I survey the hardware strewn over the bed….rabbit, dildo, hot pink restraints, finger vibe, mask, ankle cuffs, other vibe, free gift vibe, cock ring, condoms. This might a fortuitous time to get the door swing. Next, the software….silk, lace, leather, satin, chiffon; garters, teddies, stockings, fuck me heels, crotchless, flyaway…..
Hmmmm, I ponder whether scoring at a shagathon mimics ice skating – points for artistic and technical merit. This will require some more research. I deem myself suitable kitted out, and survey the course, unfazed by the disadvantage rental accommodation provides. Bedroom. Hopelessly noisy bed. Excellent for bondage. Check. Entrance lobby/passage. Take paintings off the wall. Check. Bathroom. Ineffectual and feeble shower. Wide expanse of mirror. Check. Living room. Sturdy sofas. Weak dining set. Check. Kitchen. Minuscule. Good counter height. Check. Building lift. Slow and noisy. Endless reflections. Check. Time to move onto the arduous training regime that musts follows.
Jeeves, my Rolodex please……
The louches have just reinforced my distinct lack of Britishness. Given that I don’t run, cycle or swim across locomotive distances (hurdling the pavement for the bus is running and marathons during times of peace are pointless; I have an inner ear disequilibrium issue that causes unrestrained wobbling and I can’t help it if my genetic disposition inclines me towards viewing pools as an accessory), I’m often left bereft in summer when all good English send out coercive emails bragging about the millions of miles they will conquer in order to raise thousands for their favourite charity, and now, it seems the menfolk are ticking it over to the Fall!
No more. This winter, I shall gird my loins and thrust myself into the thick of it all….. An endeavour of this magnitude requires strategic planning, unwavering determination, stringent training and some capital investment. Steely eyed, I survey the hardware strewn over the bed….rabbit, dildo, hot pink restraints, finger vibe, mask, ankle cuffs, other vibe, free gift vibe, cock ring, condoms. This might a fortuitous time to get the door swing. Next, the software….silk, lace, leather, satin, chiffon; garters, teddies, stockings, fuck me heels, crotchless, flyaway…..
Hmmmm, I ponder whether scoring at a shagathon mimics ice skating – points for artistic and technical merit. This will require some more research. I deem myself suitable kitted out, and survey the course, unfazed by the disadvantage rental accommodation provides. Bedroom. Hopelessly noisy bed. Excellent for bondage. Check. Entrance lobby/passage. Take paintings off the wall. Check. Bathroom. Ineffectual and feeble shower. Wide expanse of mirror. Check. Living room. Sturdy sofas. Weak dining set. Check. Kitchen. Minuscule. Good counter height. Check. Building lift. Slow and noisy. Endless reflections. Check. Time to move onto the arduous training regime that musts follows.
Jeeves, my Rolodex please……
The louches with the mouche
Jimmy B's got something on his upper lip, and I can see it from more than 8 feet away!! Ladies, we seem to have a winner and by more than just a whisker! My plan to update the 1.5 people that read this on the hirsute stakes on a daily basis obviously needs revision as I survey what appears to be a clean shaven Sammy... perhaps a weekly update might be more appropriate.
My fluffy meanderings are abruptly cut short as a glacial blasts arrogantly dismisses my silk clad legs to a most dreadfully horripilating effect. Clearly, 'tis no longer the season for anything above the knee! I loiter with intent at the entrance of Primark, utterly uncaring of any mortification (not to mention the comprehensive damage to my ubersophisticate image, cufflinks notwithstanding!) the suggestion of having emerged from within might engender in the passing public. The blast of heat that was so compelling withers against nature's disdain, and I try to distract myself with the sight of a pure Hollywood moon poised in a crystal clear sky. That explains the cold snap! I contemplate a walk back, but sub 10 deg. temperatures make the frivolous Primark windows look positively ravishing....
Perhaps the time has come to turn on the heating.....
My fluffy meanderings are abruptly cut short as a glacial blasts arrogantly dismisses my silk clad legs to a most dreadfully horripilating effect. Clearly, 'tis no longer the season for anything above the knee! I loiter with intent at the entrance of Primark, utterly uncaring of any mortification (not to mention the comprehensive damage to my ubersophisticate image, cufflinks notwithstanding!) the suggestion of having emerged from within might engender in the passing public. The blast of heat that was so compelling withers against nature's disdain, and I try to distract myself with the sight of a pure Hollywood moon poised in a crystal clear sky. That explains the cold snap! I contemplate a walk back, but sub 10 deg. temperatures make the frivolous Primark windows look positively ravishing....
Perhaps the time has come to turn on the heating.....
14 million dollar question
Somya asked me the other day if you could have sex with someone, and then go back to being just good friends. When I got asked this a long time ago, I’d said no, without pause. This time, I paused. Because I’m not sure anymore. I’d have to have a detailed questionnaire to establish what sort of sex and what exactly ‘just good friends’ entailed. I have difficulty imagining that phenomenal sex could be ignored for being ‘just good friends’, as much as I can’t picture really close friends being untouched by discovered chemistry. Indifferent sex would make it easy to going back to the just friends, but then you’d never want to indulge again would you? What would indifferent sex do to a close friendship - Would it change the dynamics regardless? Probably would. So, good sex, but not sweaty, screaming, I’m going to die sex, could be a sociable thing between not so very close ‘friends’? I think it could. How do you qualify your friends though? Which ones are safe enough to sleep with without skewing the friendship? Hmmm, I feel a weighted average matrix score sheet coming on… should be able to tweak it for inflation
sMOkey and the bandits??
More like the Louches with Mouches if you ask me.... as I survey the strange lint like phenomena vaguely discernible on the upper lips of the adjacent males. Pooley looks like he's forgotten to wash after an accident with chocolate milk and wheatabix, and Brakey could pass of as Tom Sellecks ugly younger brother (sadly I can lay no claim to this creative imagery - although, at the risk of being severely unPC, I think he looks more like a bow legged Mexican baddie from a spaghetti western, but what do I know). Sammy pretends to be part of the mouchgrowing team on the 6th floor, but an innocent 'Oh, are you trying to grow a moustache as well?' (or four), diminishes his swagger to a most un-virile muttering..... Jimmy B and Alex A throw their fuzz behind the team, and we've got ourselves a bunch of hairy boys raising money for prostrate cancer.... apparently, there would've been more, had the price not been quite so high (divorce claims the drama queen, but I personally think it's comforts of bed over sofa for the 'manly' lot ;-)).
Yet another good cause, and I feel bereft of do-goodness, like I do all summer long. I do believe I shall pick my favourite charity and do my own fundraiser. A winter Shagathon, methinks! I shall raise millions!
Yet another good cause, and I feel bereft of do-goodness, like I do all summer long. I do believe I shall pick my favourite charity and do my own fundraiser. A winter Shagathon, methinks! I shall raise millions!
All my darling bacchas
It's not Halloween or Chile that makes me think about children. Well, not entirely.... would I go trick or treating with my child? Damn straight, given that they'd have to wear whatever I decided, even if it was a headboard :). Apparently one of Mim's friends dressed up one of her kids as a frying pan with eggs and bacon - rotflmao! Truly inspired, methinks....
My feelings on the subject mirror the ambivalence in the rest of my life. I just want the best bits of everything that life has to offer and that means between a year and five, before they morph into obnoxious little know it alls (or teacher does!). I want the soft, sweet smell of innocence, the wide eyed wondering oooooh, skinny little arms wrapping themselves around you in a fierce hug, the wobbly charge to be picked up and chucked about, the breathless giggles, the emergence of a distinct personality, wrinkled noses,triumphant tadaahs!, little noses and tiny teeth, the puppy like excitement at a treat or even when they see you at the end of a long day, the heavily knitted brows at your explanation, the endless curiosity and whys (well.....), the victory of a difficult word remembered, the endless joy of a cheap, plastic watering can, the burgeoning independence that still lets them fall asleep in your arms....
Naturally, this does entail any morning sickness, waddling or imitating a beached whale. I have a low threshold of pain so contractions are unacceptable. And appalling cranky child behaviour will be dealth with, just not on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Saturdays, or when I'm travelling, or before 8 am, or when I'm reading, or during a charity fundraiser, or....... think I'll work on my business plan for Rentakid.com. Wait. Is that otherwise known as a babysitter??? Perhaps I should just stick with my BorrowAMan circulating library plan. Just as well theres no clear line of sight in the fallopian region logistically speaking, or a doting male parent on the horizon, not to mention, a marked preference for some of the bacchas that already litter my space....
An intruiguing conundrum: Can a woman who has said, "If I ever had a daughter, I would want her to be exactly like you" and meant it, have a baby without rendering it a traumatised toddler if they're not???? And is that any better than the traditional dysfunctional Hungarian family syndrome, What if I don't like my child?? Tch Tch. Providential then, that the lease forbids pets of any description.....
Fetch Artemis!
Tragic premonition tells me that it is highly dubious that any dog of mine will fetch anything..... but for a moment, if we were to ignore that salient fact, and move right towards testing a suitable name...
A near miss with Subbulaxmi Ranigazoo Guha Velkar; a foot high Iltutmish who along with an equally prepossessing Gilgamesh had their paws washed before getting into bed, the Caesar that jumped over my head.... The fundamental problem is that the canine I covet, doesn't remotely match my lifestyle. But for the record, when I move to Iceland, I shall accessorise with a compellingly light eyed, sexily menacing husky. Not that a Rottweiler is more suitable for my current abode, but let's just make a start, shall we!
Actually, the fundamental issue was the naming of this hypothetical creature. For the exercise, let's assume a fang baring snarl bearing dog. I like Medusa. But one most decidedly, cannot ask a Medusa to go fetch. But I still think Medusa is a good, strong name. Since one must also take cognisance of gender, I shall heave a mixed bag... Amun Ra, Darth, Anouksunamun, Thor, Attila, Isis, Aurora, Poseidon, Anubis, Uhura, Nemesis, Mufasa, Troy..... I'd like to make Attila fetch....
But what about the suffix? While Attila Guha sounds a purebred, respectable Bengali name, I'd have to move to Dhakuria. Thor Guha on the other hand, or Anouksunamun, simply won't answer. Also, any self respecting Bengali dog must, like its owner, engender blank looks amongst family members, when the a stranger to the neighbourhood demands an address to send his shrink's bill to, at the irreparable damage caused by 'Iltutmish'. But our precious Ilu couldn't say boo to an Ilish maach! All these non-Bengalis... if they ate more fish, they might be braver! Frivolity aside, one can hardly keep a straight face when a six week Mufasa falls off the sofa, or Hades pokes out of a gumboot... "aahaare, bechara mufflu sofa theke pore galo..."
This is going to take a while.... a bhery, bhery long while....
A near miss with Subbulaxmi Ranigazoo Guha Velkar; a foot high Iltutmish who along with an equally prepossessing Gilgamesh had their paws washed before getting into bed, the Caesar that jumped over my head.... The fundamental problem is that the canine I covet, doesn't remotely match my lifestyle. But for the record, when I move to Iceland, I shall accessorise with a compellingly light eyed, sexily menacing husky. Not that a Rottweiler is more suitable for my current abode, but let's just make a start, shall we!
Actually, the fundamental issue was the naming of this hypothetical creature. For the exercise, let's assume a fang baring snarl bearing dog. I like Medusa. But one most decidedly, cannot ask a Medusa to go fetch. But I still think Medusa is a good, strong name. Since one must also take cognisance of gender, I shall heave a mixed bag... Amun Ra, Darth, Anouksunamun, Thor, Attila, Isis, Aurora, Poseidon, Anubis, Uhura, Nemesis, Mufasa, Troy..... I'd like to make Attila fetch....
But what about the suffix? While Attila Guha sounds a purebred, respectable Bengali name, I'd have to move to Dhakuria. Thor Guha on the other hand, or Anouksunamun, simply won't answer. Also, any self respecting Bengali dog must, like its owner, engender blank looks amongst family members, when the a stranger to the neighbourhood demands an address to send his shrink's bill to, at the irreparable damage caused by 'Iltutmish'. But our precious Ilu couldn't say boo to an Ilish maach! All these non-Bengalis... if they ate more fish, they might be braver! Frivolity aside, one can hardly keep a straight face when a six week Mufasa falls off the sofa, or Hades pokes out of a gumboot... "aahaare, bechara mufflu sofa theke pore galo..."
This is going to take a while.... a bhery, bhery long while....
Smoke and mirrors..
....what is...what isn't. Like the truth, glimpses of light refracting off a shiny surface, partially hidden by fragile wisps of smoke....
Magic exists, because we want it to. Because we need it to. And for that moment, there is no reality, only the truth that we want to see... brilliantly naked, suddenly masked, as fleeting as water through your fingers. Yet, it lingers, like the indelible ink of a passionately wrought tattoo. Fading with time, it's splendour lost with the tautness of youth, yet, not forgotten....
Voilà! The six of spades, a paper cut caricature, tiny hands cradling your face, shivering as hailstones pelt the ledge with missile like intensity, an insistently wet nose, the coy pull of freshly baked bread... Every single time, ensnaring you, holding you in thrall, it's power immutable...... Why?? Forty years on, why is it still magic?
But you can kill it. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A minuscule tweak of an angle turns wisps into a cauldron of fog obliterating what we want to see. Was it ever there to begin with? Maybe. Maybe not.....Does it matter?
It was my truth anyway......
Magic exists, because we want it to. Because we need it to. And for that moment, there is no reality, only the truth that we want to see... brilliantly naked, suddenly masked, as fleeting as water through your fingers. Yet, it lingers, like the indelible ink of a passionately wrought tattoo. Fading with time, it's splendour lost with the tautness of youth, yet, not forgotten....
Voilà! The six of spades, a paper cut caricature, tiny hands cradling your face, shivering as hailstones pelt the ledge with missile like intensity, an insistently wet nose, the coy pull of freshly baked bread... Every single time, ensnaring you, holding you in thrall, it's power immutable...... Why?? Forty years on, why is it still magic?
But you can kill it. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A minuscule tweak of an angle turns wisps into a cauldron of fog obliterating what we want to see. Was it ever there to begin with? Maybe. Maybe not.....Does it matter?
It was my truth anyway......
A new day....
....and the sun hits my face like a slap as we turn off Clifton Gardens, and I lids assume a defensive position. My faith in weather.co.uk meant I'd left my sunglasses right next to my brolly, a comme çi comme ça retaliation to the grey clouds with threatening drops predicted. The rays warm my face, and I'm back in Mykonos, working on the most deliciously golden brown tan ever... the smile sneaks across my face unmindful of the woollen collar tickling my nape, but my urge to purr is rudely interrupted by a well bred voice loftily proclaiming our imminent arrival at Edgware road station..... Ahoy Monday!
Trick or Treat
I hum to myself as my feet scrunch over the yellow green leaves strewn on the pavement. Fall is well and truly here, and the benign weather makes me smile at the sodden carpet. Not nearly as satisfying as crunching over bone dry leaves, but a t-shirt under a spring jacket means I don't really care! The earlier sun's rays, that made us squint as we had another round of debating which child to sell to fund the car hire for Chile, rudely overpowered by daylight saving.
Shrieks rent my autumnal musings, but my displeased glare of inquiry melts into a grin as I take in witches, devils, mummies, ghosts, sluts, jailbirds and other unidentified species as they giggle their way across the street, obvilious to the line of traffic. The teens give way to toddlers with less cutely attired parents and I'm amid a sea of snotty noses, soothing voices, distressed wails, disarrayed costumes, bent magic wands, awry headdresses, overstuffed trick or treat bags, as adults struggle with buggies, bags and cranky 4 year olds who do NOT want to go that way. I shudder and pick up the pace, but my feet stall at the sight of a 3 foot nothing shackled to a head board, valiantly lugging it. I'm too busy sniggering to try and figure out what he might be pretending to be, when the the poor mite rests his load with a thunk on the pavement! Omigod - that is not thermacol!!! Those that spawned him patiently wait while he regroups and with an almighty heave, sets off again...Now I've seen everything!
Shrieks rent my autumnal musings, but my displeased glare of inquiry melts into a grin as I take in witches, devils, mummies, ghosts, sluts, jailbirds and other unidentified species as they giggle their way across the street, obvilious to the line of traffic. The teens give way to toddlers with less cutely attired parents and I'm amid a sea of snotty noses, soothing voices, distressed wails, disarrayed costumes, bent magic wands, awry headdresses, overstuffed trick or treat bags, as adults struggle with buggies, bags and cranky 4 year olds who do NOT want to go that way. I shudder and pick up the pace, but my feet stall at the sight of a 3 foot nothing shackled to a head board, valiantly lugging it. I'm too busy sniggering to try and figure out what he might be pretending to be, when the the poor mite rests his load with a thunk on the pavement! Omigod - that is not thermacol!!! Those that spawned him patiently wait while he regroups and with an almighty heave, sets off again...Now I've seen everything!
Received with thanks...
....one numbers cuff link (in desperate need of some polishing).
Issues - check.
Ornaments - check.
Cuff link - check.
Apparels - check. (minus one sesxy lace thong)
Full and final settlement. Veni, Vidi, Vici.
Issues - check.
Ornaments - check.
Cuff link - check.
Apparels - check. (minus one sesxy lace thong)
Full and final settlement. Veni, Vidi, Vici.
The return of the Goddess
It can't surprise anyone that the house is now sparkling like Alibaba's cache of gems, scrubbed to within an inch of it's life (even the window sills are spotless), and I am now contemplating a culinary adventure involving some portobello mushrooms, smelly cheese and spicy beef, as well as the deeply fulfilling death of several crustaceans.
It's coming up on 2:30 and at least I can say my laptop is now switched on. Although, blogging wasn't really the intended purpose, but I feel the need to inflict myself upon my limited but utterly hapless public. It's astonishing how much you can achieve if you put your mind to it - I've even manged to sneak in 10 hours of sleep, a manicure and 2 episodes of CSI (I do like that Lady Heather!). The question that plagues me is whether I should make a pretense of opening up the file I need to be working on, and do a cursory run through of what I haven't done yet? Or just go straight for the wok??
Decisions, decisions...!!
It's coming up on 2:30 and at least I can say my laptop is now switched on. Although, blogging wasn't really the intended purpose, but I feel the need to inflict myself upon my limited but utterly hapless public. It's astonishing how much you can achieve if you put your mind to it - I've even manged to sneak in 10 hours of sleep, a manicure and 2 episodes of CSI (I do like that Lady Heather!). The question that plagues me is whether I should make a pretense of opening up the file I need to be working on, and do a cursory run through of what I haven't done yet? Or just go straight for the wok??
Decisions, decisions...!!
Returning
Men are asses.
Shocking! I have absolutely no clue how that's spelt!!
One week away and I've forgotten how to do the dishes, my fridge reeks of smelly cheese (Anaheeta's that got left behind!), the bed looks like a hand grenade gave birth, my poor flat like ground zero, and my best friends are cereal, bananas, Brazil nuts and yogurt.
Friday looms and nary a single sentence of my proposal deigns to make an appearance. My eyeballs hurt, stomach growls and back aches. Sleep. Enormous quantities. Tiramisu and red wine. To be avoided. Duvet. To be cocooned in. Conference call. 8 am. Heating?? Wait for the little git to show up and start whining. Home sweet home.
Waaaaah!!
Shocking! I have absolutely no clue how that's spelt!!
One week away and I've forgotten how to do the dishes, my fridge reeks of smelly cheese (Anaheeta's that got left behind!), the bed looks like a hand grenade gave birth, my poor flat like ground zero, and my best friends are cereal, bananas, Brazil nuts and yogurt.
Friday looms and nary a single sentence of my proposal deigns to make an appearance. My eyeballs hurt, stomach growls and back aches. Sleep. Enormous quantities. Tiramisu and red wine. To be avoided. Duvet. To be cocooned in. Conference call. 8 am. Heating?? Wait for the little git to show up and start whining. Home sweet home.
Waaaaah!!
Melancholy
Something’s changed. Thought the weekend in the clouds had put it back, but it hasn’t. I don’t feel it anymore. Not the way it was, and it’s not because we’ve moved onto being more ‘mature’. It makes me sad. The lyrics don't touch me any more. I say the words and intellectually mean them as well. But in my heart, the specialness that was, seems to have melted away. But then, I should feel it sloshing around. I don’t. Perhaps its giving global warming a run for it’s money. Or perhaps its October in London. Or the intrusion of reality of the world around us. Does it matter? It was going to happen. Just didn't expect it this soon.
What has British television come to??
I'd like to think my lips form a perfectly pretty, pink 'O', but I suspect, I'd picked off a lineup as the goldfish that died through extinguination (too much CSI will do that to you). Heat surges into my cheeks as all my auditory faculties rev up at the sultry intonation from the flat screen,
'It vibrates like no hand can....' Oh my!!
Wait a minute... that looks more like a brush than a vibe. And then, this PYT daubs it on her eyelashes, before furiously fluttering them at me. My little brain grapples with the dissonance brought between my aural and visual centres. It takes a reply for the penny to drop. Apparently, the latest thing in looming lashes is a vibrating brush.... ?? For a lustrous, sexy, come hither look. Hmmmm..... Call me old fashioned, but I'd rather be vibratorally challenged elsewhere for a come anywhere look!
Yes, I have no fear. I shall meander with my mingy lashes... for the next deeply suave voice over assures me that at somenonsense.com, 'We will help you find the love of your life.' Right. That's me sorted. A banana beckons..... think what you will. Goodnight.
'It vibrates like no hand can....' Oh my!!
Wait a minute... that looks more like a brush than a vibe. And then, this PYT daubs it on her eyelashes, before furiously fluttering them at me. My little brain grapples with the dissonance brought between my aural and visual centres. It takes a reply for the penny to drop. Apparently, the latest thing in looming lashes is a vibrating brush.... ?? For a lustrous, sexy, come hither look. Hmmmm..... Call me old fashioned, but I'd rather be vibratorally challenged elsewhere for a come anywhere look!
Yes, I have no fear. I shall meander with my mingy lashes... for the next deeply suave voice over assures me that at somenonsense.com, 'We will help you find the love of your life.' Right. That's me sorted. A banana beckons..... think what you will. Goodnight.
Farewell Adelheid
My heart skips a beat at the sight of a purple stamp winking up at me from the doormat. Neat calligraphy pronounces Mrs A. Guha as the recipient. No return address, but definitely not from Foxtons or EDF. I linger over the innocuous envelope, wallowing in the suspense of a letter. It's been forever since I've had one, and I can't think of anything more exiting. Even when it's expected, even when a glance at the scrawl gives away who it's from. Nothing compares to the little flutter of anticipation in your gut that sight of one of these brings.
A card within. "Without her nothing will ever be the same". Adelheid Rutten-Pol. No, they never will. A lovely woman, enjoyed by all that knew her. Interesting, funny and gracious. Gone before anyone thought she would. It's hard to imagine Harry without slipping into Harry & Adelheid. The consummate couple. We all drooled over Harry, the yummy..... but Adelheid was what made him more fun. Now, it just feels like an incomplete masterpiece. Like her, the dignity of the simple words, 'You are welcome to join us and say farewell to Adelheid', feel like a warm sunbeam on a grey day.
To a good life. Farewell Adelheid.
A card within. "Without her nothing will ever be the same". Adelheid Rutten-Pol. No, they never will. A lovely woman, enjoyed by all that knew her. Interesting, funny and gracious. Gone before anyone thought she would. It's hard to imagine Harry without slipping into Harry & Adelheid. The consummate couple. We all drooled over Harry, the yummy..... but Adelheid was what made him more fun. Now, it just feels like an incomplete masterpiece. Like her, the dignity of the simple words, 'You are welcome to join us and say farewell to Adelheid', feel like a warm sunbeam on a grey day.
To a good life. Farewell Adelheid.
Packing
I feel like a distraught heroine, falsely accused of cheating on her marriage and spitting on her mother in law by the love of her life, as I sweep through my wardrobe, emotionally yanking down a handful of wispy fabrics and piling them into my little bag. I pause, my dignity somewhat ruffled. I should have a suitcase. One that snaps shut. But I am a woman of the 21st century, so I shrug it off and count off the number of days. Seven. How fortuitous. I survey the colourful selection strewn over the bed... Eight. In as many minutes, I'm done. Dresses, bikinis, hide from colour changing cover-ups, fetching slippers. Oh. Hat. I wonder if the Hungarian will decline to recognise me at the airport if I exit with my floppy sunhat atop my freakishly small head. Hmmmm....
I've left a back up dress at work for when I come back next Thursday morning. Overkill? Naah. My heroines always have enough for a song dream sequence number. All that's left is the boring stuff. Now, or later? This naturally is pure rhetoric. I'll be demoted at Club Procrastination if I even contemplate working on Pila in Poland or Africa till I've done everything else imaginable. That might even include putting away the laundry. No, it's time to say good bye to Cala. Or maybe that can wait till after I've dealt with the tendrils of renewed hunger tugging at my wily nily, demanding attention. I should prioritise. There is no better muse than rolling dark hand made chocolate around your tongue, body heat beating it into submission. Mmmmmm. Sunblock. See, just the thought is inspirational. Oh! Check in. I can do that. Passport. Fetch. Toothbrush. Too much work. Food. Now.
I've left a back up dress at work for when I come back next Thursday morning. Overkill? Naah. My heroines always have enough for a song dream sequence number. All that's left is the boring stuff. Now, or later? This naturally is pure rhetoric. I'll be demoted at Club Procrastination if I even contemplate working on Pila in Poland or Africa till I've done everything else imaginable. That might even include putting away the laundry. No, it's time to say good bye to Cala. Or maybe that can wait till after I've dealt with the tendrils of renewed hunger tugging at my wily nily, demanding attention. I should prioritise. There is no better muse than rolling dark hand made chocolate around your tongue, body heat beating it into submission. Mmmmmm. Sunblock. See, just the thought is inspirational. Oh! Check in. I can do that. Passport. Fetch. Toothbrush. Too much work. Food. Now.
Blondie in the house
I think I may actually have blonde roots. My cunning strategy of dropping my bag off at work before heading out for an 8 am meeting is not only just plain stupid, it's also impractical. Turns out the meetings not at the West End as I'd imagined it, but in the City. Also turns out, that my diet today has obviously addled my brain into believing I could actually make an 8 am meeting after having dropped my kit off in the office.
Vanilla yogurt (really yummy!) minus any cereal, because the mental note I made to myself to buy some more as I finished off last of it got filed in that part of the brain that is pretending to be Khumbhakarna. A parade of seedless grapes ably supported by a large chunk of Port Salut keeps me going well into lunch time. Three bananas in succession tides me over till I make my escape to shop for fizzy fish for the Hungarian. So far, my plan for an early exit to go home, pamper, prep and pack for 31C has been a dismal failure.
I get home to the thrill of a new baccha in the family, and it manages to divert me for all of 30 minutes as we exult over the phone. Shania came home today and is apparently the most adorable 4 month old baby. I'm so excited with the news, I forget to eat. For all of those 30 minutes. I wonder if I'm so pleased because I now resemble a pregnant bovine, and it's infectious? My brows furrow at the thought of the packing I'll have to get done tonight, my spine shudders at the thought of the 8 am call, and my mouth systematically slurps up 14 dim sums. This is not a balanced diet. But I can fix that. Dark chocolate. 5 nos. in quick succession, just to round it off (no pun intended!!). I have decided. If anyone looks inquiringly below breast level, I shall benevolently pat my bump, '9 weeks now...'
I now contemplate making a list of items I should definitely not forget to take, including passport, laptop, suncream, all manner of chargers, laptop, gifts...... put away laundry, a stray synapse whispers at me, freeze the prawns unless you want to carry it for the Hungarian hisses another. My stomach tells me to ignore them, and opens up a far more lively debate; duck noodles or pancetta pasta? I've left the other half of my chunk of cheese in the fridge at work. Em sends me dial in numbers for 8 am, telling me not to worry. Undoubtedly impressed with the stunning job I've done of hiding my fundamental blonde state. I personally like to think that it was being a supremely efficient, multi tasking goddess at work, juggling 3 rfp's, a business case, covering for colleagues on holiday, figuring out service delivery in Zimbabwe, remembering to send uberboss mail on training, yelling at a parent each for wasting my time, clinically reviewing and organising funds before calming paternal nerves.....that has left me bereft of my natural brunette abilities.
Or, I could just be hungry.....
P.S. - Should I kill Cala now, or let her die a natural death while I'm away????
Vanilla yogurt (really yummy!) minus any cereal, because the mental note I made to myself to buy some more as I finished off last of it got filed in that part of the brain that is pretending to be Khumbhakarna. A parade of seedless grapes ably supported by a large chunk of Port Salut keeps me going well into lunch time. Three bananas in succession tides me over till I make my escape to shop for fizzy fish for the Hungarian. So far, my plan for an early exit to go home, pamper, prep and pack for 31C has been a dismal failure.
I get home to the thrill of a new baccha in the family, and it manages to divert me for all of 30 minutes as we exult over the phone. Shania came home today and is apparently the most adorable 4 month old baby. I'm so excited with the news, I forget to eat. For all of those 30 minutes. I wonder if I'm so pleased because I now resemble a pregnant bovine, and it's infectious? My brows furrow at the thought of the packing I'll have to get done tonight, my spine shudders at the thought of the 8 am call, and my mouth systematically slurps up 14 dim sums. This is not a balanced diet. But I can fix that. Dark chocolate. 5 nos. in quick succession, just to round it off (no pun intended!!). I have decided. If anyone looks inquiringly below breast level, I shall benevolently pat my bump, '9 weeks now...'
I now contemplate making a list of items I should definitely not forget to take, including passport, laptop, suncream, all manner of chargers, laptop, gifts...... put away laundry, a stray synapse whispers at me, freeze the prawns unless you want to carry it for the Hungarian hisses another. My stomach tells me to ignore them, and opens up a far more lively debate; duck noodles or pancetta pasta? I've left the other half of my chunk of cheese in the fridge at work. Em sends me dial in numbers for 8 am, telling me not to worry. Undoubtedly impressed with the stunning job I've done of hiding my fundamental blonde state. I personally like to think that it was being a supremely efficient, multi tasking goddess at work, juggling 3 rfp's, a business case, covering for colleagues on holiday, figuring out service delivery in Zimbabwe, remembering to send uberboss mail on training, yelling at a parent each for wasting my time, clinically reviewing and organising funds before calming paternal nerves.....that has left me bereft of my natural brunette abilities.
Or, I could just be hungry.....
P.S. - Should I kill Cala now, or let her die a natural death while I'm away????
Wake up call!!!
COME AS YOU ARE......AS YOU WERE....AS I WANT YOU TO BEEE....
I grope for the phone even as the words 'I'm going to kill her' swirl through the fog in my brain... only to be greeted by a deep rumble, 'Hello..'. Uh-oh. This cannot bode well. My obviously sleep stained response brings forth a shocked, 'Why aren't you up already? Don't you have to go to work?'. A number of cells on the right hand of my brain struggle to co-ordinate limbs, limited ocular capability, lack of auditory stimulation from outside, and in less than 6 seconds, I'm able to rasp out, 'At 6 in the morning?!?!?!!'. '6? Isn't it 8 o'clock?'. I fumble again. 'NO. IT'S NOT!'. 'Oh, ok, go back to sleep then..'
It is now patently obvious that the little git has deliberately chosen a partner who shares the same congenital defect; a complete inability to comprehend and calculate the different time zones and my list of pros for moving back to India, just got longer. I have now had the same hours of sleep since Sunday, as the time zone that separates me, and a neck my hands would have wrapped around. IIM-B has a lot to answer for! Either that, or the boy has a peculiar desire to be on the receiving end of both Guha girls at their morning surliest. Still, they do teach them better manners than we were able to do with the little git, as a sheepish email apologises for calling at an ungodly hour.
He's a lovely boy and I like him. Next time, I'll take his head off.
I grope for the phone even as the words 'I'm going to kill her' swirl through the fog in my brain... only to be greeted by a deep rumble, 'Hello..'. Uh-oh. This cannot bode well. My obviously sleep stained response brings forth a shocked, 'Why aren't you up already? Don't you have to go to work?'. A number of cells on the right hand of my brain struggle to co-ordinate limbs, limited ocular capability, lack of auditory stimulation from outside, and in less than 6 seconds, I'm able to rasp out, 'At 6 in the morning?!?!?!!'. '6? Isn't it 8 o'clock?'. I fumble again. 'NO. IT'S NOT!'. 'Oh, ok, go back to sleep then..'
It is now patently obvious that the little git has deliberately chosen a partner who shares the same congenital defect; a complete inability to comprehend and calculate the different time zones and my list of pros for moving back to India, just got longer. I have now had the same hours of sleep since Sunday, as the time zone that separates me, and a neck my hands would have wrapped around. IIM-B has a lot to answer for! Either that, or the boy has a peculiar desire to be on the receiving end of both Guha girls at their morning surliest. Still, they do teach them better manners than we were able to do with the little git, as a sheepish email apologises for calling at an ungodly hour.
He's a lovely boy and I like him. Next time, I'll take his head off.
Sugar Alert!!!!
Egad! We have a crisis on our hands.....the Beeb says America's running out of sugar!!! An urgently distressed letter dashed off the the US Agriculture Secretary, with the dire warning "our nation will virtually run out of sugar". Quelle horreur!! I feel faint. This cataclysmic claim comes from industry itself.... giants like Hershey's, Kraft Foods & General Mills. My wrists move involuntarily, and within seconds, I have a major hand wringing concerto. Oh no! What are we to do?? What ARE we to do??!! This crisis could potential render a sharp blow to obesity figures in North America. Gasp! They might even lose their top ranking in the world's fattest nation states. Businesses will be crippled, people left bereft, the financial sector in even more turmoil if the manufacturers have to pay import tariffs on sugar....
But hark! What is this I read? Jack Roney, Director of the ASA (American Sugar Alliance!! tan ta daan...) insisting "There's absolutely no shortage of sugar here", backing the claim of the US Agriculture department that domestic sugar production were now increasing. My wrists see a respite. It's the stealthy caped crusader, SugarcaneMan!! Hurrah! We've been saved!! Delivered from that gut wrenching evil, sugar free, healthy diet!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/8200515.stm
Now that we've narrowly averted a calamity on par with the one loosely referred to as global warming, I shall return to focusing my energies on the pandemic that is human stupidity, making itself felt most particularly in Pune and Mumbai over that openly arrogant killer, swine flu. 27 lives in a population of 1 billion. Unacceptable!! Just because the UK loses 6,000 odd to regular influenza every year is hardly consolation. After all, we did gain independence from the crown this day 62 years ago. We shall throw sense to the four winds (Jayal and I agreed yesterday that common sense is a fallacy. A myth. No such thing. Figment of one's imagination. What she and I possess in abundance is uncommon sense), and shut down schools, public entertainment and boost the EBITA for mask manufacturers and pharma companies. Time to beat the recession.
Moral of the story: If ten thousand people say a stupid thing, it is still a stupid thing.
But hark! What is this I read? Jack Roney, Director of the ASA (American Sugar Alliance!! tan ta daan...) insisting "There's absolutely no shortage of sugar here", backing the claim of the US Agriculture department that domestic sugar production were now increasing. My wrists see a respite. It's the stealthy caped crusader, SugarcaneMan!! Hurrah! We've been saved!! Delivered from that gut wrenching evil, sugar free, healthy diet!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/8200515.stm
Now that we've narrowly averted a calamity on par with the one loosely referred to as global warming, I shall return to focusing my energies on the pandemic that is human stupidity, making itself felt most particularly in Pune and Mumbai over that openly arrogant killer, swine flu. 27 lives in a population of 1 billion. Unacceptable!! Just because the UK loses 6,000 odd to regular influenza every year is hardly consolation. After all, we did gain independence from the crown this day 62 years ago. We shall throw sense to the four winds (Jayal and I agreed yesterday that common sense is a fallacy. A myth. No such thing. Figment of one's imagination. What she and I possess in abundance is uncommon sense), and shut down schools, public entertainment and boost the EBITA for mask manufacturers and pharma companies. Time to beat the recession.
Moral of the story: If ten thousand people say a stupid thing, it is still a stupid thing.
Toorai Tarkari
is apparently what Jan made. For the uninitiated, online that would be badly translated into courgette curry. Suffice to say, it is more torkari than curry.... and it's what I believe my organically grown, hand picked, hand washed, individually transported courgette deserves. The absence of Bengal gram flour (ahem, besan..) from my prodigiously lacking kitchen might have had some influence on this decision. Nevertheless, the torkari was a resounding success and as I'm feeling benevolent, I shall provide both recipes tout suite.
Toorai Tarkari (Courgette Curry)
Method:
Heat oil and add the jeera seeds. When they splutter, add the courgettes and toss around. Sprinkle the haldi, dhania and chilli powders and mix well. Add the tomatoes, salt, green chilli and mix well. Cook for a couple of minutes till courgettes are crunchy but not raw, chuck in the fresh coriander, stir, and violà!
Courgette Bhaja
Ingredients:
3 courgettes * 3 tbsp besan * ½ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 tsp jeera powder (cumin) * 1 tsp cumin seeds * 1 tsp ajwain (carom seeds) * oil * salt to taste
Method:
Wash courgettes and pat dry. Cut into quarters lengthwise and then dice into 1" pieces. In a large bowl, mix the besan, haldi, jeera and chilli powders, sale and courgettes. Make sure the pieces are well coated. Keep aside.
Heat oil in a deep pan. When hot, add the jeera and ajwain seeds. Once they stop spluttering, add the courgette, and stir fry till done.
Eating this seriously reminds one of Calcutta!
Toorai Tarkari (Courgette Curry)
Ingredients:
250 gm courgettes (sliced into rounds) * 400 gm tomatoes (chopped) * 1 tsp jeera seeds (cumin) * 1 tsp dhania powder (coriander) * ¼ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 green chilli (chopped) * 1 sprig coriander leaves (chopped) * salt to taste * oilMethod:
Heat oil and add the jeera seeds. When they splutter, add the courgettes and toss around. Sprinkle the haldi, dhania and chilli powders and mix well. Add the tomatoes, salt, green chilli and mix well. Cook for a couple of minutes till courgettes are crunchy but not raw, chuck in the fresh coriander, stir, and violà!
Courgette Bhaja
Ingredients:
3 courgettes * 3 tbsp besan * ½ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 tsp jeera powder (cumin) * 1 tsp cumin seeds * 1 tsp ajwain (carom seeds) * oil * salt to taste
Method:
Wash courgettes and pat dry. Cut into quarters lengthwise and then dice into 1" pieces. In a large bowl, mix the besan, haldi, jeera and chilli powders, sale and courgettes. Make sure the pieces are well coated. Keep aside.
Heat oil in a deep pan. When hot, add the jeera and ajwain seeds. Once they stop spluttering, add the courgette, and stir fry till done.
Eating this seriously reminds one of Calcutta!
Incident at Iris
My delicate sensibilities are overwhelmed, appalled at the depravity of human nature. It's as though crime within the peaceful community of Melton/Welton was mere antipasti to the dark morass of prima patti to follow, shards of shocking behaviour cutting through the fringes of my civilised existence as a drama queen par excellence.
My parents are harbouring a fugitive, with a degree of unconcern to render those this side of the Suez wide eyed with horror. The renegade in question; Amit. Pint sized, deeply aggressive, with a cannibalistic edge to his small man syndrome. Their chauffeur. The Managing Committee of Iris co-operative housing society has decreed that they 'except you to release this troublemaker or we will be constrained to ban his entry'. Undaunted, Minu the Brave haggles as is her mettle, and cowers them into a months' suspension.
I demand details, putting aside my primness and am rewarded with the elucidation that apparently, Amit bit the alleged victim. Twice. Riiiight! The letter from the society is even more revealing. The offender, showed up on his day off, drunk, and proceeded without any mercy or provocation to attack the driver of flat 46 (Central Bank of India). Mr. Lallan, the lift man, foolishly intervened and was duly bitten on the calves (?!!?) and fingers for his peacekeeping efforts. Amit the Small, remained unimpressed by the presence of two committee members, and continued on his drunken rampage, showing a marked lack of respect for the fine gentlemen. Lallan, who by now was rumoured to be bleeding profusely, needed medical attention. My parents have been asked in no uncertain terms to compensate for the medical expenses incurred with the strong admonishment, "We are hopeful that you will comply gracefully".
My mother is not a graceful woman. The indefatigable one is not one to rest on her laurels, and ensnares Mimi as a willing cohort to try and further circumvent the society's directives. The rascal can report to Persepolis for the missing month. But wait, the car is still at Iris, and given his persona non grata status for 30 days, my mother would then have to manhandle the car outside the hallowed precincts before Amit the Small could take cover. Unsound. Perhaps they could swap cars, and then she'd only have to walk as far as the building gate and have him pick her up? Uh oh.... I feel myself drawn into this criminal quagmire, the dark side calls to me... Maaaa! Wait for me....
P.S. - penned notes on the complaint letter; Your driver has got a very bad background, he has no family.....
Pity we don't have that as a fallback excuse :p
My parents are harbouring a fugitive, with a degree of unconcern to render those this side of the Suez wide eyed with horror. The renegade in question; Amit. Pint sized, deeply aggressive, with a cannibalistic edge to his small man syndrome. Their chauffeur. The Managing Committee of Iris co-operative housing society has decreed that they 'except you to release this troublemaker or we will be constrained to ban his entry'. Undaunted, Minu the Brave haggles as is her mettle, and cowers them into a months' suspension.
I demand details, putting aside my primness and am rewarded with the elucidation that apparently, Amit bit the alleged victim. Twice. Riiiight! The letter from the society is even more revealing. The offender, showed up on his day off, drunk, and proceeded without any mercy or provocation to attack the driver of flat 46 (Central Bank of India). Mr. Lallan, the lift man, foolishly intervened and was duly bitten on the calves (?!!?) and fingers for his peacekeeping efforts. Amit the Small, remained unimpressed by the presence of two committee members, and continued on his drunken rampage, showing a marked lack of respect for the fine gentlemen. Lallan, who by now was rumoured to be bleeding profusely, needed medical attention. My parents have been asked in no uncertain terms to compensate for the medical expenses incurred with the strong admonishment, "We are hopeful that you will comply gracefully".
My mother is not a graceful woman. The indefatigable one is not one to rest on her laurels, and ensnares Mimi as a willing cohort to try and further circumvent the society's directives. The rascal can report to Persepolis for the missing month. But wait, the car is still at Iris, and given his persona non grata status for 30 days, my mother would then have to manhandle the car outside the hallowed precincts before Amit the Small could take cover. Unsound. Perhaps they could swap cars, and then she'd only have to walk as far as the building gate and have him pick her up? Uh oh.... I feel myself drawn into this criminal quagmire, the dark side calls to me... Maaaa! Wait for me....
P.S. - penned notes on the complaint letter; Your driver has got a very bad background, he has no family.....
Pity we don't have that as a fallback excuse :p
The devil is in the dementia
Despite a rousing first breakfast at 1 am, the blackberry reads 08:54. Not too shabby for a Friday morning, and I feel rather pleased as I hit delete with abandon. Hmmmm, BA seems overly keen to remind me of my impending holiday...then my brain does a double take, and my eyes focus on a pre-flight check email for a potential adventure to Dubrovnik. All my vital signs screech to a halt for a split second.
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
Die Another Day
8 weeks tomorrow. That's how old Cala will be when her life is snuffed out forever.... I just can't take it anymore. Another yellow leaf, the constant checking for dampness, the pruning, the watering. Surely 8 weeks is a long and happy life? Euthanasia. The word rattles around in my head like a wayward marble. Another marble with horns makes an appearance and hisses, Murder. You say potato, I say potato! I'll bet Cala is begging to go to a better place. I know I'm ready to say goodbye....
I'm looking at her as I type this, and she looks back at me thirstily, bright, green leaves outnumber fading, yellow ones 7:1. Dammit! I pour. One for her, one for me. Guess we'll just have to go the shaken not stirred route....
I'm looking at her as I type this, and she looks back at me thirstily, bright, green leaves outnumber fading, yellow ones 7:1. Dammit! I pour. One for her, one for me. Guess we'll just have to go the shaken not stirred route....
Just words
Etymology. Different from Entomology. Precise, wavering, tentative, strange.... words were all I had. Bold, vivid and so alive. Like a touch, a whisper, the feel of a smile. A hazy watercolour shimmering in front of you, taking you there. Like a toasty blanket wrapped around you, as you listen to them again in your head, making you smile, filling you.
Then, on the flutter of a butterfly's wings, it turns into a mirage. The beautiful words, just so much dust in your mouth. Uni-dimensional marks on a page, like an empty gesture. Looking without seeing. Soulless. Empty. Just words.
Then, on the flutter of a butterfly's wings, it turns into a mirage. The beautiful words, just so much dust in your mouth. Uni-dimensional marks on a page, like an empty gesture. Looking without seeing. Soulless. Empty. Just words.
Just you wait 'enry 'iggins...!
My mirth at having to leap across rivulets, completely abandoning my elegant ensemble in a balance umbrella, hitch up expensive trousers and don't land in the middle of that humongous water body, dance (10 min of monsoon is all it takes to create mayhem in central London), gives way to gross indignation at the realisation that my boots have sprung a leak! Indignation is quickly replaced by good karma as the absurd queue ahead of us dissolves and we're led to a table, with seats on the edge. My relief at not being wedged between other damp diners is short lived, as the woman next to us opens her mouth.....
If Henry Higgins were to have stepped up to the plate to attempt to shepard that pitch into something close to human resonance, he would be a better man than I. My heart thumps in tandem with baseline of the house rhythm pumping through the restaurant, yet all I hear is that shrill voice, piercing through my head, bringing all coherent thought to a grinding halt. The Dutchman grins at the look on my face. I try and re-arrange it into a semblance of less than a horrified gape. Unsuccessfully. Like a train wreck, my eyes are drawn in the direction of that inhuman sound, and I see her lips move to form what I presume are words, but all I hear is that noise. A stabbing tone sans pitch or modulation, stridently enthusiastic, and utterly mind numbing. I feel my brain shut down, and despite my best intentions, continue to wince at the unexpectedly brutal auditory assault.
As my mind grapples with the weighty issue of whether I'd be subject to this or nails down a blackboard, my body finds it's own defense. Sealing off the ear closest to her, makes my own voice echo inside my head in rather a pleasing manner, an eccentric counterpoint to the nightclub sound that reverberates through the room. It is however, gastronomically challenging to consume scallops (stunted, mingy and overcooked - if that's what the queen looks like, I'd hate to see her subjects! Seafood in this country is best given a wide berth!! Oh - Randall & Aubin in case you were wondering), and I gulp my wine instead. I'm dumbfounded that her companion fails to hear anything amiss and actually seems to encourage the use of those vocal cords. I wonder if he wakes up to that tone in the morning. Moot point. Any more than a handful of sentences, and I'd be shouting justifiable homicide as they came to take me away.... I wonder if I can file an Asbo,., but my synapses have already gone on strike.
I manage to catch the, 'You're unusually quiet' and aim for a Mona Lisa smile. Little does he know,
In your heeeaaaaad... in your heeeeeaaaaaad.... zombie, zombie... eh ehe eh...
in you HEAAAAD....
If Henry Higgins were to have stepped up to the plate to attempt to shepard that pitch into something close to human resonance, he would be a better man than I. My heart thumps in tandem with baseline of the house rhythm pumping through the restaurant, yet all I hear is that shrill voice, piercing through my head, bringing all coherent thought to a grinding halt. The Dutchman grins at the look on my face. I try and re-arrange it into a semblance of less than a horrified gape. Unsuccessfully. Like a train wreck, my eyes are drawn in the direction of that inhuman sound, and I see her lips move to form what I presume are words, but all I hear is that noise. A stabbing tone sans pitch or modulation, stridently enthusiastic, and utterly mind numbing. I feel my brain shut down, and despite my best intentions, continue to wince at the unexpectedly brutal auditory assault.
As my mind grapples with the weighty issue of whether I'd be subject to this or nails down a blackboard, my body finds it's own defense. Sealing off the ear closest to her, makes my own voice echo inside my head in rather a pleasing manner, an eccentric counterpoint to the nightclub sound that reverberates through the room. It is however, gastronomically challenging to consume scallops (stunted, mingy and overcooked - if that's what the queen looks like, I'd hate to see her subjects! Seafood in this country is best given a wide berth!! Oh - Randall & Aubin in case you were wondering), and I gulp my wine instead. I'm dumbfounded that her companion fails to hear anything amiss and actually seems to encourage the use of those vocal cords. I wonder if he wakes up to that tone in the morning. Moot point. Any more than a handful of sentences, and I'd be shouting justifiable homicide as they came to take me away.... I wonder if I can file an Asbo,., but my synapses have already gone on strike.
I manage to catch the, 'You're unusually quiet' and aim for a Mona Lisa smile. Little does he know,
In your heeeaaaaad... in your heeeeeaaaaaad.... zombie, zombie... eh ehe eh...
in you HEAAAAD....
Farewell my FGT
Misty eyed, we hug each other ferociously, the crowd milling around us at the entrance to Bond Street station, doubtlessly annoyed by the detour caused by our sentimentality. The Feckless German Traitor en route to her last hair cut in London for a couple of years, puffs on her third cigarette in as many minutes. I still can't believe that come Monday, she won't be in at work, depleting my Brazil nuts with impunity. The Friggin' Domestic Goddess had better bring in cake when she's back from holiday... but then again, it won't be nearly as much not to be able to bitch about the psycho FDG without the FGT.
This is the best and worst of this city. Those you meet. Unlikely cultures, shared laughter, strange cohorts; a fondness that grows like an insidious fungus. Those that you will miss most are the ones you will have to say goodbye to soonest....
I'm going to miss her.
This is the best and worst of this city. Those you meet. Unlikely cultures, shared laughter, strange cohorts; a fondness that grows like an insidious fungus. Those that you will miss most are the ones you will have to say goodbye to soonest....
I'm going to miss her.
Credit crunch lunch
It is fairly apparent that the markets are now well on their way to recovery. The deeply conservative basement that serves as Le Gavroche's dining room is packed on a Tuesday lunch time, and Taks and I manage to bring the average age down to 50.
His calamari risotto is a lie worthy of Michael Caine in Alfie... charming, disarming and begging to be believed.... the most deliciously roasted calamari sat atop a bed of squid ink drenched orzo. Sumptuous. My hot foie gras with duck pancake flavoured with a cinnamon touched reduction is perfectly offset by an unexpected sweet red wine, which is now a distant memory...... Michel Roux comes around to ask how the meal was, and my erstwhile ever pompous companion goes on about the sugar he can taste in the souffle.....!
The conversation takes a turn for the S&M, and I am prepared to swear the white haired lady directly in my line of sight is a dominatrix of the extreme kind, with the basement in her manor strewn with wicked implements of torture. Taks refuses to admit that the octogenarian might actually look fetching in leather, but does accept she probably knows how to wield a riding crop like few others.... but I have to concur with his assessment that this really isn't a very good place to pick up chicks.
Two and a half hours later, I am replete, bordering on the very 'I feel sick', and Nana and her friends are looking more and more appealing to my companion....Check please!
His calamari risotto is a lie worthy of Michael Caine in Alfie... charming, disarming and begging to be believed.... the most deliciously roasted calamari sat atop a bed of squid ink drenched orzo. Sumptuous. My hot foie gras with duck pancake flavoured with a cinnamon touched reduction is perfectly offset by an unexpected sweet red wine, which is now a distant memory...... Michel Roux comes around to ask how the meal was, and my erstwhile ever pompous companion goes on about the sugar he can taste in the souffle.....!
The conversation takes a turn for the S&M, and I am prepared to swear the white haired lady directly in my line of sight is a dominatrix of the extreme kind, with the basement in her manor strewn with wicked implements of torture. Taks refuses to admit that the octogenarian might actually look fetching in leather, but does accept she probably knows how to wield a riding crop like few others.... but I have to concur with his assessment that this really isn't a very good place to pick up chicks.
Two and a half hours later, I am replete, bordering on the very 'I feel sick', and Nana and her friends are looking more and more appealing to my companion....Check please!
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