adj. - Unforseen. Without warning. Unplanned. Surprising. Unanticipated.
Like my day, I find myself doing something unexpected; Dwadling over a quote, which would have been better served truncated.
Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought; our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks.
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)
Pleasure like joy, laughter and faith is the greatest when least expected. Unable to stop smiling, moments merge into memories that linger longest and I keep Csikos up well past her bedtime. Time slips by, etching faces, expanding horizons, shaping destinies; Scents, feelings, sounds, touches, gestures, voices, images; some hazy, others loitering with intent; those that constrict your heart mingling with those that let you soar. Fingers trace familiar faces; lost cheekbones, remembered smiles, hideous coiffures, mortifying dance moves, shared grief, determined hate. Children morph into adults. Unrecognisable yet constant as unbidden reminisces flood your thoughts. You and yours.......
Daddy Dearest?
A decade ago, I had to be hauled up by my bikini strings to prevent me from collapsing onto the smooth sands of Phuket, overcome by the most unbecoming mirth at the look of outraged horror on Aashish's face, reflected and surpassed by the one on Mimi's as the para sailing dude blithely assumed their father daughter status.... a true Mastercard moment for the trophy wife.
2009. Spanish restaurant, dodgy side of Maida Vale. Birthday dinner, and I quote, 'It's my birthday today'... 'Oh really?! Happy 21st!!' 'Actually it's 25th'... 'and she is your daughter?'. Shock. Horror. Hilarity. Who said short, good looking, bald men can't spawn taller, should have left short checked skirt & doc martins in the classroom women?! The thought is enough to dissolve my resolve (and apparently spout horrible rhyme), and a smooth Rioja to celebrate the momentous occasion of Daddy's ascendancy seems not just appropriate, but verry necessary as we order tapas to feed a family of four. Much merriment ensues despite an allegedly unexpected drop in the flirt quotient from the lovely waitress, and a second bottle soothes my momentary consternation at the alternative to daughter possibilities in her mind...
Undaunted, Daddy dearest regales me with the newest tales from his classroom, oblivious to the irony (think professor, not paedophile!) as we review the potential project that Kirandeep Kiran could be. Pygmalion meets Oedipus? I consider it my filial duty to carefully point out that it is rather worrisome on many levels, that the would be purveyor of style was dressed in jeans, t-shirt stunningly complemented by a grubby hoodie from Gap.... Daddy leaves me to deal with the cheque.... (and he has the nerve to complain about my tarnishing his image!!). Happy Birthday..... Papaji.
2009. Spanish restaurant, dodgy side of Maida Vale. Birthday dinner, and I quote, 'It's my birthday today'... 'Oh really?! Happy 21st!!' 'Actually it's 25th'... 'and she is your daughter?'. Shock. Horror. Hilarity. Who said short, good looking, bald men can't spawn taller, should have left short checked skirt & doc martins in the classroom women?! The thought is enough to dissolve my resolve (and apparently spout horrible rhyme), and a smooth Rioja to celebrate the momentous occasion of Daddy's ascendancy seems not just appropriate, but verry necessary as we order tapas to feed a family of four. Much merriment ensues despite an allegedly unexpected drop in the flirt quotient from the lovely waitress, and a second bottle soothes my momentary consternation at the alternative to daughter possibilities in her mind...
Undaunted, Daddy dearest regales me with the newest tales from his classroom, oblivious to the irony (think professor, not paedophile!) as we review the potential project that Kirandeep Kiran could be. Pygmalion meets Oedipus? I consider it my filial duty to carefully point out that it is rather worrisome on many levels, that the would be purveyor of style was dressed in jeans, t-shirt stunningly complemented by a grubby hoodie from Gap.... Daddy leaves me to deal with the cheque.... (and he has the nerve to complain about my tarnishing his image!!). Happy Birthday..... Papaji.
Joint custody
My dear Mr. Velkar,
It has come to my notice, that not only has our divorce been a source of amused bewilderment for many, and deep affliction for others, we have singularly failed to have even one single uncivilised exchange about sharing of our property, goods and chattel. I appreciate that a lack of wailing miniatures and depressed pets has severely contributed to our mutual embarrassment, so I propose to rectify this in a manner that can only add to our stature.
Your pedantic memory will no doubt supply the year I loosely refer to as many moons ago, wherein I had bought for you a pair of sterling silver cuff links etched with the rousing call of VENI, VIDI, VICI. My abstract brain does recall your delight and triumphant tourings with those links. However, all good this must come to an end, and as I consoled you at the untimely demise of one of them, your affection for the other remained touching. Since then, much has transpired, and many more gifts (particularly electronic in nature) have died in your hands. Which is why, when I chanced upon the same scrumptious pair elsewhere, I prudently gifted them to myself.
Ahem. I have a confession to make. I took them for a walk last week, and after a flurry of surprise greetings at Berkeley Square, I realised that one of them had cunningly managed to disengage itself from my right cuff and make a run for it! To say I was most distressed would be a gross understatement. I felt deeply aggrieved. Mostly in anticipation of, ‘How the fuck can cuff links just fall off??? I’ve been wearing them for years, and they’ve never fallen off!!’. My innate wisdom tells me this is true. I have yet to meet a man who has lost a cuff link en route. I cringe at the ‘God, it must be a woman’ look, and prepare my meekly downcast eyes look. I don’t know!!!!! It was fine when I left work…. then maybe it just got bored! I can’t explain it, suffice to say it’s GONE! I have now come, seen and conquered in a most half hearted fashion.
So. Unless you have managed to misplace your half of Caesar, logic states, you have one of the same pair that I’m missing. Ergo, finally, a perfect opportunity for us to haggle over joint custody of property, goods and chattel. Given that double cuffs really aren’t doctoral guise, and my boots are so much more conducive to striding around in a superiorly conquering manner, I do believe I will open with a ‘hand ‘em over…’
Your turn.
Thanking you,
Yours sincerely,
BtB
It has come to my notice, that not only has our divorce been a source of amused bewilderment for many, and deep affliction for others, we have singularly failed to have even one single uncivilised exchange about sharing of our property, goods and chattel. I appreciate that a lack of wailing miniatures and depressed pets has severely contributed to our mutual embarrassment, so I propose to rectify this in a manner that can only add to our stature.
Your pedantic memory will no doubt supply the year I loosely refer to as many moons ago, wherein I had bought for you a pair of sterling silver cuff links etched with the rousing call of VENI, VIDI, VICI. My abstract brain does recall your delight and triumphant tourings with those links. However, all good this must come to an end, and as I consoled you at the untimely demise of one of them, your affection for the other remained touching. Since then, much has transpired, and many more gifts (particularly electronic in nature) have died in your hands. Which is why, when I chanced upon the same scrumptious pair elsewhere, I prudently gifted them to myself.
Ahem. I have a confession to make. I took them for a walk last week, and after a flurry of surprise greetings at Berkeley Square, I realised that one of them had cunningly managed to disengage itself from my right cuff and make a run for it! To say I was most distressed would be a gross understatement. I felt deeply aggrieved. Mostly in anticipation of, ‘How the fuck can cuff links just fall off??? I’ve been wearing them for years, and they’ve never fallen off!!’. My innate wisdom tells me this is true. I have yet to meet a man who has lost a cuff link en route. I cringe at the ‘God, it must be a woman’ look, and prepare my meekly downcast eyes look. I don’t know!!!!! It was fine when I left work…. then maybe it just got bored! I can’t explain it, suffice to say it’s GONE! I have now come, seen and conquered in a most half hearted fashion.
So. Unless you have managed to misplace your half of Caesar, logic states, you have one of the same pair that I’m missing. Ergo, finally, a perfect opportunity for us to haggle over joint custody of property, goods and chattel. Given that double cuffs really aren’t doctoral guise, and my boots are so much more conducive to striding around in a superiorly conquering manner, I do believe I will open with a ‘hand ‘em over…’
Your turn.
Thanking you,
Yours sincerely,
BtB
Pati, Patni aur Woh
The age old triangular dilemma, loosely translated as husband, wife and the unmentionable…. Traditionally the source of much grief and angst, and occasionally, a pragmatic blind eye. Usually, different woh’s for either/or, but as Aashish and I moved towards sharing the same toothpaste, we seem to have gravitated to the same woh. Yes, I know, how very convivial of us to share one, but what can I say, our sophistication knows no bounds.
Unlike the cuff links I’m seeking joint custody for (don’t ask!), Aashish and I have always been very flexible with our woh. The three of us have given Bollywood a run for their money, leaned on each other for support through difficult times, grieved for Bombay together, giggled our way through a divorce, taken silliness to new heights, the latest being my adjudication of romantic gestures between the two….. but now the time has come for me to register a strident protest; the audacious woh's ambitions have expanded from my nearly ex-husband to stealing my life!! Eating my éclairs, hanging around my home in Pune, lunching with my pantheon of co-Gods and not to mention my hostess with the mostest!!
Anaheeta mollifies me with a heartfelt, ‘He can’t replace you, it’s not the same….. even Ally just left after a quick snuffle….’. Then I remember, she gave him my éclairs! The cow! Mollification part ii ensues…. , ‘Even watching him eat two of them wasn’t right…… Aashish and I kept going “something’s not right”’. Damn straight something’s not right! He’s a hell of a lot hairier than I am! Rumour even has it from certain angles, I’m a lot prettier! But Anaheeta is unstoppable; ‘….at least Gifty and Shanti will always be yours’. Yeah right, small coincidence they’re both dead!
Unlike the cuff links I’m seeking joint custody for (don’t ask!), Aashish and I have always been very flexible with our woh. The three of us have given Bollywood a run for their money, leaned on each other for support through difficult times, grieved for Bombay together, giggled our way through a divorce, taken silliness to new heights, the latest being my adjudication of romantic gestures between the two….. but now the time has come for me to register a strident protest; the audacious woh's ambitions have expanded from my nearly ex-husband to stealing my life!! Eating my éclairs, hanging around my home in Pune, lunching with my pantheon of co-Gods and not to mention my hostess with the mostest!!
Anaheeta mollifies me with a heartfelt, ‘He can’t replace you, it’s not the same….. even Ally just left after a quick snuffle….’. Then I remember, she gave him my éclairs! The cow! Mollification part ii ensues…. , ‘Even watching him eat two of them wasn’t right…… Aashish and I kept going “something’s not right”’. Damn straight something’s not right! He’s a hell of a lot hairier than I am! Rumour even has it from certain angles, I’m a lot prettier! But Anaheeta is unstoppable; ‘….at least Gifty and Shanti will always be yours’. Yeah right, small coincidence they’re both dead!
EDF Energy 1 - Apara Guha 0
The flurry of bright sunny days, blue skies marred by frolicking white clouds gently braises my brain into submission at the collective euphoria of an early summer. My culinary ministrations are rudely set asunder (I like that word; asunder) by an extortionate demand from EDF Energy. Cheerful graphs inform me that my consumption for this quarter is higher than it was for the same time last year. It gladdens my heart to see my money so well spent on educational reform in the UK. It does however, have the effect of nudging the solitary un-poached intelligence nodule in my brain. I haven’t turned my heating off yet…. So without further ado, I do.
The early summer shines on unabated, boots get traded in for sandals, silk pj’s give way to nothing, umbrellas to sunglasses and I wallow. Wallow in a perfect spring. And even the seven degrees that delineates sun from shade leaves me only mildly aggravated at having to carry an outer layer. My hubris is met with an undignified slap of cold air as I sashay from a steaming bath. Hmmmm – my last nodule of intelligence is registering an anomaly. One ought to feel hot after a shower, not cold. I turn an investigative eye to the open window. My nodule goes into overdrive. Chilly. Cold. Shut it. Now. But my still simmering brain needs more evidence.
Ack! That is what the strangulated sound that emerges from my throat sounds like as my eyes register 5°C on the weather website. The fetching towel and open window ensemble discarded for a hastily retrieved from laundry basked fleecy robe and a window shut with panache look instead. The music lulls me into a toasty sense of security…. Wilted toast as I crawl under the cold sheets. Three and a half minutes before I root through my drawer for night wear. Nine minutes and a quarter before I root through the laundry basket. Perhaps mid April really isn’t the best time to switch off the heating…..
The early summer shines on unabated, boots get traded in for sandals, silk pj’s give way to nothing, umbrellas to sunglasses and I wallow. Wallow in a perfect spring. And even the seven degrees that delineates sun from shade leaves me only mildly aggravated at having to carry an outer layer. My hubris is met with an undignified slap of cold air as I sashay from a steaming bath. Hmmmm – my last nodule of intelligence is registering an anomaly. One ought to feel hot after a shower, not cold. I turn an investigative eye to the open window. My nodule goes into overdrive. Chilly. Cold. Shut it. Now. But my still simmering brain needs more evidence.
Ack! That is what the strangulated sound that emerges from my throat sounds like as my eyes register 5°C on the weather website. The fetching towel and open window ensemble discarded for a hastily retrieved from laundry basked fleecy robe and a window shut with panache look instead. The music lulls me into a toasty sense of security…. Wilted toast as I crawl under the cold sheets. Three and a half minutes before I root through my drawer for night wear. Nine minutes and a quarter before I root through the laundry basket. Perhaps mid April really isn’t the best time to switch off the heating…..
Et tu Brute?
Disgruntled. A good word. Ever since last night I've been wanting to register a complaint. To someone. Anyone. Since then, the day has meandered on, and here I am freshly scrubbed, reeking of ginger and lemon grass (and that's just the body wash...), after a feverish onslaught in the kitchen (onion, ginger and garlic that time), in an attempt to feel more gruntled. Shock, horror! I do. In fact, I'm almost 100% gruntled, notwithstanding the fact that I signed away my first borns inheritance for airfare to Chile in December. I must admit that I did lose my gruntled aura for a moment (perhaps two, or seventeen) when the bastard airlines wouldn't let you book 3 together and then merrily ratcheted up the rates by another 200 quid. Fraudulent, cheating, lying scumbag corporates who deserve to wind up with the court receiver......
While weekend domestic goddess manifestation is always worrisome, if not a thing of feverish beauty, it wasn't the sight of a gleaming toilet bowl that brought the disgrunt on. No. It was the smarmy voice over, annoying as only a voice over can be, exhorting me to contact my 'aesthetic practitioner'. Excuse me? My whoosit??? Is this why my bonus was withheld? Because I missing an AP in my wardrobe of wiles, ergo I am unfit not just for womankind but a deep disappointment to the male domination of real estate in the UK? I have no choice but to wait for the next commercial break, and sure enough, smarmy's back. Juvederm ultra injections for natural beauty without surgery... he coos.....and they don't allow porn on BBC2?! A glimmer of suspicion paints a picture of what must be the sagging jowls of the moral watchdogs whose remit it is to protect the weak and foolish... that must be me.
I feel exceptionally foolish as I continue to watch the advertisements with a burgeoning sense of disbelief, smoothly accompanied by a 'what does that mean? I don't get it...' in the background. Smarmy the second announces that millions of men around the world use Gillette....impressive. And that's why they've learnt a thing or two about the science of shaving.... what the fuck?? Isn't it the 'science of shaving' (as opposed to my dick is bigger than yours) that has spawned the 5 blade razor (or is it now 7??) for the kind of shave that makes a woman strip to her bare necessities as she artistically drapes herself around a man, smiling winsomely as they both leer into the mirror watching him fondly strokes his baby's butt smooth cheeks?
Needless to say, I am now doubly determined to write to the TV licensing folks demanding a refund for pain and suffering inflicted. Mutilating onions to the soothing warbling of classical voices calms me, and the heady scent of a first flush Darjeeling mingling with the vibrant notes of the sarod calms offers greater perspective on my life as I step back from the mundane within to the mundane without.... before I spend several seconds pretending to be one of those irritatingly dense birds that jerk their heads around in a vain attempt to make sense of their surroundings, as I try and figure out how All India Radio is so blatantly broadcasting into my living room. Even as my brain insists I'm NOT listening to the radio nor have I been all evening, a rich, plummy voice booms around the room trying to sell me a Voltas washing machine....before bowing away to the familiar twang of the sarod. Et tu Brute?!
While weekend domestic goddess manifestation is always worrisome, if not a thing of feverish beauty, it wasn't the sight of a gleaming toilet bowl that brought the disgrunt on. No. It was the smarmy voice over, annoying as only a voice over can be, exhorting me to contact my 'aesthetic practitioner'. Excuse me? My whoosit??? Is this why my bonus was withheld? Because I missing an AP in my wardrobe of wiles, ergo I am unfit not just for womankind but a deep disappointment to the male domination of real estate in the UK? I have no choice but to wait for the next commercial break, and sure enough, smarmy's back. Juvederm ultra injections for natural beauty without surgery... he coos.....and they don't allow porn on BBC2?! A glimmer of suspicion paints a picture of what must be the sagging jowls of the moral watchdogs whose remit it is to protect the weak and foolish... that must be me.
I feel exceptionally foolish as I continue to watch the advertisements with a burgeoning sense of disbelief, smoothly accompanied by a 'what does that mean? I don't get it...' in the background. Smarmy the second announces that millions of men around the world use Gillette....impressive. And that's why they've learnt a thing or two about the science of shaving.... what the fuck?? Isn't it the 'science of shaving' (as opposed to my dick is bigger than yours) that has spawned the 5 blade razor (or is it now 7??) for the kind of shave that makes a woman strip to her bare necessities as she artistically drapes herself around a man, smiling winsomely as they both leer into the mirror watching him fondly strokes his baby's butt smooth cheeks?
Needless to say, I am now doubly determined to write to the TV licensing folks demanding a refund for pain and suffering inflicted. Mutilating onions to the soothing warbling of classical voices calms me, and the heady scent of a first flush Darjeeling mingling with the vibrant notes of the sarod calms offers greater perspective on my life as I step back from the mundane within to the mundane without.... before I spend several seconds pretending to be one of those irritatingly dense birds that jerk their heads around in a vain attempt to make sense of their surroundings, as I try and figure out how All India Radio is so blatantly broadcasting into my living room. Even as my brain insists I'm NOT listening to the radio nor have I been all evening, a rich, plummy voice booms around the room trying to sell me a Voltas washing machine....before bowing away to the familiar twang of the sarod. Et tu Brute?!
Mutsugoto
Out of sight, out of mind...or a severe case of absence makes the heart grow fonder? Two of the worst platitudes to offer a heartbroken 17 year old pining as only a 17 year old can. Long distance sucks. Always has, always will. But wait! Is it a bird, is it a plane, is it Bhangra man?? No, it's BBCWorld.com! The purveyor of all that is just and right in this world.
If you're thinking Mutsugoto is a karate wielding chick with huge eyes and boobs offset by a pert nose and hips doing a Crouching Dragon Hidden Tiger to bridge the distance thing, think again. No, it's not the loofah used by demure, twittering ladies arrayed around the hot tub ready to scrub your back. It is in fact (as I've been reliably informed by the great Beeb), a device. And not merely of the ordinary ilk, but a portable one. One designed as an alternative to email and messaging, to communicate intimacy between forlorn couples.... Hmmmm!?!?
Touch activated rings and a camera. Is this a polite way of taking kinky sex into the mainstream? Apparently, when you wear the ring and run your hand over your body, the strokes are transmitted and projected in light across the other body and the lines change colour if they cross.... A virtual kaleidoscope of romance, as it were :p. But here is the bit that caught my attention - the next level - a game where you can throw yourself at a life-sized image of an opponent anywhere in the world, and apparently, the prototype even registers brute force. Hmmmmmmm.........
Ingenious? Award worthy? Impressive? Will it save the environment?? I'd rather pledge Buffet/Gate's philanthropy and ALL my ill gotten gains in support of Roddenberry's vision. Beam me up Scotty!
If you're thinking Mutsugoto is a karate wielding chick with huge eyes and boobs offset by a pert nose and hips doing a Crouching Dragon Hidden Tiger to bridge the distance thing, think again. No, it's not the loofah used by demure, twittering ladies arrayed around the hot tub ready to scrub your back. It is in fact (as I've been reliably informed by the great Beeb), a device. And not merely of the ordinary ilk, but a portable one. One designed as an alternative to email and messaging, to communicate intimacy between forlorn couples.... Hmmmm!?!?
Touch activated rings and a camera. Is this a polite way of taking kinky sex into the mainstream? Apparently, when you wear the ring and run your hand over your body, the strokes are transmitted and projected in light across the other body and the lines change colour if they cross.... A virtual kaleidoscope of romance, as it were :p. But here is the bit that caught my attention - the next level - a game where you can throw yourself at a life-sized image of an opponent anywhere in the world, and apparently, the prototype even registers brute force. Hmmmmmmm.........
Ingenious? Award worthy? Impressive? Will it save the environment?? I'd rather pledge Buffet/Gate's philanthropy and ALL my ill gotten gains in support of Roddenberry's vision. Beam me up Scotty!
An early summer...
is what the ever optimistic Brits are calling this unseasonal burst of blue skies and bright sunshine. Bwaaahahahaahaaaaa...... little do they know, this IS summer.
The longer days make me brazen enough to find that funny as I toast myself while we glide over the mirrored surface of the canal. Like an overweight cat, it's a toss up between devouring the sun or the fluffy ducklings paddling behind mama (the first of the season, assuming all the cats have been rendered inoperational with the weather) as we wend our way to Camden Town, to pay homage to the pinnacle of tastelessness in food and fashion. An affirmation that there is life outside the stereotypes, while reinforcing it's very own. Odd couples, expressions of peculiar sentiments, a mélange of bizarre costumes and accessories that include feather, canines, metals, acrylics, faux furs, bone, leather, little men in tight pants.......
Unfortunately, my resolve to people watch is rent asunder by a collection of LP's, a gorgeous aqua and black Japanese plate with accouterments, an unspeakably rude Stewie t-shirt for a future baby an utterly pointless fake silver waist chain with teeny bells, and a woman insisting children must wear colour. Unfortunatelier (it's called literary license), recession has left my pockets woefully inadequate and I succumb to the woman with the colourful dungarees (not the ones on her, rest assured) - one for the niece and one for the nephew. Now, all I have to do is to get my Catholics to pray that the colour doesn't run if they leak. But wait, altruism must be rewarded and the sight of my turned out pockets and cupped hand full of 20 p's (courtesy the colourful children lady) wrests surrender, and I jauntily jangle my way back to the boat. It must be the air in Camden....
The longer days make me brazen enough to find that funny as I toast myself while we glide over the mirrored surface of the canal. Like an overweight cat, it's a toss up between devouring the sun or the fluffy ducklings paddling behind mama (the first of the season, assuming all the cats have been rendered inoperational with the weather) as we wend our way to Camden Town, to pay homage to the pinnacle of tastelessness in food and fashion. An affirmation that there is life outside the stereotypes, while reinforcing it's very own. Odd couples, expressions of peculiar sentiments, a mélange of bizarre costumes and accessories that include feather, canines, metals, acrylics, faux furs, bone, leather, little men in tight pants.......
Unfortunately, my resolve to people watch is rent asunder by a collection of LP's, a gorgeous aqua and black Japanese plate with accouterments, an unspeakably rude Stewie t-shirt for a future baby an utterly pointless fake silver waist chain with teeny bells, and a woman insisting children must wear colour. Unfortunatelier (it's called literary license), recession has left my pockets woefully inadequate and I succumb to the woman with the colourful dungarees (not the ones on her, rest assured) - one for the niece and one for the nephew. Now, all I have to do is to get my Catholics to pray that the colour doesn't run if they leak. But wait, altruism must be rewarded and the sight of my turned out pockets and cupped hand full of 20 p's (courtesy the colourful children lady) wrests surrender, and I jauntily jangle my way back to the boat. It must be the air in Camden....
Recession hits NW8
As Sonia and I share a dismal glance across the laptop. We've already curtailed our May bank holiday plans to either Ciaro, Giza and Sharm el Sheikh, or a cruise down the Nile. Now we deliberate just Sharm el Sheikh and the dreaded word 'resort'. Ready, willing and able turning into ready, willing and less able minus that damn bonus! Christmas in Chile for 2 weeks will require the sale of a couple of family members, and now it seems 9 days in Egypt will really deplete the next guest list at a Guha wedding.... I'm no longer hungry and our elaborate dinner plan (this is the house of tart tartin!) dissolves into reheated kadi and chawal, and a second papad does nothing to lift the clouds of doom. Plan B. Attack the atlas. Norway. St. Petersburg, Portugal, the other half of Iceland, Mexico.... ok, so desperation had set in along with the absence of AOL. Sean's determined efforts to cheer us up by offering two weeks to Goa along with a side trip to Daulatganj and free advice from Dadaji for under 300 quid fails to amuse us. Sonia's done her sleepless night, and I'm answering calls at 9 am on a Sunday after a scant 4 hours of sleep. Recession calling, otherwise known as Sonia..... hmmmm, 560 quid for two to St. Petersburg...... inshallah!! Nope, Allah isn't insh. The short one thwarts my mounting excitement. Apparently, summer solstice is the time to visit..... Food. That's what I need.
Ottoman Impressions
Majestic. Historic. Indulgent. Brutal. Smokers paradise. Cold winds. Trade and commerce. Greatness. Clashing wills. Islam. Green eyes. Charming men. Apple tea. Shipping channel. The palace café overlooking the Bosphorus and Golden Horn. Magical at night. Shifty. Trams. Sunshine. Aubergines. Beautiful bread and butter. The call of the Azan. Prayer in Sultan Ahmet Camii. Golden mosaic. Medieval stone lining the way up the Aya Sofya. Minarets. Roasted chestnuts. Bookshop. Blood red tulips. The President's cavalcade. Shivering at the lighthouse. Seabirds. Beautiful girl in coffee shop. Chocolate spoon. Shoe polish. Galatasaray. Coffee cups. Italian tourists. Queues for Turks. The Sea. Barren trees. The f***ing cold. Hot casseroles. Appalling bhutta on the streets. Narrow, steep streets. Strains of the Oud. Earrings and carpets on the street walls. Terrace café's. Cats. Memories of the Ghiralda in Aya Sofya. Shiny head scarfs. Quietly deserted Sunday. Dodgy Russian hamams. Sea of faces. Boring brands. Interesting fridge magnets. Ladies in windows making flat bread. Purple, green and cream ceiling in the bazaar. Fish. Pilots licenses issued only to taxi drivers. Atatürk. Greatness. European, yet not.....
Generation Gap
A topic for endless debates and definitions, attributed to great befuddlement across age groups, succinctly demonstrated at a client meeting. 4 people in the room, older, younger and middle ageish.... a name crops up - Heath. The middle ageish go, "Heath?" to make sure they've got it right, to be met by an echo from across the table, a youthful feminine tone that tails off to a mature gruffness "As in Heath ..... Ledger" "Like Hampstead...... Heath". A momentary blankness in brown doe eyes replaced by giggles, even as a quizzical look creeps into the the well worn blue ones... Guess there's Heath, and then there's Heath. And if you can't stand the heath, get out of the kitchen!! (ahem - middle age does have its pitfalls...)
Happiness is...
.... days that last longer, when the rain turns everything into magic. The fogged window of the bus renders life an impressionist watercolour, softly out of focus, sensations more poignant, the joy greater. Not unlike life without 20/20 vision! The traffic lights glitter dramatically in the greyness, a strange counterpoint to the gentle yet determined new leaf green lining the street, polished leaves dancing against the almost black bark. The Alice like feeling of enchantment unabated even when walking home from Paddington at 6.30 in the evening on a Friday. The canal is almost surreal, the path nearly empty as a 12 minute walk that stretches into a languorous 27 minutes of pleasure, a smile that takes up permanent residence on your face, an umbrella that begs to be twirled even as you laugh at your silliness, stride overtaken by the beat of the ipod that oddly syncs itself to its nearly mystical surroundings....The misty rain teases the calmness of the mirrored surface with its almost thereness, silly birds honking, wings aflurry as they ruffle the glassiness with their indignation, the myriad freshly washed hues of the foliage flanking the the bright colours of the barges..... a reminder of just how much I love the rain, how beautiful life is, and the momentary perfection that alone affords pure happiness....
....Melting into more moments the next day with an unmarred blue sky, the warmth seeping through your shirt as the lazy rays of the sun stroke you, and you forget you're not actually a cat as you curl into your corner of the restaurant waiting for someone to scratch your back. Another leisurely foray up the canal in a different season, one that begs pigeons to be erradicated, duck traumatised and a hissing contest with a malcontent goose type creature. A day that disappears into shared laughter, sunshine, buckets of pnpc and lots of food...! An entire day devoted to nothing, but outdoors... the purest form of loafing, my métier. Life, does not get much better....
....Melting into more moments the next day with an unmarred blue sky, the warmth seeping through your shirt as the lazy rays of the sun stroke you, and you forget you're not actually a cat as you curl into your corner of the restaurant waiting for someone to scratch your back. Another leisurely foray up the canal in a different season, one that begs pigeons to be erradicated, duck traumatised and a hissing contest with a malcontent goose type creature. A day that disappears into shared laughter, sunshine, buckets of pnpc and lots of food...! An entire day devoted to nothing, but outdoors... the purest form of loafing, my métier. Life, does not get much better....
Hamamamamma!
As a lazy woman, I have no choice but to be an aficionado of all hamam type activities. Anything that involves someone else pampering your body to bits can only be for the greater goodness of mankind. This I devoutly believe. Hardly surprising therefore my insistence that a trip to Istanbul would be grossly incomplete without a visit to a hamam. A perfectly legitimate demand one would think, given that hamam is loosely translated into Turkish Bath, and as they say, when in Rome..... so the Hungarian reluctantly agrees to indulge me, on the strict proviso that no hairy Turkish man will be allowed to massage her breasts, or indeed come within 7 feet of them (perhaps the brochures should have waited for the soap suds to have subsided so she could see it was a man under all those bubbles and those hairy hands...!). Our nocturnal meanderings bring us to a fortuitous discovery - there's one just a scant few meters from our hotel, and it's open till midnight! The perfect way to cleanse oneself of an arduous day of sightseeing, haggling over apple tea while sat on a shop floor its owner unwilling and unable to let us leave, and ridiculous donation of funds towards turquoise rings.
The big Russian lady who encouraged our visit is missing as we enter, but the warmth takes the chill off our bones, and renders us carelessly brazen and we commit to the works that include a massage, despite the Hungarians panicked hiss of 'they're naked!'. Our money is swiftly pocketed and our wrists tagged in receipt as we're handed the red checked cloth towels (my grandma would have peed herself at the sight of the gamchhas that were to be our only accouterments) and led upstairs to a room and told to strip off. The Hungarian is asking all sorts of dubious questions about underwear and I leave her to demand an explanation even as I concur on the limited coverage offered by the gamchha, especially when you walk down the stairs in over sized rubber chappals. Tripping would be just too Benny Hill to be tolerated, even given my proclivity to embarrass myself endlessly. We're led off to the hamam to join a collection of other naked women. I barely have time to let the heat caress me before the big Russian comes muttering something before leaning over to inspect my tag and issuing a stern 'You come!'.
Oook. I go. Surprisingly gently hands for a woman that size, as she leads me into the next room (think guide dog, not lesbian). My gamchha is laid on a slab, and I face down on top of it. The first splash of water drives a squeal out of me.... and then suddenly, I can feel bubbles.. millions of bubbles all over my back. I stifle the urge to giggle, but the vision of the hairy man and all those bubbles refuses to go away. A quick no nonsense scrub and she tells me to turn over. That can't be it surely? While I ponder that, more bubbles find their way across my abdomen, distracting me.. I rather like this bubble business! But hold on - some very brief scrubbing, and I'm apparently done. Er no! I'm a very dirty girl, requiring much scrubbing! But me - naked, slight and myopic against she - formidable, sighted and bikinied was never going to be a fair contest and I find myself grumpily bidding farewell to my Hungarian even as she demands to know why I was squealing.
Hmmmmm. I am not pleased. This is not my memory of any hamam I've been too. Perhaps there will be more scrubbing and body pampering..... Another Russian materialises and this time I'm laid on a massage table and oiled like meat about to be thrown on the grill. Her hands are rough. Like a man. I revise my first thought. None of the men I know have hands like that. Hands of a labourer. But they're good - strong, unhesitating, but before I can even begin to enjoy them, she brings my foot to my butt and I'm made to flip over. Dammit!!! Rumour has it that men fantasies about being massaged by big breasted women... definitely a man thing. I cannot say I enjoy the sensation of being smothered, even if it is by 38DD's! Shunted back the hamam, I'm soon joined by the Hungarian who is not impressed by her Eastern neighbours, followed by a Moroccan, and along with the Spanish, we exchange languages, gestures and miffed looks. No, this is definitely NOT how they do it in Morocco (I bore Csikos yet again with my piteous rendition of the best scrub I ever had in Essaouira, where we were left stroking our skin for hours after, for the pure sensual pleasure of silky smooth, soft skin!), and we debate how one is meant to wash the generous lashing of oil of our bodies. Great if you're going into a wrestling ring, a tad more challenging when you have to pull on close fitting jeans and socks! The Hungarian's whining is getting strident and she's getting overheated. We carry the dry towels with us looking for showers or instructions. Neither materialise, but as we find the door to our freedom, we're sent back with the admonishment to trade the wet gamchhas for the dry towels. Chastened, and still shiny, we head back. The new towels cover even less than the gamchhas, but the Hungarian is past caring as we undoubtedly flash our way back up the stairs. Dodgy. Very dodgy.
We've been gazumped. By a Russian mafia operation from the looks of it. The desire to register a complaint is strong, but the Hungarian does not believe it would be prudent.. perhaps not. Moral of the story, do NOT step into any hamams if there is a Russian in sight. It cannot bode well.....and I'm still wallowing in the memory of my serendipitous scrub (ok, so we were scrubbed down like race fillies before being made to stand and assaulted by buckets of water.. but man oh man!! were we primed and ready to go!), and I live in hope, dodgy Russians in Constantinople not withstanding.....
It's complicated
'Do you think 'I'll have one drink for me and one drink for you' sounds romantic?' I ignore my ringing phone as I contemplate the text message. A necessary task really, considering that not very many minutes ago, I was asked the exact same question via msn, by a different man. At that time, I wasn't sure whether it was a coyly romantic overture, or a lush at work...but now.....ahem! I text the almost ex back, 'Are you and Khush now actively dating each other? He just asked me the same thing!! wtf?'. An immediate and indignant response ensues. 'We are NOT dating!!! Why are you jealous? ;)'. I would be a very petty woman indeed if I let the green eyed monster haunt the Pati, Patni and Woh scenario from Bandra (E)..., but my 'Never. You two make such a handsome couple' earned me nothing but poetic invective (excrement of a male bovine creature, no less), and another inquiring pop up window on msn. 'Has Velu been in touch asking similar esoteric questions?'. The uncanny resemblance to the 3 stooges now completely makes a mockery of my day, as I get irrevocably drawn into the finer points of male bonding and loving gestures, as the deciding vote. Siiigh. It is complicated, but I get all misted eyed at the love between my boys... awwwwwww.... and neither of them even has a chhati pe daag. Made in Heaven, methinks.
Aashish 1 - Khush 0 (but who's counting.....)
Aashish 1 - Khush 0 (but who's counting.....)
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