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…..

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....

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 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.....

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!

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....

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......

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!