I glare balefully at the pink ribbons adorning the envelope. Damn! I wouldn't have expected the FDG to get sentimental.... "It's for the christening", she tosses, through her flurry of arm waving explanation about doing dinner with the others. Ah... interesting. I eye the card gingerly as I rack my brain for any similar social situations. None make their presence felt. "What does one wear for a christening?" I ask, only midly panic striken as a swift, if cursory mental inventory yells back INAPPROPRIATE. A negligent shrug, "Anything." Bloody brilliant.
Barbara Benedetta Borgese, the pint size result of a passionate kitchen table encounter is going to be made to suffer for her parents excesses. While I'm all for bathing infants, particularly one that wails when lifted out of the pool, there is something satanic about the whole holy water in the confines of a church atmosphere. Mmmhmm, interesting possibilities of a brooding Gabriel Byrne in End of Days figure skulking around the pews.... how wickedly unholy. I can feel the sweat slowly roll down my spine in anticipation of the fires of hell...
Urk. Nearly lost the narrative theme to original sin there! Back to the original question. What does one wear to a blasted christening?? Why leave it at that... have another one - Christening present? Google obligingly offers an array of ugly silver rattles and suchlike, and I’m diverted by the thought that if I’m not careful, the frown deepening between my eyes will seek permanent residency given my advancing years, and quickly shut the window. I waggle my eyebrows to try and ease the damage, but the fact that I’ve packed off what could have potential been the perfect christening dress replaces the gift conundrum, testing my resolve. Unbidden, my eyes start to narrow, adding a host of additional little lines to my face. Outsourcing! Priya. Semi - good Catholic. Bangalore based. Now if only Wipro will co-operate with their plans for my courier service, I might even keep the late 20’s, early 30’s look… Hah!
A hard days work
A lazy morning recovering from middle aged sibling reminiscences and boding in the wee hours, followed by an equally leisurely lunch encouraging Serena and Rafa in their mastery at Roland Garros. It is unanimously decided that such an effort is worthy of reward, and DDM, CEO, MD, GM, AM, PM deems Abeno a suitable destination after due consideration. The fact that he has their number on speed dial does not influence his judgement one iota.
Salty edamame, tiger prawn and asparagus gyoza, buta shoga-yaki (friend pork with ginger), spicy naniwa okonomiyaki (pork, kimchi and chilli) and this time, the usual teppan abandoned for the allure of the egg being topped off with great artistry at the table next to ours, a tonpei-yaki as our investigations reveal (more commonly known as bacon in a sophisticated envelope of egg, although the Big Boss insists it tastes completely different...!), before a teasing meander towards Häagen Dazs.
Soft, creamy Belgian chocolate coyly peeks through a hard shell of dark chocolate, surrounded by ripe strawberries and brash raspberries. A match made in calorie heaven. I indulge guilt free as ever, but with the promise of walking home... 40 minutes, 2.8 miles, 1 shower later, the luscious texture lingers on my tongue. I might be squeaky clean, but my thoughts are absolutely filthy!
Salty edamame, tiger prawn and asparagus gyoza, buta shoga-yaki (friend pork with ginger), spicy naniwa okonomiyaki (pork, kimchi and chilli) and this time, the usual teppan abandoned for the allure of the egg being topped off with great artistry at the table next to ours, a tonpei-yaki as our investigations reveal (more commonly known as bacon in a sophisticated envelope of egg, although the Big Boss insists it tastes completely different...!), before a teasing meander towards Häagen Dazs.
Soft, creamy Belgian chocolate coyly peeks through a hard shell of dark chocolate, surrounded by ripe strawberries and brash raspberries. A match made in calorie heaven. I indulge guilt free as ever, but with the promise of walking home... 40 minutes, 2.8 miles, 1 shower later, the luscious texture lingers on my tongue. I might be squeaky clean, but my thoughts are absolutely filthy!
Ctrl+Alt+Del
That's what I need for my head. To stop thinking, stop wondering, stop asking why. To erase the endless questions that keep rattling through my mind. Questions for which I have no answers. I can feel all my Taurean obstinancy surge to the fore, heels dug in, demanding to know... Why? When? How? This is crazy. Will the hormonal ebb ease the voices in my head and let me forget? I bloody well hope so! Otherwise, I will have to get directions to Kilpauk. Aaaargh! Find me the purge valve!!
Judgemental and incompetent!
My list of non virtues grows ever long, to match my ever growing list of 'd-uh!'s'. How a grown woman is unable to distinguish beyond a 5 and a 6 escapes me. But escape me it has, and I survey the message telling me my belated endeavour to add an extra room night has been unsuccessful as there are now no more rooms available, with increasing frustration. How on earth is it possible that I have booked flights, hotel, concert and holiday time under the mistaken assumption that I will be in Vegas between the 1st and 5th of September, when closer inspection of my e-ticket confirmation reveals the startling news that I fly out on the 6th? It's a matter of great scientific curiosity that my head doesn't spectacularly detach itself from it's moorings courtesy the sheer fuckitallness of my ineptitude.
I am unable to deal with the magnitude of my incompetence, and will resign myself to my fate next week. It is patently obvious that unlike a fine wine, I'm not getting any better with age!
I am unable to deal with the magnitude of my incompetence, and will resign myself to my fate next week. It is patently obvious that unlike a fine wine, I'm not getting any better with age!
Judgemental
With age, I've become more intolerant and less judgemental. Sadly, the one thing that hasn't changed is the oddity of the opposite holding true for those that are closest to me. Things I wouldn't even notice in a stranger, easily overlook in an acquaintance, forgive in a friend, unfailingly disappoint me in a loved one. Why do these expectations creep in once you let someone get in closer? If they didn't matter earlier, why do they matter now? Why do I demand it all from them? Just because I am willing to give it my all? Surely that's my problem. Intellectually, I recognise the unjustness of what I ask. Even perhaps, the impossibility of it. Emotionally, I cannot accept anything less. No one knows better than I that you can't change people. Why do I then want it to be something different? Why do I taste the dust of failure when the reality doesn't match up to the fantasy? People are who they are. Why then, do I still hope for something different? Why does my heart refuse to accept what is apparent to see? Why am I so insistent in believing that they're not being true to themselves when their behaviour is contrary to what I see them as? If I am disillusioned, surely it's because I created the illusion. There is no warrior to walk by my side. Perhaps I am meant to walk alone.
Two Wolves
He said, "My daughter, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil; It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, weakness, lies and fear. The other is Good; It is joy, harmony, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."
She asked, "Which wolf wins?"
"The one you feed."
She asked, "Which wolf wins?"
"The one you feed."
A man is known not by his words, but by his deeds....
And so the legend lives on...
Strong, honest and brave, a champion to lead his men. Robin of Loxley returns in the guise of a middle aged Russel Crowe, integrity intact, matched step by step by an incomparable Marion in Cate Blanchett, hand in glove with an irresistible Max von Sydon. The man before he became the legend, but as endearing as the better known bold rascal. His deeds inspiring men to follow, his honesty answering an old man's hope. A man to trust, respect and love. A hero has returned.
Ridley Scott's masterful vision of the battle on the beach steals your breath as the archers let loose a hail of arrows on the unsuspecting French, points thudding against hastily raised shield in tandem with your heart. The film is a trifle too long, and will surprise those on the lookout for the Sheriff and the Merry men, but bludgeons the truth behind the words, 'A man is known not by his words, but his deeds'. I'm a sucker for heroes and legends, not to mention bows and arrows, swords, horses and hand to hand combat. Wrong place, wrong time...
Strong, honest and brave, a champion to lead his men. Robin of Loxley returns in the guise of a middle aged Russel Crowe, integrity intact, matched step by step by an incomparable Marion in Cate Blanchett, hand in glove with an irresistible Max von Sydon. The man before he became the legend, but as endearing as the better known bold rascal. His deeds inspiring men to follow, his honesty answering an old man's hope. A man to trust, respect and love. A hero has returned.
Ridley Scott's masterful vision of the battle on the beach steals your breath as the archers let loose a hail of arrows on the unsuspecting French, points thudding against hastily raised shield in tandem with your heart. The film is a trifle too long, and will surprise those on the lookout for the Sheriff and the Merry men, but bludgeons the truth behind the words, 'A man is known not by his words, but his deeds'. I'm a sucker for heroes and legends, not to mention bows and arrows, swords, horses and hand to hand combat. Wrong place, wrong time...
Toxic Shock Syndrome
Toxic shock syndrome is a rare but very serious illness that can develop rapidly in anyone. In the UK (60 million population), there are about 40 cases reported each year, half of which are associated with women using tampons. Instructions to users include a pithy never insert more than one tampon at a time....(not so strange when you know someone who's forgotten the existence of an earlier one and required locker room intervention!). Not exactly the untimely demise I'd imagined for myself.
So, why does this suddenly make an appearance on the blog? The early onset of senility was established well in advance of my fortieth year, and while folks laughingly accuse me of having thrown away my retainer (in response to my story of being mystified on it disappearing from my mouth, my last memory of having had it, looking out the window of my parents bedroom), I can honestly swear of not having any recollection of removing it from the caverns of my mouth. Like I have absolutely no recollection of removing the last tampon I used...
A fact that took some time to sink through my morning grogginess. A trifle more alert, an investigation ensues, and after some not inconsiderable rummaging around my nether bits, I come up empty handed. 'Tis very strange. I could have sworn a tampon was enjoying temporary residence, but seems to have vacated without notice. I'm pretty sure these suckers do not have the ability to dissolve, and I don't remember indulging in any drastic nudity that could possibly cause it to be hurled asunder. I'm also terribly positive that I had no hand in it. So. The sixty four million dollar question. Where the fuck did it go???? While I do appreciate the receptacle in question comfortably accommodates significantly larger insertions, it's not like there's a study in which the offending article could be sulking.
Apparently one of the symptoms of toxic shock syndrome is confusion. Brilliant. The site very helpful suggests, "If you are wearing a tampon remove it and tell your doctor that you have been using tampons." Erm, what does one tell the doctor if it's removed itself? Perhaps I ought to go have another rummage around. For medical reasons, naturally.
Call of the Warrior Queens
We all march to the beat of a different drum. And last night, the FDG lured me into believing we had the same drummer. As Agatha once said, the Moon conquers the night, casting its spell on all who lay eyes on it; till the Sun rises, rendering it inconsequential. A gray sky keeps her mystique safe as I walk to work, the FDG's words echoing in my ears, hope blossoming... I am not her. The beat that sways me is as alien to her as hers is to me, despite our similarities. I don't believe as she does that the male of the species are all alike. I don't believe in gentle persuasion. This is probably why I've never had a boyfriend, but this is who I am, and you can't change people. Even when we're dancing to the music around us, caught up in it's joyous melody, never wanting to stop, the cliched 'life is too' a rampant chorus reverberating through your bones, drowning out the beat that echoes through your heart, defining who you are and what you believe in, it still beats away.
To orchestrate people comes naturally to some, but I would rather just hear your song. If it calls to me, I will go with you where you want. My FDG is a conductor while I'm only the audience. We would both have them play for us, but we'd each hear it differently. She is today's warrior, a pragmatic realist. I belong in the world of fantasy, a warrior of the past and the future. A romantic idealist. The things that matter to me will always matter to me, despite her chopstick wielding logic. I can try and pretend that it doesn't. But I lie. The music can only drown out the beat of the drum, not deny it. It is perhaps true that two strongs may only make strife. But I want to walk by their side, neither leading nor following. The music makes you believe that you will always dance together, but we move to the beat of different drums.
I think I hear mine more clearly now that the music has stopped.
To orchestrate people comes naturally to some, but I would rather just hear your song. If it calls to me, I will go with you where you want. My FDG is a conductor while I'm only the audience. We would both have them play for us, but we'd each hear it differently. She is today's warrior, a pragmatic realist. I belong in the world of fantasy, a warrior of the past and the future. A romantic idealist. The things that matter to me will always matter to me, despite her chopstick wielding logic. I can try and pretend that it doesn't. But I lie. The music can only drown out the beat of the drum, not deny it. It is perhaps true that two strongs may only make strife. But I want to walk by their side, neither leading nor following. The music makes you believe that you will always dance together, but we move to the beat of different drums.
I think I hear mine more clearly now that the music has stopped.
Kona Coffee
A generation later, it's over in a few seconds. Close a window. Click on the X. Hit the delete button. No traces remain. So different from the gut wrenching handling of the letters, stubborn fingers insisting on reading them one last time, tracing the folds, the words blurring. Unable to destroy them, but impossible to keep. Wrapping them up. Finding an envelope large enough. An address inked for the last time. So different, yet achingly the same. Still no one to share it with.
A poignant reminder for the Kona Coffee list. Don't ever order it again.
A poignant reminder for the Kona Coffee list. Don't ever order it again.
Once bitten, twice stupid beggaring all belief....
I wonder how long it will take this time around. For the knot in the hollow of your rib to dissolve. Will it be any different than last time? Will I think back on the magic moments with fondness or will it be marred by the bitterness of loss till it fades into indifference? History appalling repeats itself and what's worse, is that I chose to ignore it. Ignore my better sense. Ignore the pithy advice of others. All for the moment. Because the moment promised magic. But the moment turned. Became more than it was meant to. Hindsight tells me it was foolishly arrogant to think it wouldn't. Actually, that's not true. I didn't think it wouldn't - I choose to ignore that it probably would. Now it's time to pay. Seems fair.
Irony is all very well when it's happening to someone else. I don't like it when my life becomes ironic. Why did I think it was going to be any different? Why was I hoping it would be? Well, that one's easy enough to answer... I wanted it so damned much. So much that I blithely ignored the reality in front me. Not wanting to see it. Not wanting to acknowledge it. Thinking it could be different. Thinking I was different.
And now, I've lost it all. Again. And I'm still no different from all those women who think they are special....
Irony is all very well when it's happening to someone else. I don't like it when my life becomes ironic. Why did I think it was going to be any different? Why was I hoping it would be? Well, that one's easy enough to answer... I wanted it so damned much. So much that I blithely ignored the reality in front me. Not wanting to see it. Not wanting to acknowledge it. Thinking it could be different. Thinking I was different.
And now, I've lost it all. Again. And I'm still no different from all those women who think they are special....
Overturning the box and slamming it on the floor a couple of times ensures that all the appropriately themed confetti is now in my possession. I do a last sweep to satisfy myself that none of the little suckers are left behind... The little bear looks up at me hopefully, perhaps sensing that I'm not overly kindly disposed towards cute little furry toys, and makes me rub it's soft little tummy contemplatively. To keep this one or give it away to a deserving child this time? I'm really not a soft toy kind of person, despite parenting a rather stoned looking tufty haired white bird with a shocking pink feet and bill (who answered to Stallone, naturally), a goggly eyed snake, a crooked whiskered lion and a massively bug eyed purple pachyderm.... all of whom have found very nice homes (well, either that or deeply interested kiddie surgeries). I'm not sure if he actually looks less silly than he did the first time around, but I suspect there is an element of stolen dolphin balloon in my gaze. Maybe I'll keep him for a bit...
P3 Personified
Few things in this world are more abhorrent than a petulant child with pursed lips on the cusp of a tantrum. Womanfully, I quell the urge to welling up inside me to smack the overly generous lad who has given away my balloon, MY balloon to the visiting piglet, and I resist the temptation to rip the hand on my shoulder away from his socket. The GALL! Instead I glare balefully at my monitor willing my lips to uncurl as I hurriedly contemplate deep breathing exercises. Just because I parted with a balloon earlier hardly constitutes a declaration that all my balloons henceforth are anyone's to give away! And just because I haven't been able to give it a suitable home, is not reason to suppose I don't have plans for it! I'm incensed at the liberty taken at my expenses and infuriated that there's nothing I can do about it. Well, nothing short of deeply traumatising a very small child, shocking an entire floor of adults and entering the Guiness book of world records as the Ultimate Scrooge!
Guy's 'you've made a little boy very happy' does little to mollify my miffiness, and I inhale and exhale deeply and rythmically, focused on the contract in front of me. Dammit!! That's MY balloon!! MY dolphin in it! The ludicrousness of the situation has not escaped me, but the scowl has now permanently embedded itself on my face. It is entirely possible I would have given it away to a child myself. I have done it before. But to have someone do it for me... utterly insupportable!!! Mr. C has no idea how close he came to escaping death today. 'Are you sure you don't want the balloon, Apara?'.. are you fucking kidding me?? No, I want to snatch it away from your little boy and smack he who took it out of MY box! A high pitched 'thank you' from a shiny little face intensifies my headache, but I do manage to waggle my fingers in that general direction.
Full on dog in the manger syndrome. I was perfectly happy to let it wallow in its box, but the minute someone else has aspirations.. all my territorial instincts kick in and a full on fang baring snarl.. MINE! Deep breath. This did make a toddler (about the same size as the balloon) ridiculously happy... but I feel petty, peevish AND petulant and desperately restrain the urge to burst into tears, throw myself on the floor and flail while screaming..... deep breath... deeper breath. Inhale... exhale.. inhale.. exhale... DAMMIT!!
Guy's 'you've made a little boy very happy' does little to mollify my miffiness, and I inhale and exhale deeply and rythmically, focused on the contract in front of me. Dammit!! That's MY balloon!! MY dolphin in it! The ludicrousness of the situation has not escaped me, but the scowl has now permanently embedded itself on my face. It is entirely possible I would have given it away to a child myself. I have done it before. But to have someone do it for me... utterly insupportable!!! Mr. C has no idea how close he came to escaping death today. 'Are you sure you don't want the balloon, Apara?'.. are you fucking kidding me?? No, I want to snatch it away from your little boy and smack he who took it out of MY box! A high pitched 'thank you' from a shiny little face intensifies my headache, but I do manage to waggle my fingers in that general direction.
Full on dog in the manger syndrome. I was perfectly happy to let it wallow in its box, but the minute someone else has aspirations.. all my territorial instincts kick in and a full on fang baring snarl.. MINE! Deep breath. This did make a toddler (about the same size as the balloon) ridiculously happy... but I feel petty, peevish AND petulant and desperately restrain the urge to burst into tears, throw myself on the floor and flail while screaming..... deep breath... deeper breath. Inhale... exhale.. inhale.. exhale... DAMMIT!!
City of Scams
Serviced apartment just minutes from High Street Kensington station. My senses perk up, and then dip as I see a £250/week next to it. How grotty would it have to be to be on offer at that rate? Probably a studio the size of a closet with food embedded in the stained carpet. My hand however, works at a different pace and I'm confronted with the most glamorous photos of a glossy, marble bathtub. Hunh? Flick, flick, flick.... a bedroom I could've decorated myself, brightly coloured cushions adorning a rather fetching wooden bed frame. My eyeballs disappear in the squint, and I email them. An impressive booking form outlines the requirement of a 10% deposit to secure the flat.
Someone replies to my mail on a Sunday at 9 pm, gently correcting my assumption that it's £250 per month. I apologies and insist, 'I knew that'. The next email informs me that this miraculous flat is indeed available for the three months I'm interested in (peak summer!), and suggests I book a London taxi through them if I'm arriving into the country, as they will have the keys and take me straight to the apartment. Naturally. In my best officious manner, I inform them that I am shockingly in the country and wondering if I can have a quick viewing of this simply marvelous flat. The lovely lady who so industriously fielded my emails on Sunday obviously has the day off on the following Monday. Undaunted, I ping of yet another officious email asking if there is a number where I might call them. There is one on the website for a call service, which to my unprecedented shock and horror is not connected, but offers to provide me with services should I so require.
I'm deeply disillusioned. I had expected Hannah to have rushed in to organise a viewing, or at least gush over the phone at how happy they would be to help me. Naturally, all payments are to be made by bank transfers only. I'm devastated, and drown my sorrows by acceding to the extortion my lovely agent chappie does with such elan. Empty flat with no marble bathtub, no TV and no co-ordinated cushions on a bed. Hell. No bed. A ginormous four figured sum to be paid in advance of the tenancy. Disgraceful! Maybe I should send him the link for the Oasis apartments for beleaguered tourists!
P.S. - I wonder if anyone actually falls for this? Admittedly, the site is rather good - very professional, but really, take a London cab booked through us coz they'll have the keys?????
Someone replies to my mail on a Sunday at 9 pm, gently correcting my assumption that it's £250 per month. I apologies and insist, 'I knew that'. The next email informs me that this miraculous flat is indeed available for the three months I'm interested in (peak summer!), and suggests I book a London taxi through them if I'm arriving into the country, as they will have the keys and take me straight to the apartment. Naturally. In my best officious manner, I inform them that I am shockingly in the country and wondering if I can have a quick viewing of this simply marvelous flat. The lovely lady who so industriously fielded my emails on Sunday obviously has the day off on the following Monday. Undaunted, I ping of yet another officious email asking if there is a number where I might call them. There is one on the website for a call service, which to my unprecedented shock and horror is not connected, but offers to provide me with services should I so require.
I'm deeply disillusioned. I had expected Hannah to have rushed in to organise a viewing, or at least gush over the phone at how happy they would be to help me. Naturally, all payments are to be made by bank transfers only. I'm devastated, and drown my sorrows by acceding to the extortion my lovely agent chappie does with such elan. Empty flat with no marble bathtub, no TV and no co-ordinated cushions on a bed. Hell. No bed. A ginormous four figured sum to be paid in advance of the tenancy. Disgraceful! Maybe I should send him the link for the Oasis apartments for beleaguered tourists!
P.S. - I wonder if anyone actually falls for this? Admittedly, the site is rather good - very professional, but really, take a London cab booked through us coz they'll have the keys?????
When I was in Switzerland, what I missed most was the sea. The ability to walk down and voila, there it was, untamed, glorious and free. Lake Geneva wasn't bad as water bodies go, but it was a day trip to be able to indulge in that civilised form of H2O. It was always the cliff top houses that caught my eye as I would slip through channels, angry waves crashing against the rock. whispering away in conciliation as they ebbed.
While the sea will always be part of my soul, it's now the green that catches my eye, and makes me feel content as I cast my eyes over it's calming canopy. A sea of green over the sea of blue gray. When did that happen? Envying the buffalo wallowing in the marsh next door at Versova? Waking up to the shock of a zillion frogs blanketing it? Smiling at the the brush of green that just shies of coming level outside the 4th floor window? The shock and awe stemming from the realisation that the roads around cooperage are invisible under a lush green swathe that soothes it or the surprise of the neatly manicured rectangle atop the BEST building next door?
It hardly matters as I gaze out at one of my most favourite views of this city. The sun oozing over the lush greenness of Hyde Park, amplifying the myriad hues of green, gently interrupted by the occasional purple and red. The Serpentine glistens obscenely, pontoons bobbing like corks on the reflection. The serenity of the foliage plays you like a Stradivarius, even as its unshakable nature stands stolidly on guard. Graceful and ageless, a sea of calm oblivious to the steady stream of horsepower twittering on its sides. Like a storybook, the trees unfold their mystery as the sun lazily dips lower and lower, a conscientious page turner. Now, a glowing ball of flame red, it turns the Monet into a Rousseau. No longer a city landmark, your eyes are drawn to an enchanted forest, her secrets hidden in the shadows cast by the disappearing sun.
The city reappears, asserting it's dominance as the lights twinkle in the dusk, beckoning you. A few hours of dominance before the sun's streaky fingers steal through the sky, waking the forest, weaving the magic that is Hyde Park....
While the sea will always be part of my soul, it's now the green that catches my eye, and makes me feel content as I cast my eyes over it's calming canopy. A sea of green over the sea of blue gray. When did that happen? Envying the buffalo wallowing in the marsh next door at Versova? Waking up to the shock of a zillion frogs blanketing it? Smiling at the the brush of green that just shies of coming level outside the 4th floor window? The shock and awe stemming from the realisation that the roads around cooperage are invisible under a lush green swathe that soothes it or the surprise of the neatly manicured rectangle atop the BEST building next door?
It hardly matters as I gaze out at one of my most favourite views of this city. The sun oozing over the lush greenness of Hyde Park, amplifying the myriad hues of green, gently interrupted by the occasional purple and red. The Serpentine glistens obscenely, pontoons bobbing like corks on the reflection. The serenity of the foliage plays you like a Stradivarius, even as its unshakable nature stands stolidly on guard. Graceful and ageless, a sea of calm oblivious to the steady stream of horsepower twittering on its sides. Like a storybook, the trees unfold their mystery as the sun lazily dips lower and lower, a conscientious page turner. Now, a glowing ball of flame red, it turns the Monet into a Rousseau. No longer a city landmark, your eyes are drawn to an enchanted forest, her secrets hidden in the shadows cast by the disappearing sun.
The city reappears, asserting it's dominance as the lights twinkle in the dusk, beckoning you. A few hours of dominance before the sun's streaky fingers steal through the sky, waking the forest, weaving the magic that is Hyde Park....
London Flat Adventures
I succumb to the daylight robbery in the genteel guise of 'rent' perpetrated by greedy agents and even greedier landlords and sign over a weeks worth to take a property off the market. In all my wisdom (yep, all forty years worth this time), I have chosen a flat with no furniture instead of a fully furnished one, simply because the other one barely got any natural light, and made me feel claustrophobic coz it was narrow and long. Never mind that it was actually cheaper. Or that I quite liked looking out on the green stuff outside the window, or the rather charming communal gardens or even the basted porter. Nope, empty flat for some light and the option to terminate at any time with 3 months notice. Despite having scarified my hard earned earnings, I'm still wondering if I should've gone with Stephane's flat - furnished, with Internet and TV... and the faint inconvenience of having to stay there between June 20 and Sept beg/mid.... before seeking other pastures for my limitless luggage.
Naturally, the stress of moving unwomans me, so I spent most of Saturday in the shops in a frenzy of summer dress shopping. So now, I have a mountain of dresses, of which one I absolutely love, and the others answer to the 'handy to wear when I get back home' call. Riiight. That explains why I was loath to let the sales woman discard the one size too large, deep aqua dress that that reminded me of a jewel and am now deliberating between returning it or making inquiries as to a good ladies tailor who won't baulk at alterations!
I eye the tags balefully, wavering between just admitting they're now my responsibility and sending them back home to momma. Not exactly the highest on my list of ever growing problems, but hey, beats packing every time (yes, I am entirely cognizant of the pregnancy of that statement). Feeling a great deal of empathy with the preceding statement led me to walk home from a luscious dinner at Galvin @ Windows at the Hilton... a velvet pea velouté swirled around a luminescent and quivering poached duck's egg, followed by a decadently luxuriant risotto with peas, Parmesan, broad beans and asparagus, finished off with the dense sense of the Amazon in a chocolate tart offset by mango coulis and a fragrant cup of Darjeeling reminiscent of raindrops tipping off the edge of a leaf.
While I'm no longer in danger of giving birth to twins, I still do feel incapacitated by about six weeks as I survey bag #3 in the hope of leveraging my quid pro quo... 13 kg for checking them in online. Sadly, all I have been able to identify is a hard disk, a small painting, Champu's tankini and... well, that's it. Perhaps, I ought to send some of the new stuff back given that we just finished our 4 days of summer here in London... I'm now having an eclectic vision of what my furniture less living room could look like... air mattress, buttressed by the duvet and some pillows, a couple of crates for side tables, an artistic mountain of bags arrayed in a corner, and the Nakamichi taking the pride of the place on the floor opposite the mattress. I wonder if there's a vacuum cleaner in that flat. Guess June 5 will tell....
Naturally, the stress of moving unwomans me, so I spent most of Saturday in the shops in a frenzy of summer dress shopping. So now, I have a mountain of dresses, of which one I absolutely love, and the others answer to the 'handy to wear when I get back home' call. Riiight. That explains why I was loath to let the sales woman discard the one size too large, deep aqua dress that that reminded me of a jewel and am now deliberating between returning it or making inquiries as to a good ladies tailor who won't baulk at alterations!
I eye the tags balefully, wavering between just admitting they're now my responsibility and sending them back home to momma. Not exactly the highest on my list of ever growing problems, but hey, beats packing every time (yes, I am entirely cognizant of the pregnancy of that statement). Feeling a great deal of empathy with the preceding statement led me to walk home from a luscious dinner at Galvin @ Windows at the Hilton... a velvet pea velouté swirled around a luminescent and quivering poached duck's egg, followed by a decadently luxuriant risotto with peas, Parmesan, broad beans and asparagus, finished off with the dense sense of the Amazon in a chocolate tart offset by mango coulis and a fragrant cup of Darjeeling reminiscent of raindrops tipping off the edge of a leaf.
While I'm no longer in danger of giving birth to twins, I still do feel incapacitated by about six weeks as I survey bag #3 in the hope of leveraging my quid pro quo... 13 kg for checking them in online. Sadly, all I have been able to identify is a hard disk, a small painting, Champu's tankini and... well, that's it. Perhaps, I ought to send some of the new stuff back given that we just finished our 4 days of summer here in London... I'm now having an eclectic vision of what my furniture less living room could look like... air mattress, buttressed by the duvet and some pillows, a couple of crates for side tables, an artistic mountain of bags arrayed in a corner, and the Nakamichi taking the pride of the place on the floor opposite the mattress. I wonder if there's a vacuum cleaner in that flat. Guess June 5 will tell....
Bwaaahaaahaaa!
The amazing spoils of middle age....!!
A balloon safari over the Masai Mara; an Aamchi Mate Aamchi Maanse photobook; a dive holiday (not including fooding or lodging as dictated by CEO, MD, GM, AM, PM, Chaprasi and Big Boss); a skydiving day out; a smiling dolphin causing endless mirth at work; a sheepish fetch of more ballons from reception; an enternal rose; a daft teddy bear; appropriately themed confetti; a Pashmina for the Gods of romance; a threat of 37 more to go....; fiery hand made Hungarian jewellery; an indulgent massage; 5 singing birthday phonecalls; a book of memories being worked on; bountiful ischlers; two exotic dinners; a magnificently pink card with condolences and whatnots......
Should've done this a lot sooner....!!
A balloon safari over the Masai Mara; an Aamchi Mate Aamchi Maanse photobook; a dive holiday (not including fooding or lodging as dictated by CEO, MD, GM, AM, PM, Chaprasi and Big Boss); a skydiving day out; a smiling dolphin causing endless mirth at work; a sheepish fetch of more ballons from reception; an enternal rose; a daft teddy bear; appropriately themed confetti; a Pashmina for the Gods of romance; a threat of 37 more to go....; fiery hand made Hungarian jewellery; an indulgent massage; 5 singing birthday phonecalls; a book of memories being worked on; bountiful ischlers; two exotic dinners; a magnificently pink card with condolences and whatnots......
Should've done this a lot sooner....!!
Melodrama at dawn
My consciousness fades in and out, finally submitting to an uneasy sleep around 1.30 in the morning. My hard won slumber interrupted by the sounds of heavy shuffling that suddenly turns into an assault of stampeding wildebeest. My brain struggles to cope with the sudden variance in decibel levels, as the unexpected sounds of the chink of china collides with the gush of water into the kettle, the abrasive sound of casters over tiles and the slam of the fridge. My mind blinks in confusion, hand pawing at the mobile. 04:07 indifferently blinks back at me. So, this is what dreaming is all about. The whistling of the kettle arrogantly cuts through the pretended protection of the duvet, even as the toaster mocks me with a resounding thunk. I'm reminded of the college canteen, usually harbinger of happier memories, but now, I'm thinking of expelling all those who inhabit it.
My brain tries to make sense of my bewildered senses, as another set of shuffle enters the fray. The sound of crockery is more enthusiastic as my aunts lilting drawl mingles in the air (WWII would have ended a lot sooner if Hitler had to combat this voice...). A most peculiar request for 'kapor kachhbar shaban' turns a traumatic morning into an episode of saas bahu, as a voice laced with tears sniffles, 'nothing I do is ever good enough', before disappearing to clucking noises. What the fuck? My senses are now in shock, unable to decide whether to remind people of my presence or continue to mimic the furniture. I borrow in a little deeper in the hope that the dream will mercifully terminate. 'Here you are', the voice takes command over the tremble. 'tomar jaa kichu chai' Ook. While I will be the first to agree that melodrama is in our genes, to have such an earth display of it at the crack of dawn in Maida Vale is surreal to say the least.
The sounds of a middle class deshi household waking up at the crack of dawn. Chesty coughs, unhurried, intractable voices of discontent, wearing you down, oblivious to the tortured form on the sofa desperately invoking the gods of PLEASE make them disappear. My delicately poised equilibrium picks up the sound of more shuffling in the background as the uncle heads to the bathroom. They've broken me. I get up loudly, with and turn to the perpetrators with a distinct lack of grace, only to be greeted by, 'Do you want breakfast?', 'Did you sleep well?'. You've got to be f***ing kidding me! My mouth is open but my lack of words unnoticed as the uncle launches into grumble about how one cannot sleep in London... My growing scowl matches my aggressive if somewhat uncertain stance as I desperately try to comprehend what my options are. Sister-in-law to the rescue. 'Why don't you go to my room and sleep?' I make a feeble stab at decorum, 'Are you sure?' but my feet are already edging in that direction, and before she can complete her assent, I make a dash for it...
My poor beleaguered cousin offers half the duvet and manfully stays in bed for another ten minutes before resigning himself to his fate and heaving out of the bed to face the folks. I'm determined to ignore the strident voices that waft down the hallway, the sound of the traffic, and the sudden appearance of the British summer streaming in through the window and snuggle in deeper into the bedding. Naturally, Somya picks this morning to shatter my hard won state of comatose with a quite unnecessary, 'What's up'. Me!! All fucking night!
My brain tries to make sense of my bewildered senses, as another set of shuffle enters the fray. The sound of crockery is more enthusiastic as my aunts lilting drawl mingles in the air (WWII would have ended a lot sooner if Hitler had to combat this voice...). A most peculiar request for 'kapor kachhbar shaban' turns a traumatic morning into an episode of saas bahu, as a voice laced with tears sniffles, 'nothing I do is ever good enough', before disappearing to clucking noises. What the fuck? My senses are now in shock, unable to decide whether to remind people of my presence or continue to mimic the furniture. I borrow in a little deeper in the hope that the dream will mercifully terminate. 'Here you are', the voice takes command over the tremble. 'tomar jaa kichu chai' Ook. While I will be the first to agree that melodrama is in our genes, to have such an earth display of it at the crack of dawn in Maida Vale is surreal to say the least.
The sounds of a middle class deshi household waking up at the crack of dawn. Chesty coughs, unhurried, intractable voices of discontent, wearing you down, oblivious to the tortured form on the sofa desperately invoking the gods of PLEASE make them disappear. My delicately poised equilibrium picks up the sound of more shuffling in the background as the uncle heads to the bathroom. They've broken me. I get up loudly, with and turn to the perpetrators with a distinct lack of grace, only to be greeted by, 'Do you want breakfast?', 'Did you sleep well?'. You've got to be f***ing kidding me! My mouth is open but my lack of words unnoticed as the uncle launches into grumble about how one cannot sleep in London... My growing scowl matches my aggressive if somewhat uncertain stance as I desperately try to comprehend what my options are. Sister-in-law to the rescue. 'Why don't you go to my room and sleep?' I make a feeble stab at decorum, 'Are you sure?' but my feet are already edging in that direction, and before she can complete her assent, I make a dash for it...
My poor beleaguered cousin offers half the duvet and manfully stays in bed for another ten minutes before resigning himself to his fate and heaving out of the bed to face the folks. I'm determined to ignore the strident voices that waft down the hallway, the sound of the traffic, and the sudden appearance of the British summer streaming in through the window and snuggle in deeper into the bedding. Naturally, Somya picks this morning to shatter my hard won state of comatose with a quite unnecessary, 'What's up'. Me!! All fucking night!
Perestroika
Wonder if Mikhail G. envisaged losing all the indigenous aristrocacy in hiding to the West with his revolutionary ideas...
A flawed Bhartiya naari I might be, but I was deeply offended to (a) be the receipient of this salacious bid (b) being mistaken for the male of the species and most crucially (c) to find that aamchi wasn't sweet enough to make the cut!! Wonder if Jyotibabu had ever imagined the USP's of red/ex-communie nations on the non-agrarian side!
"European and American women are too arrogant for you? Are you looking for a sweet lady that will be caring and understanding? Then you came to the right place- here you can find a Russian lady that will love you with all her heart. Can't find a queen to rule your heart? How about beautiful Russian ladies that have royal blood and royal look? Here you can find hundreds of portfolios of these fine women of any age for every taste. Please excuse us if you are not interested.
Beautiful Russian ladies - http://rusbabys.com."
I wonder how soon Nadia will get here.....
A flawed Bhartiya naari I might be, but I was deeply offended to (a) be the receipient of this salacious bid (b) being mistaken for the male of the species and most crucially (c) to find that aamchi wasn't sweet enough to make the cut!! Wonder if Jyotibabu had ever imagined the USP's of red/ex-communie nations on the non-agrarian side!
"European and American women are too arrogant for you? Are you looking for a sweet lady that will be caring and understanding? Then you came to the right place- here you can find a Russian lady that will love you with all her heart. Can't find a queen to rule your heart? How about beautiful Russian ladies that have royal blood and royal look? Here you can find hundreds of portfolios of these fine women of any age for every taste. Please excuse us if you are not interested.
Beautiful Russian ladies - http://rusbabys.com."
I wonder how soon Nadia will get here.....
Blessed
You may forget what they say, even forget the things they did, but you never forget how they made you feel...... and that is the simple truth.
May 13, 2010
And I thought nothing could ever beat 39....... Foolish to think those that made last year so special wouldn't find a way to take my breath away this year.
I'm utterly overwhelmed by their generosity, thrilled with their élan, reduced to tears by their love and ready to rule the world!!
Muuuuuuaaaaaah! Bring it on!!
I'm utterly overwhelmed by their generosity, thrilled with their élan, reduced to tears by their love and ready to rule the world!!
Muuuuuuaaaaaah! Bring it on!!
It’s always good to break a hiatus with a touch of neuroses. I wonder if it happens to other people – the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach when you look at yourself but don’t recognise who you see. A part of you revels in this new facet, unmindful of the havoc its wreaking on the others, luxuriating in the sensations in brings like a muddy pig in the rains squealing as it spies the trough. It’s a bit creepy when you indulge in an out of body observation of your antics, subduing the urge to snigger at your deeply affronted normal self. What’s odd, is that while I can see it quite clearly, and on occasion even articulate it most succinctly, it’s control completely eludes me. A touch like dealing with Egypt Air I must admit. Which reminds me… to get on with my story of love’s labour lost…
Going, going......
Another year. SEVERAL more strands of white making their presence felt over just the last couple of months (gratefully not in an Einstein mimic), accompanied by a distinct lack of wisdom. Middle age is an interesting time apparently, ripe for the appearance of advanced schizophrenia. Apara and the looking glass. Sometimes clear as crystal, sometimes milky and opaque and then sometimes random sightings of the dormouse falling asleep in the teapot only to be replaced by the Mad Hatter’s leer! Anthony Capella’s Food for Love brings a rather compelling image of my brain to the fore, firm with a good colour, the blade slicing through cleanly before being crumbed and fried, the thin slices melting in your mouth… rudely morphing into a morass resembling a mess of untidy scrambled eggs. The former accompanied by a vintage 1970, strong and full bodied, pumping unobtrusively in the background, the latter, an erratic in the throat pounding wrenching the attention to itself.
So why does clarity, coherence and commonsense evaporate into inexplicable confusion, garbled ideas and adrenalin fuelled illogic? Actually, I lie. It doesn’t evaporated. It gets swamped in the deluge of emotion. Therein lies the crux of the matter. The battle is evenly pitched and if I weren’t in the thick of it, it would be a rather interesting insight of the human paradox. The heart and mind, savagely in conflict, ecstatically harmonious, the body struggling to control both excesses within. Gee. I can’t wait for menopause.
So why does clarity, coherence and commonsense evaporate into inexplicable confusion, garbled ideas and adrenalin fuelled illogic? Actually, I lie. It doesn’t evaporated. It gets swamped in the deluge of emotion. Therein lies the crux of the matter. The battle is evenly pitched and if I weren’t in the thick of it, it would be a rather interesting insight of the human paradox. The heart and mind, savagely in conflict, ecstatically harmonious, the body struggling to control both excesses within. Gee. I can’t wait for menopause.
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