I peer uncomprehendingly at my screen. Who are we talking about here, Pishka or me? I feel in dire need of both, so I click Yes. I have no idea what I’ve been rescued from, except perhaps a potential face scrub for the third time. It is a sad commentary to find yourself rinsing conditioner out of your hair wondering if you’ve already washed your face, but acutely unable to remember if indeed you actually have. Exploratory fingers on your face don’t send Eureka! screaming down your spine, so you shrug and figure prevention is better than cure and give it a/nother go. Sigh. It’s only been a little over a month since I so momentously hit this decade. Every morning is a curse ridden, panic stricken, clueless poultry imitation through the flat looking for the damn house keys and then the mobile phone, followed by an enthusiastic encore before I am able to crawl into bed. I’d like to think it’s because my mind is overflowing with critically important world altering ideas that don’t include fashioning an excessively eclectic and salty combination of leftover mashed potatoes, sliced beef, tomatoes and Chinese broccoli that has seen better days. Auto recovery prompts me to save this, naturally, under yesterday’s date. Maybe that’s the recovery they were talking about. Either that or the strange manifestation of ‘what a fucking idiot’ that seems to assail all my travel plans.
Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh! My outraged shriek prompts the Hungarian to fumble the phone while yelping back in self defence. I have somehow managed to book myself on a return flight on the Tuesday after the bank holiday! Easy Jet shows no mercy and charges me a extortionate £25 to take it back to Monday. No sooner than my debit card has been charged the offending amount, I call out the dates to my hapless and travel companion and let out another blood curdling scream. I’m booked going out on a Thursday night instead of the friggin’ Friday night! I’m choking with outrage, positive that it’s these slimy low budget carriers than sneak in block dates trapping you into incorrect bookings at throwaway prices and then charging you to change them. Except, I go back to my original booking and instead of a Friday to Monday, it’s blinking back a Thursday to Tuesday. Why? Why on earth would I have booked something like that? I contemplate wrangling a business trip, but the thought of actually having to plan another trip brings me to my knees, and I pull out my debit card with a resigned air. My low cost bank holiday weekend has now turned into a regular ‘oh let’s spend lots of money and go somewhere’ endeavour.
My capitulation comes not from a callous indifference to the state of my bank account, but rather a forlorn acceptance that I now seem to be afflicted by the Sonia syndrome. Before I started booking holidays with her, I never suffered from it, but our woman has on a regular basis booked the same holiday more than once and then had to pay to cancel. I’ve had to rebook my Vegas hotels twice because I didn’t realise that I’d managed to pick the wrong return date for my flight. Naturally, I would only do such a thing if it involved the exchange of legal tender to rectify my fuck up. For people who travel as much as we both seem to, it’s a tad inexplicable how incompetent we are when making these bookings. Dimple romantically booked lover boy and herself from Moscow to St. Petersburg by train, only to give a uh oh start at the simple question, “Did you book us on the Blue Train?” Naturally, she’d booked them on the bullet train, an utterly characterless journey of 3 ½ hours. Wonder if they’ll give her a refund. My holiday budget for the year now needs to incorporate a hefty contingency figure to accommodate these seemingly senile lapses. Clearly, an early retirement is not on the cards.
Another day
The thumping noises continue. Clearly, I'm not alone on this floor. Even more clearly, not such a bright idea to strip to change here instead of in the loo! I can't see anyone, which doesn't make me feel any brighter. It had to be like this, a gorgeous summer day, and a spontaneous combustion of hell in a hand basket means taking a break from an all out 'fix the fucking thing - we will have to reprint the damn pitch' and indulging in contract issues for a new client instead, before realising at 7.30 that the lightheaded feeling is a direct result of an absence of lunch. Guy proffers a negroid banana, and Tony ups the ante with a couple of mandarins. 8.30 and the revised version has finally been sent for printing. I still have a contract to read and a rather interesting, if off the record email to pen about the vagaries of undertaking a major project in Angola and just how much an expat school teacher might get paid there. Naturally, I had confidently assured my client I'd send the email 'later this evening'. Instead, an apology and I copy my skeletal start on to a memory stick. Need to be back here by 8, to see how the printers have fared, finish the note, close out the contract and then head off for a series of meetings between 1-6pm. And that's just off the cuff. Oh - need to be able to fit in a notice to vacate and return some dresses somewhere before the weekend. Can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring!
Children all over the world are sending up silent prayers of thanks that I'm not their mother. You wanted a box lunch, that is a damned box lunch. A rough night doesn't agree with either my temper or my constitution, and I survey the luggage under my eyes helplessly. Mere cosmetic repair is pointless, this requires serious surgical intervention. I don't bother trying to address the ravages and start thinking of plausible stories instead if I'm called upon to explain the new look. Hopefully, today's deadline will keep everyone focused elsewhere.
The walk stiffens my spine and my brain kicks in, sifting, analysing, assessing. Ideas, thoughts, plans. The little guinea pigs furiously spinning in their wheels, masking the rising bile of fear. At work, I try and focus but am plagued by indecision, warring with the need to move forward. I just don't know. That's the bottom line. And it's the not knowing that churns my stomach distracting me from my plans of a pre-emptive strike and not very good sandwiches. The ominous dong from the phone perplexes me. Shit! Coffee. This had seemed like a good idea at the time. Why do all my ideas seems like good ideas 'at the time'???!!!!
The walk stiffens my spine and my brain kicks in, sifting, analysing, assessing. Ideas, thoughts, plans. The little guinea pigs furiously spinning in their wheels, masking the rising bile of fear. At work, I try and focus but am plagued by indecision, warring with the need to move forward. I just don't know. That's the bottom line. And it's the not knowing that churns my stomach distracting me from my plans of a pre-emptive strike and not very good sandwiches. The ominous dong from the phone perplexes me. Shit! Coffee. This had seemed like a good idea at the time. Why do all my ideas seems like good ideas 'at the time'???!!!!
Collateral Damage
What didn’t die from being deleted, I killed.. It means nothing. It does nothing. I don’t give a damn.
In the words of Anaheeta, funnily enough, neither do I. My fingers type out responses of their own accord, rhythmically clicking on the send button. I don’t know who I’m writing to or what and I don’t care really. But it’s important to go through the motions. To pretend that everything is ok. There is no choice but to be ok. I did what I had to do. Now it’s his turn and he does do it so much better. I think about what Usha said as we cried together. What goes around comes around. What I took from her, I lost here. The wetness on my face surprises me. I didn’t think I had any tears left to cry. For a woman who doesn’t have many close friends, I’m doing a bang up job of losing the ones I do. Am I incompetent or just utterly stupid? Or am I emotionally and morally stunted without Aashish to anchor me in place? At least now I know why I’ve never had a boyfriend. I don’t know how.
I tap out a text and hit send. But I need an answer now. I type out an email, but natural, T-Mobile has different plans, and keeps returning an error. The third effort pushes me over the edge, and I let the panic attack overtake me, fighting it long enough to punch another urgent text. He’s home and answers, but all I can do is cry. Several minutes and soothing noises later, my breathing stops hitching, long enough to string a few words together. I’m scared. Scared of not having you in my life. Of losing those I love. Of being alone. Of not being able to be with someone. What’s wrong with me? It takes thirty minutes before I calm down enough for us to talk without my voice breaking, nose running or animal wails slipping through. I haven’t been able to get it right since we split. Four years. Three friends. Another ten minutes before I can share a wobbly laugh about my intensity scaring everyone off.
Being told it was inevitable doesn’t ease the starkness of the loss. It was always too complicated, there was never going back after the first moment, the collateral damage, predictable. To take an existing friendship somewhere else is hard to begin with, but to attempt it under duress is begging for failure. I can see that, but I can’t understand how he can retain the equanimity, when it’s killing me. He’s used to losing people he loves, and makes no distinction between where you still have a choice and where you have none. I remember when it ended with Rajesh, I wished him dead, because that would have been easier to deal with, more complete. But I was 24 then. To lose those you love so completely shatters your world. It’s hard to pick up the pieces and carry on, because they were the ones that helped you glue them back together the last time.
He lets me talk. But is unsurprised. I try to muster irritation for his having predicting it, but I’m just too tired, beaten. He knows me like no one does. He is my soulmate. We just can’t be together. A recurring motif as it turns out. This time, my mate, yet not mine. To acknowledge loss is one thing, but to have to deal with the rawness of losing it so completely is devastating. Maybe the box isn’t such a bad idea. He says it’s not my fault, that it was always too tenuous to sustain. Perhaps. All I know is that right now, I don’t want to be alone. I want to matter to someone. To be the most important thing in their life. To be loved, always. Apparently I am to a number of people. Interesting then, isn’t it to be up at 12.30 sobbing into the duvet. I know there are those things that just aren’t meant to be. But the friendships that you had once, those that mattered most to you, they were always meant to be.
My head throbs, my eyeballs ache, and my vision blurs. I’m emotionally spent, physically exhausted, spiritually bankrupt. Do I feel better? The gentle question makes me feel worse, and I feel my eyes well in response. I feel as fragile as spun sugar, but it’s gone 1 am, and he needs to sleep. As do I. Maybe tomorrow.
In the words of Anaheeta, funnily enough, neither do I. My fingers type out responses of their own accord, rhythmically clicking on the send button. I don’t know who I’m writing to or what and I don’t care really. But it’s important to go through the motions. To pretend that everything is ok. There is no choice but to be ok. I did what I had to do. Now it’s his turn and he does do it so much better. I think about what Usha said as we cried together. What goes around comes around. What I took from her, I lost here. The wetness on my face surprises me. I didn’t think I had any tears left to cry. For a woman who doesn’t have many close friends, I’m doing a bang up job of losing the ones I do. Am I incompetent or just utterly stupid? Or am I emotionally and morally stunted without Aashish to anchor me in place? At least now I know why I’ve never had a boyfriend. I don’t know how.
I tap out a text and hit send. But I need an answer now. I type out an email, but natural, T-Mobile has different plans, and keeps returning an error. The third effort pushes me over the edge, and I let the panic attack overtake me, fighting it long enough to punch another urgent text. He’s home and answers, but all I can do is cry. Several minutes and soothing noises later, my breathing stops hitching, long enough to string a few words together. I’m scared. Scared of not having you in my life. Of losing those I love. Of being alone. Of not being able to be with someone. What’s wrong with me? It takes thirty minutes before I calm down enough for us to talk without my voice breaking, nose running or animal wails slipping through. I haven’t been able to get it right since we split. Four years. Three friends. Another ten minutes before I can share a wobbly laugh about my intensity scaring everyone off.
Being told it was inevitable doesn’t ease the starkness of the loss. It was always too complicated, there was never going back after the first moment, the collateral damage, predictable. To take an existing friendship somewhere else is hard to begin with, but to attempt it under duress is begging for failure. I can see that, but I can’t understand how he can retain the equanimity, when it’s killing me. He’s used to losing people he loves, and makes no distinction between where you still have a choice and where you have none. I remember when it ended with Rajesh, I wished him dead, because that would have been easier to deal with, more complete. But I was 24 then. To lose those you love so completely shatters your world. It’s hard to pick up the pieces and carry on, because they were the ones that helped you glue them back together the last time.
He lets me talk. But is unsurprised. I try to muster irritation for his having predicting it, but I’m just too tired, beaten. He knows me like no one does. He is my soulmate. We just can’t be together. A recurring motif as it turns out. This time, my mate, yet not mine. To acknowledge loss is one thing, but to have to deal with the rawness of losing it so completely is devastating. Maybe the box isn’t such a bad idea. He says it’s not my fault, that it was always too tenuous to sustain. Perhaps. All I know is that right now, I don’t want to be alone. I want to matter to someone. To be the most important thing in their life. To be loved, always. Apparently I am to a number of people. Interesting then, isn’t it to be up at 12.30 sobbing into the duvet. I know there are those things that just aren’t meant to be. But the friendships that you had once, those that mattered most to you, they were always meant to be.
My head throbs, my eyeballs ache, and my vision blurs. I’m emotionally spent, physically exhausted, spiritually bankrupt. Do I feel better? The gentle question makes me feel worse, and I feel my eyes well in response. I feel as fragile as spun sugar, but it’s gone 1 am, and he needs to sleep. As do I. Maybe tomorrow.
Single, footloose and fancy free
Achingly glamorous in New York. Undeniably glamorous when you skydive, even if you tack on a 40 somewhere in there. So why then is it that that I’m sashaying around the house like a moribund chicken in search of yet another elusive dongle? Granted, 11 years with Aashish was pretty much guaranteed to send my nerd quotient to new heights, but really, this is getting quite ridiculous. The smooth male voice crooning ‘battery low’ in my ears does little to assuage my frustration, but dongle #754 refuses to play. Great, this pod has all the songs I want and no battery, poddy II has a mains charger, but I can’t find it’s corresponding dongle #821 that would allow me to fill it with different music, which leaves me with my last pod (miraculously a dongle free version!), with minimum memory and no headphones.
Deep breath in, deeper whooshing sigh out. Now to the real issue. It’s suddenly summer again today, and the metrological department insists its going to stay this way. Wonderful. The intervening chill has made it impossible to acknowledge summer without shaving my legs. Hardly a Herculean task one would have thought. Hardly. But then, that was before I showered in this flat. I have figured out that the light actually gets brighter after a bit (I’m pretty sure it’s not my vision that’s improving), and while the shower is deliciously powerful and hot, three and a half minutes is the signal for the steam to gently start swirling around you, misting up the entire bathroom to sauna proportions, obscuring not just the looking glass, but any glasses that might be of aid when it comes to the perilous task of drawing blade against skin. Contact lens might overcome this hurdle, but attempting to shave in the midst of a cloud of steam is hardly conducive to smooth, sexy legs. Not before 2012 at any rate. Besides, I have no clue where my lens case is.
Right. Plan B. I resist the urge to smack the voice in my ear and contemplate my wardrobe. What on earth can I possibly wear that is light, airy and covers a multitude of sins? Oh, it might help if it’s appropriate for work as well. Although, why I bother I don’t know given today’s display of checked tights under shorts at work day. I could get away with dark tights, but then I’d have to be garbed like that for dinner. This then brings me back to my initial quandary, smooth legs or lack thereof. How tragic a story would it make: single, footloose and fancy free – doomed to a sexless as her new abode is hostile towards all attempts to shave her legs and catastrophically, ‘tis no longer the season for suspenders and bits.
She’s alright she’s alright she’s alright… Cocaine. Perhaps that is the answer. Then again, tomorrow is only a first date. Maybe I’ll be able to leave early on Wednesday for a first stab at operation silky smooth. Best get on with operation seek and retrieve then.
Deep breath in, deeper whooshing sigh out. Now to the real issue. It’s suddenly summer again today, and the metrological department insists its going to stay this way. Wonderful. The intervening chill has made it impossible to acknowledge summer without shaving my legs. Hardly a Herculean task one would have thought. Hardly. But then, that was before I showered in this flat. I have figured out that the light actually gets brighter after a bit (I’m pretty sure it’s not my vision that’s improving), and while the shower is deliciously powerful and hot, three and a half minutes is the signal for the steam to gently start swirling around you, misting up the entire bathroom to sauna proportions, obscuring not just the looking glass, but any glasses that might be of aid when it comes to the perilous task of drawing blade against skin. Contact lens might overcome this hurdle, but attempting to shave in the midst of a cloud of steam is hardly conducive to smooth, sexy legs. Not before 2012 at any rate. Besides, I have no clue where my lens case is.
Right. Plan B. I resist the urge to smack the voice in my ear and contemplate my wardrobe. What on earth can I possibly wear that is light, airy and covers a multitude of sins? Oh, it might help if it’s appropriate for work as well. Although, why I bother I don’t know given today’s display of checked tights under shorts at work day. I could get away with dark tights, but then I’d have to be garbed like that for dinner. This then brings me back to my initial quandary, smooth legs or lack thereof. How tragic a story would it make: single, footloose and fancy free – doomed to a sexless as her new abode is hostile towards all attempts to shave her legs and catastrophically, ‘tis no longer the season for suspenders and bits.
She’s alright she’s alright she’s alright… Cocaine. Perhaps that is the answer. Then again, tomorrow is only a first date. Maybe I’ll be able to leave early on Wednesday for a first stab at operation silky smooth. Best get on with operation seek and retrieve then.
Ghosts
I start and it feels like a ghost just whispered across my back. I don’t know who the boy is, but his gait as he walked through the door, the tilt of his head made me think it was JT. Except JT’s dead. His memorial services saw unprecedented numbers from C&W. Not surprising, given the man he was, and the goodwill, if not affection, he engendered amongst those whose lives he briefly touched. It’s not children, money or notoriety; It’s the lives you touch, however fleetingly, that are your legacy. We are his.
Inevitable
It’s funny, but when the inevitable finally happens, it doesn’t have the earth rattling impact that you thought it would. It’s more like a quiet drop somewhere low in your abdomen. The only thing maturity seems to have offered is a quicker realisation to getting to that point. Apart from that, the parallels are classic history unfolding in front of you, just in hindsight. Heart rending farewells outside the airport. Gut wrenching loss of losing a friend. Neuroses personified as you turn into someone deeply unattractive; desperate, clingy, angry, hurt, unable to see anything beyond yourself. Gradually, but surely turning into someone you don’t even recognise anymore. Then one day, something snaps. The proverbial last straw, and you finally just unclench your fists and let it go, only to be haunted by the questions it always leaves behind. Clawing at you, eating away inside you. That’s the difference. The wisdom perhaps, certainly the knowledge and experiences that bring the perspective back sooner. That let you see yourself and those around you more clearly, bringing back the equilibrium, erasing the fear and insecurities. But you had to let it go to be able to let go of the anger and fear as well. An amputation, swift, sharp and merciless, before you can find yourself once more through the morass of emotion. Not to lash out in anger and pain or curl up, all weak and snivelly. To be able to look back and remember the good things. Not just to say the words, but realise that life really is too short to let go of those that matter to you, that there are those things that just can maybe never be fixed, but you can’t not give it your everything to try. But it’s a realisation that needs strength. The strength of a woman, not a confused child. Strength you can only find when you find yourself again.
Many lives, many dimensions, many parallels. But we just have this one to remember. This morning I got asked if I thought of dying at any moment during the sky dive. It's funny, but it never crossed my mind. Even when we fell out of the plane, I never thought of what might happen if the chute failed to deploy. All I could feel was the scream of pure adrenalin, the sheer exultant joy of the experience. If I could pick a way to die, this would be it. Hurtling down 15,000 feet at terminal velocity, body smashing into a million pieces.
Short, sudden and spectacular. It's the only way to go.
Many lives, many dimensions, many parallels. But we just have this one to remember. This morning I got asked if I thought of dying at any moment during the sky dive. It's funny, but it never crossed my mind. Even when we fell out of the plane, I never thought of what might happen if the chute failed to deploy. All I could feel was the scream of pure adrenalin, the sheer exultant joy of the experience. If I could pick a way to die, this would be it. Hurtling down 15,000 feet at terminal velocity, body smashing into a million pieces.
Short, sudden and spectacular. It's the only way to go.
The ultimate lazy junkie sport
Having to trek into work on a blustery, grey Sunday sucks. The Paraguay match an intermittent distraction as I try and wrap up a proposal I no longer have any interest in. I'm too pakaoed to work on the next RFP, and head home wards, shocked by the searing heat under the sun. The curtains at 4, Maida Vale are drawn back, and I waggle at DDM to let me in with an inelegant 'Main hoon na'. Rents in Singapore dominate the conversation before Bewdi's entrance allows me to deflect the conversation towards skydiving, and I insist it's something she just has to do. Naturally, I am more than willing to accompany her. I think I've also realised why this is my new favourite adrenalin rush thing to do. It's totally no effort (except the getting there!) for ultimate reward. A lazy persons godsend. Diving is hard work, even after you qualify. Just the suiting up is exhausting (try and keep in mind the whole damn the fitness as long as I look good when I die philosophy), and there's so much to remember and be aware of. Tandem skydiving on the other hand, though all too brief, requires you to do nothing but scream with the rush. How much more perfect could it get?? If I had the money, I'd go every week..... for now, I'll just go back next month. This is it, the ultimate lazy adrenalin junkie's sport.
Gerrronnniiiiiiiimo!
Indescribable. Just like the diving, yet utterly different. I can’t understand why everyone else has butterflies when it’s a tandem sky dive. But waiting to suit up, watching a plane load of solos empty down the sky, I can feel the adrenaline spurt through my body, feel my heart thudding faster and stomach clenching in anticipation. I’m impressed with the chutes (Germans naturally); 365 sq.ft. of fabric tightly tucked away at the bottom, reserve chute slightly larger stowed on top. A guillotine pin that gets triggered automatically at 2,000 feet if your instructor for some obscure and suicidal reason fails to pull the chute at 5,000 feet Don’t forget to breath and don’t land with your feet down, check positions for the free fall and then the relaxing ascent down and don’t fall out of your harness. Briefing done, we wait around till it’s our turn.
Naturally, Singhania, Agarawal and Guha rings through the PA system as I’m waiting for my cheeseburger. Too late to cancel, I shovel it down in desperation, and assure Stuart I’m ready to suit up. Suit on, I step into the harness, excitement mounting. Even the astonishingly silly French cap (a revenge for Waterloo apparently, and the FAA or whatever initials govern the sky insist on some form of headgear, and as we don’t want to potentially knock the instructor behind us senseless with a hard helmet on the way down…..) fails to deter my pleasure. The call is made for lift 9 and we head to the pen. The cold wind rattles through me and as I notice everyone else has kitted up over their jacket I think I shouldn’t have listened to Stewart when he said I wouldn’t need the fleece. 13 of us on this lift – 5 pairs of tandems and 3 solos. Stuart and I will be the last to go, so like all good inventory systems we’re first in.
I snuggle up to Stuart, back to chest, and before I can enjoy the concept, I’m sandwiched by Luke’s parachute. We’re romantically packed into the plane, back to chest to parachute without an inch of spare capacity, and the propellers rack up, and we throttle back. The plan is to get to 13,000 feet and start chucking folk down, free falling to 5,000 feet before engaging the chute. Stuart points out Silverstone off to the left, and gives me the last few instructions before we move into the clouds. Breaking free, it’s sunshine and blue sky, a thick carpet of whipped cream below us, obliterating the quaint patchwork of villages beneath us. I clap my hands with glee, unable to restrain my joy and we’re only at 9,000 feet. Time to hook together. Stuart hitches me up on his lap and hooks me to his harness. Straps tugged tight, making breathing a sport. Helmets on, goggles on.
It’s time and the flimsy roll door is tugged back, and we’re off… the solos tumble out like overripe mangoes, and we start sliding forward on the bulkheads. My stomach is on wings and I can’t wait. Dimple, Palak, Abhijit. Then it’s us. Legs dangling from the door, tucked back, arms crossed over the chest, head leaning back into Stewart and we’re off. My stomach plummets as we cascade out the door into a somersault, too quick to notice the plane and suddenly it’s magic. The adrenalin slams through my body as my brain reacts to the free fall, mouth woohoooing in unadulterated glee. It’s the most amazing feeling. Arms and legs bent, facing down hurtling straight towards the blanket of white, wind tearing through you, stealing your exhilaration right from you. Stuart points at the clouds, and it takes me a few beats to realise it’s our shadow!! By the time realisation hits, so do the clouds. I feel like Superman to the rescue, tearing through a witch’s cauldron and just as abruptly as we hit it, it’s clear and you see the ground below. Your exultant whoop is cut short by the parachute opening, yanking you back up several feet.
Time to hang loose and enjoy the easy glide down, soaring like a bird, the chill cutting through your gloves, sending urgent shivers up your spine, raising every pore on your body. Fucking brilliant!!! I can’t stop the elated, if manic laugh and more hand clapping. That was shockingly fabulous!! The view is quaint, different shades of green, little villages, the other parachutes littering the sky. Stuart teases me asking if this beat being pulled by a boat. Well, I did rather enjoyed being pulled by the boat… but the free fall. Unfuckingbelievable! The sensation is unreal and there’s just no way I can describe it. What’s deeply distressing (and this could be a function of early onset of dementia that is known to plague me) is that by the time we hit the ground, I’ve forgotten just how it felt when we hurled out the plane…!! All I know without a shadow of doubt is that it’s the most amazing rush, a feeling of being utterly invincible. Fuck! 40-45 seconds. That’s all it was, but my God…. To be able to do those 40-45 seconds again! It’s addictive. No wonder Stuart’s been doing this since he was 16!
The four of us skip back to ditch our gear. My body is still quivering with the excitement, although the slow descent did get rid of most of the serious shuddering. I’m out of the harness and suit in less than a minute, but if Stewart is to be believed, the silly grin will stay for at least 3 days, gently pointing me to our certificates. Certificates? We’ve all been awarded certificates for completing our training and first sky dive. Training? You’ve got to be kidding me. A briefing and a few instructions to remind you and all we did was sit back, relax and enjoy the flight. We’re still bouncing around, and I’m still hungry, so we head for the food trailer. Shit! My potatoes are still on the hob!! Phew just in time to give the boys in the fire department a rest. Where was I? Oh yeah, the excessive animation prevails and I call Ma to let her know I’m not dead and am told Mimi wanted to get me a sky dive as a birthday present. You go Mimu! I try my damnedest to go back to the feeling as we fell into the free fall, but the best I can do is a daft grin slashing my face and the knowledge that I will do it again.
The walk home from Marylebone, snagging a bunch of orange yellow lilies, nearly burning the house down as I write this has done little to dissipate the exultant feeling and I wonder who else I can call and inflict my thrill on, as words, gestures and weird sounds trip over each other in a futile effort to capture the sensation….. think I need to be exercised to expend the left over adrenalin. Hell, I'm still shivering, silly grin firmly in place.
Naturally, Singhania, Agarawal and Guha rings through the PA system as I’m waiting for my cheeseburger. Too late to cancel, I shovel it down in desperation, and assure Stuart I’m ready to suit up. Suit on, I step into the harness, excitement mounting. Even the astonishingly silly French cap (a revenge for Waterloo apparently, and the FAA or whatever initials govern the sky insist on some form of headgear, and as we don’t want to potentially knock the instructor behind us senseless with a hard helmet on the way down…..) fails to deter my pleasure. The call is made for lift 9 and we head to the pen. The cold wind rattles through me and as I notice everyone else has kitted up over their jacket I think I shouldn’t have listened to Stewart when he said I wouldn’t need the fleece. 13 of us on this lift – 5 pairs of tandems and 3 solos. Stuart and I will be the last to go, so like all good inventory systems we’re first in.
I snuggle up to Stuart, back to chest, and before I can enjoy the concept, I’m sandwiched by Luke’s parachute. We’re romantically packed into the plane, back to chest to parachute without an inch of spare capacity, and the propellers rack up, and we throttle back. The plan is to get to 13,000 feet and start chucking folk down, free falling to 5,000 feet before engaging the chute. Stuart points out Silverstone off to the left, and gives me the last few instructions before we move into the clouds. Breaking free, it’s sunshine and blue sky, a thick carpet of whipped cream below us, obliterating the quaint patchwork of villages beneath us. I clap my hands with glee, unable to restrain my joy and we’re only at 9,000 feet. Time to hook together. Stuart hitches me up on his lap and hooks me to his harness. Straps tugged tight, making breathing a sport. Helmets on, goggles on.
It’s time and the flimsy roll door is tugged back, and we’re off… the solos tumble out like overripe mangoes, and we start sliding forward on the bulkheads. My stomach is on wings and I can’t wait. Dimple, Palak, Abhijit. Then it’s us. Legs dangling from the door, tucked back, arms crossed over the chest, head leaning back into Stewart and we’re off. My stomach plummets as we cascade out the door into a somersault, too quick to notice the plane and suddenly it’s magic. The adrenalin slams through my body as my brain reacts to the free fall, mouth woohoooing in unadulterated glee. It’s the most amazing feeling. Arms and legs bent, facing down hurtling straight towards the blanket of white, wind tearing through you, stealing your exhilaration right from you. Stuart points at the clouds, and it takes me a few beats to realise it’s our shadow!! By the time realisation hits, so do the clouds. I feel like Superman to the rescue, tearing through a witch’s cauldron and just as abruptly as we hit it, it’s clear and you see the ground below. Your exultant whoop is cut short by the parachute opening, yanking you back up several feet.
Time to hang loose and enjoy the easy glide down, soaring like a bird, the chill cutting through your gloves, sending urgent shivers up your spine, raising every pore on your body. Fucking brilliant!!! I can’t stop the elated, if manic laugh and more hand clapping. That was shockingly fabulous!! The view is quaint, different shades of green, little villages, the other parachutes littering the sky. Stuart teases me asking if this beat being pulled by a boat. Well, I did rather enjoyed being pulled by the boat… but the free fall. Unfuckingbelievable! The sensation is unreal and there’s just no way I can describe it. What’s deeply distressing (and this could be a function of early onset of dementia that is known to plague me) is that by the time we hit the ground, I’ve forgotten just how it felt when we hurled out the plane…!! All I know without a shadow of doubt is that it’s the most amazing rush, a feeling of being utterly invincible. Fuck! 40-45 seconds. That’s all it was, but my God…. To be able to do those 40-45 seconds again! It’s addictive. No wonder Stuart’s been doing this since he was 16!
The four of us skip back to ditch our gear. My body is still quivering with the excitement, although the slow descent did get rid of most of the serious shuddering. I’m out of the harness and suit in less than a minute, but if Stewart is to be believed, the silly grin will stay for at least 3 days, gently pointing me to our certificates. Certificates? We’ve all been awarded certificates for completing our training and first sky dive. Training? You’ve got to be kidding me. A briefing and a few instructions to remind you and all we did was sit back, relax and enjoy the flight. We’re still bouncing around, and I’m still hungry, so we head for the food trailer. Shit! My potatoes are still on the hob!! Phew just in time to give the boys in the fire department a rest. Where was I? Oh yeah, the excessive animation prevails and I call Ma to let her know I’m not dead and am told Mimi wanted to get me a sky dive as a birthday present. You go Mimu! I try my damnedest to go back to the feeling as we fell into the free fall, but the best I can do is a daft grin slashing my face and the knowledge that I will do it again.
The walk home from Marylebone, snagging a bunch of orange yellow lilies, nearly burning the house down as I write this has done little to dissipate the exultant feeling and I wonder who else I can call and inflict my thrill on, as words, gestures and weird sounds trip over each other in a futile effort to capture the sensation….. think I need to be exercised to expend the left over adrenalin. Hell, I'm still shivering, silly grin firmly in place.
Marathan vs Sprint
An early night combined with sudden, shockingly fluid access to the net renders me reflective. A metaphor for life. I am clearly not built for endurance. 100m, 4 x 100m, 200m, long lump, shot put, discus. My events plainly speak for themselves. Is it mere coincidence that I seem to live my life in the same fashion? Short bursts of intense energy, excessive emotion that die when I don't breast the tape? The disappointment and frustration gut wrenching as you walk away, but then at least you do live to see another race.
It's interesting, and I suspect true. It would explain how I got into real estate. Or married. Or taking of Singapore. I never have a plan. Things just happen, and the direction my life takes, changes. Unexpectedly. Surprisingly. I don't have the stamina for anything else but a series of short sprints (I didn't particularly care for the 200m), the only ones I can win. The marathon is beyond my realm. I don't know it, understand it or appreciate it. Here and now. It's what I do. Tomorrow and what I don't know will always make me crazy. The 4 x 100 is where I excel. Unfortunately, advancing years have necessitated a revision to a 4 x 50, unless I'm horizontal. Or vertical. Or .......
It's interesting, and I suspect true. It would explain how I got into real estate. Or married. Or taking of Singapore. I never have a plan. Things just happen, and the direction my life takes, changes. Unexpectedly. Surprisingly. I don't have the stamina for anything else but a series of short sprints (I didn't particularly care for the 200m), the only ones I can win. The marathon is beyond my realm. I don't know it, understand it or appreciate it. Here and now. It's what I do. Tomorrow and what I don't know will always make me crazy. The 4 x 100 is where I excel. Unfortunately, advancing years have necessitated a revision to a 4 x 50, unless I'm horizontal. Or vertical. Or .......
Inshallah
While jabbing the enter key viciously may be eminently satisfying, it does little by way of refreshing the website that has hung for the third time in as many minutes. Apparently today is not a good day for paid mobile broadband services. Hmmmm. I lie, I steal, I cheat…. Is this just a lesson being meted out? Or a CLEAR signal that theft is the only answer?
My fury from last night never got a chance to get out of bed this morning. I don't know if it's the sunshine, or the trek to the health centre to get a stamp on the doctors certificate. Africa still eludes me, but the hot air balloon safari is booked, an attempt to discover the absent markings on the oven knob partially successful, a promise to come fix the last bits in the flat elicited and a potential courtship towards a job offer in Singapore perks me up, or perhaps it's just the resignation to the fact that turning 40 is humiliating. Not only have I crossed the threshold age of requiring certification, I am reliably informed that all that my eggs are good for at this age, is making omelettes. And if that wasn't degrading enough, I still have to pay taxes to support the weak, infirm and unemployed and don't even get the benefit of a free bus pass!
What about my rapidly dwindling memory? I puzzle over the Hungarian's cryptic "let me know about August and I'll book tickets". Huh? Did I ask her over? Thankfully, she brings it up when she calls, and I'm quick to pick up on my superlative idea of the Bank holiday weekend somewhere in Europe. Italy strikes a chord, although she won't do Tuscany without Florence, and we settle for Capri. But I've never been to Sardinia. Cruel, cruel world. As I hang up, benevolence steals over me. You can't fault people for feeling the way they don't, any more than the way they do.
Perhaps I ought to wait and see what tomorrow brings before I make any more pronouncements.
On top of spaaaaghetti all covered with cheese, my booobies are droooooping, oooh heellllllllppp me please.....
(and they said Lenon was a visionary! Ha!).
My fury from last night never got a chance to get out of bed this morning. I don't know if it's the sunshine, or the trek to the health centre to get a stamp on the doctors certificate. Africa still eludes me, but the hot air balloon safari is booked, an attempt to discover the absent markings on the oven knob partially successful, a promise to come fix the last bits in the flat elicited and a potential courtship towards a job offer in Singapore perks me up, or perhaps it's just the resignation to the fact that turning 40 is humiliating. Not only have I crossed the threshold age of requiring certification, I am reliably informed that all that my eggs are good for at this age, is making omelettes. And if that wasn't degrading enough, I still have to pay taxes to support the weak, infirm and unemployed and don't even get the benefit of a free bus pass!
What about my rapidly dwindling memory? I puzzle over the Hungarian's cryptic "let me know about August and I'll book tickets". Huh? Did I ask her over? Thankfully, she brings it up when she calls, and I'm quick to pick up on my superlative idea of the Bank holiday weekend somewhere in Europe. Italy strikes a chord, although she won't do Tuscany without Florence, and we settle for Capri. But I've never been to Sardinia. Cruel, cruel world. As I hang up, benevolence steals over me. You can't fault people for feeling the way they don't, any more than the way they do.
Perhaps I ought to wait and see what tomorrow brings before I make any more pronouncements.
On top of spaaaaghetti all covered with cheese, my booobies are droooooping, oooh heellllllllppp me please.....
(and they said Lenon was a visionary! Ha!).
Midnight adventure
What kind of non pre-pubescent switches on a laptop under the cover of darkness, desperately peering at the keyboard as she logs in surreptitiously in her own house – one where she resides alone? Lets ignore for the moment that while most women her age fall out of their negligees, our heroine does that to the accompanying yelp of nearly falling out of her bed in an ungainly attempt to snag the dongle. Yes, it is as bad as it sounds! I can also confirm that single handed typing under a duvet bathed in the eerie glow of a monitor is highly overrated by the 12 year olds...
Möbius Strip
Since the wheels that open gmail are still spinning as industriously as a static bike, it weaves a philosophical spell around me, offering the startling observation that I can draw comparisons with mathematics and my life, always a matter of deep concern. Hmmmm. So now my life has that curious mathematical property of being non-orientable. Ouroboros. One, All. Or in laymanspeak, convoluted and endless. It isn't the martini bianco or the unreliable light on the dongle or the desire to drench myself under a hot shower to take away the chill of the room, or the cloud of smoke hanging in the kitchen, mute testament to an utterly sumptuous, soy/ginger steak, wasabi mashed potatoes and green beans. It was a thought. A thought that took on a life of it's own, just like ole Möbius, making up in imagination what it utterly lacks in orientation.
This morning, my refusal to crawl out from under the snugness of the duvet had my imagination skirt a vociferous Khalsa gathering only to walk through a barren landscape, intermittently dotted with brush and curious deer, one of which scurries up to me with a pitiful wail (deers don’t wail do they?), calming only when I scratch behind her ears, murmuring insensate Robindro Shongeet. Tumbleweed lolls beside me as I head towards the fort that looms ahead of me, the sudden vibration from the blackberry wrenching me back to the promise of sunshine on a cold day. It's hardly surprising I feel the confused unidimensionality of maths and wish my life would reflect the same instead of the actuely physical, deeply emotional and totally illogical.
This morning, my refusal to crawl out from under the snugness of the duvet had my imagination skirt a vociferous Khalsa gathering only to walk through a barren landscape, intermittently dotted with brush and curious deer, one of which scurries up to me with a pitiful wail (deers don’t wail do they?), calming only when I scratch behind her ears, murmuring insensate Robindro Shongeet. Tumbleweed lolls beside me as I head towards the fort that looms ahead of me, the sudden vibration from the blackberry wrenching me back to the promise of sunshine on a cold day. It's hardly surprising I feel the confused unidimensionality of maths and wish my life would reflect the same instead of the actuely physical, deeply emotional and totally illogical.
I have to trek to the store, lugging my laptop and charger with me, try and explain to the befuddled dude that it won't let me register to pay, and try not to smack him each time he echoes back 'register?'. I ungraciously refuse his offer to connect me with customer services and belligerently ask if there's nothing they can do at the store. He offers himself up, and I set about booting up with a great deal of annoyance. Thankfully, it does exactly what I said it did, and I'm spared the monumental embarrassment of cringing as the screen obligingly moves to the next step validating the gits, 'there's no money on it'. 'You can pay for it by cash', he tells me. Err yes, I'm aware of that. But that's not what I was having a problem with, was it. I'm old, tired and fed up so surrender my credit card with nary a demur and even thank him profusely for the privilege. Apparently, I'm going to have to keep topping up in this manner as for whatever reason, I'm persona non grata when it comes to online purchasing in the TZone! Go figure.
Thankfully, I think, it still works when I get home, although the pace is excruciating to put it optimistically. I restrain the urge to scan for unsecured networks and plod on, but my god! mobile broadband sucks! Hardly surprising given that I seem to be connected at under 53.6 kbps. I would be embarrassed to offer this as a product. But we are in Ennglaand. So if you're not willing to sign over a direct debit for 12 months, just suck it up and gnaw on your lips as the window loads like a geriatric watching wheels spin.
Thankfully, I think, it still works when I get home, although the pace is excruciating to put it optimistically. I restrain the urge to scan for unsecured networks and plod on, but my god! mobile broadband sucks! Hardly surprising given that I seem to be connected at under 53.6 kbps. I would be embarrassed to offer this as a product. But we are in Ennglaand. So if you're not willing to sign over a direct debit for 12 months, just suck it up and gnaw on your lips as the window loads like a geriatric watching wheels spin.
Mobile broadband woes
Finding a short term wireless solution in this city seems to be as insurmountable as finding an end to end solution in Angola, DRC, Mozambique and Zimbabwe. Welcome to London, the world’s leading financial centre, and all things backward. Given that HSBC still sends me a letter confirming an appointment, and all telecom seems to be handed out 12-18 month contracts, I ought to be less frustrated at my lack of success in acquiring a monthly/pay as you go option for mobile broadband. O2 was a revelation – a successful order, a failed dispatch, a direct debit set up, no order to be found in the system, a directory that’s out of date without the possibility of manual intervention, a letter confirming account details, and no dongle! T-Mobile seems to be a lot easier even if I have to pay for the damn dongle. But now that I have the device in my possession, it is proving notoriously uncooperative in my attempts to get online, register and well, get on with it. Theft is no longer an option given the signal from the only unsecured wireless has all but disappeared, so I am faced with the option of trekking to the store tomorrow in a last ditch endeavour to sort this out, failing which, I shall write copious amounts through the night and inflict it on the blog, watch lots of DS9, Riptide (what can I say – moment of extreme weakness) and shabby Hindi films, and eat (that reminds me, I don’t think I cleared up tonight’s culinary triumph – think I may have forgotten what it is like to live alone!) till the sandman vanquishes me....
So long, farewell, aufweidersen, goodbye
The ante has been upped. Spectacularly. Alex's mini donuts from our friend Paul should've given us a clue. But while we're still recovering from his well researched email, it's Aperitivo 3pm. We gather around gawking as Brent pours out the champagne, Paul's dainty canapés and mini desserts lurking lusciously in the background. Oh my. Lexi and I agree that we need to plan a joint exit to even compete with the Italian laced Kiwi, and Charlie's guilt offering of donuts meets with a ho-hum, you're gonna have to do better than this. Tim C is the next to retire from the field... he'd better have something good up his sleeve! At this rate, the team's going to look like a fat farm by the time the last one of us leaves.... and for the sake of posteritiy
CS Dictionary (not exhaustive)
Ash.A. v. to fashion ones self in the image of Brandon flowers.
Bassett.L v. foodie. 2. luney toonie
Blatt.J. 1. To be lead astray by dragons and illegal bird transporters (refer Poole.W.). 2. Beagle boy
Brake.S. n. Dragon. v. To make racially inappropriate comments
Brennan.J. Contradiction in terms - a. of australian lineage and b. allergic to beer
Bryan.M. Adv. Charmer of women and persuader of men.
Buehrsch.C. n. The mighty boosh 2. bringer of salty liquorice
Carnegie.T v. to be at one with your PC 2. sharepoint guru 3. to favour the "ehm" presupposition whilst verbally gesticulating
Charnaud.J. n. Jimmy C 2. New York afrikaans londoner stylee 3. coffee drinker (cadillac el-dorado driver)
Craig.G. v. To speak proper english. 2. innit
Creamer.M. n. E.P C&W CS C.R.E EMEA 2. Lanky Leader
Curtis.V. n. Genie of the numbers 2. Nemi 3. to use flashy animated icons in ones business communications
Dean.L. n. marketeer extraordinaire. 2. to 'perch' on office furniture
Deards.S. n. S-dog. 2. rhyme master d. 3. to be down with the C.R.E. 4. runner of dutch marathons.
Douetil.G. v. To sport a 'leighton buzz-cut'. 2. Bollard dodger (on occasion) 3. leader of the teenage mutant ninja douetils
Evans.B. adj. To be habitually harassed for sartorial misadventure
Glasson.S. v. to possess the practiced ability to tell real sangria from imitation
Gorman.N. adj. To fashion ones facial hair to the style common in the 70's
Gray.E. n.Miss Gray 2. Swift deliverer of catch-phases
Greenwood.K. adj. Krafty
Guha.A. adj. To consume ones own weight in brazil nuts weekly. 2. To drink tea without tea or milk or sugar
Gunthorp.G. n. The child. 2. Professional facebook stalker. 3. Baby dragon
Inglis.K. n. Data keith 2. Kool keith 3. scottish cyborg prototype from AT&T implanted to gather data
Jackson.S. To ensure that all malfunctions and subsequent repairations of electronic printing equipment are communicated immediately.
Jenkins.P. v. promoting happiness and joviality in a work place near you. 2. refer Wilson.S.
Knight.M. Black belt in mcramae 2. to experience significant delays in the procurement of electronic communications devices 3. Banker Boy (not of the barclays variety)
Leighton buzz cut. the practice of having ones hair cut by the local, poorly sighted butcher who also runs the post office, common in leighton buzzard.
Newcombe.P. n. Pasquale Nuke-em. 2. to practice spinning on an irregular basis
O'reilly.S. n. The Reverend Adj. James bond of corporate real estate.
Philbin.T. v. to conduct a presentation in the fashion of a gameshow. 2. king of schpeel
Poole.W. v.To illegally transport small colourful birds in ones undergarments. 2. to measure all drinks in pints.
Potenza.A. v. gucci coo coo poo poo
Powell.T. n. sport billy
Ray.N. v. The occupier conference serial killer nobody suspected
Reeves.T. v.closet reggae performer 2. ford model t, racey
Sedgeman.L. v. corporate lunch circuit goer 2. to practice embezzelment via company car allowance
Steel.J. prep. Man of... 2. Corporate squash fiend
Thiele.M. (dott.) adj. to be perpetually 'out of office' and portray ones self as such on microsoft outlook
Thorn.K. n. Nana. 2. Purveyor of fine whines 3. professional herder of cats (and saver of dogs)
Tillett.C. v. To sport a mankini at ones christmas party. 2. Mr. nice guy
Warwick.N. n. Festival ferrett
Winter.S. n. German boomerang
Wong.K. v. to coordinate ones working day with the prescision of a rolex watch. 2. The practice of drinking ones height in orange squash every two days.
Zotimova.A. n.Bond villain. 2. fashionista
Hmmmm. My generous offer of myriad meats and fish is turned down for a burger. Naturally, as I have only the frying pan, which is currently being ministered to by the dishwasher, I assure him the grill will be just fine. Except, it's been so well used, every single imagery has been reduced to a shiny blank steel spot, a few stray black bits visible to the naked eye. I guess at the temperature, and like interns, we stick our heads close to the oven, nodding and murmuring to when we think the fan comes on. I have no idea what setting the oven is on, and a quick rifle through the manual does not shed any light. Undaunted, I stick in the chips and pat down the patties. Luckily, we're both happy with medium rare (and these are pure beef burgers from M&S), and I retrieve the constantly slipping tray from the oven. The chips are a tad too crispy, but I think I've got a fair idea of how to work the gadget (apart from getting the timer to ping regularly, the first time being rather alarming in every sense of the word). Now if only I can get the heated rail in the bathroom to actually heat....
The 'Hood
The first night is always interesting. My bed is astonishingly good given the presence of deep buttons that make it resemble a medieval torture device. But it is firm and unyielding and offers up sleep akin to death. Naturally, death is not instantaneous and when I'd expressed a preference for a flat in the rear of the building, to escape the continuous blaring of emergency sirens that the tail end of Edgware road brings, I didn't expect to wind up in Calcutta.
I snuggle under the duvet, feeling benign. It is Friday night after all, so the party nearby doesn't bother me, but the wailing child makes me want to smack the parents. Saturday morning, I carefully plan how I might wreak my artistic persona on the flat, wondering if anyone is likely to call the cops as the strains of Shukhran Allah wends its way in the hollow of buildings my window opens to. I have only two CD’s, and the neighbours are no doubt aware of this fact. But soon, the brat begins, and for a minute I’m doubtful whether it is a child, or a pained and outraged cat. My musings are cut short by a rabid argument with excessively rude words being bandied around, but soon, I turn my music off in favour of the sultry French jazz wafting through someone else’s window.
Jimmy Stewart, eat your heart out. I have ascended a new dimension of rear windows, as I belated realize I shall have to curb my au naturel meanderings about the house. My living room opens to peer not only onto the little sit-out below, but into more than a dozen other windows, above, below, in line with, all across from me, offering glimpses into peoples lives. I don’t have the inclination to gawk, unless its into someone kitchen, then I’m voyeur unsolicited (I spent an entire evening watching chappie at Abingdon Road make an omlette), and mine seems to have the only bedroom on display. Hardly matters, as even when ensconced on my bouncy divan, gleefully stealing someone else’s wireless for a few brief moments, I’m drawn into the daily sounds of the neighbourhood as clearly as if I was at 114A/1B Selimpur Road. It lifts my imagination to turn a very English flat with ugly grey carpets into a den of Eastern mysticism (not to mention poetic largesse), not least for necessitating on the floor seating, but only appropriate for any peeping Toms curious about the haunting lyrics....
najaro se najarein mili toh, jannat si mehaki fijaaye
lab ne jo lab chhu liya toh, aasmaan se barasi duwaaye
aisi apani mohabbat, aisi ruhe ibaadathum pe meherbaan do jahaan
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
teri baahon mein yeh jism khil gaya, teri saason mein chain mil gaya
kaise rahe abb hum judaho ho tere paas hum itane huye, tere khwaab apane huye
aise huye abb hum fidaaisi usaki inaayat, mit gayi har shikaayat hum pe meherbaan do jahaan
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
tere saaye mein mili har khushi, teri marji meri jindagi
le chal tu chaahe jahaanha ha meri aankhon mein najar teri hai, meri shaamo sahar teri hai
tu jo nahi toh main kahaankhil gayi meri kismat, paake teri yeh chaahat
hum pe meherbaan do jahaan
I snuggle under the duvet, feeling benign. It is Friday night after all, so the party nearby doesn't bother me, but the wailing child makes me want to smack the parents. Saturday morning, I carefully plan how I might wreak my artistic persona on the flat, wondering if anyone is likely to call the cops as the strains of Shukhran Allah wends its way in the hollow of buildings my window opens to. I have only two CD’s, and the neighbours are no doubt aware of this fact. But soon, the brat begins, and for a minute I’m doubtful whether it is a child, or a pained and outraged cat. My musings are cut short by a rabid argument with excessively rude words being bandied around, but soon, I turn my music off in favour of the sultry French jazz wafting through someone else’s window.
Jimmy Stewart, eat your heart out. I have ascended a new dimension of rear windows, as I belated realize I shall have to curb my au naturel meanderings about the house. My living room opens to peer not only onto the little sit-out below, but into more than a dozen other windows, above, below, in line with, all across from me, offering glimpses into peoples lives. I don’t have the inclination to gawk, unless its into someone kitchen, then I’m voyeur unsolicited (I spent an entire evening watching chappie at Abingdon Road make an omlette), and mine seems to have the only bedroom on display. Hardly matters, as even when ensconced on my bouncy divan, gleefully stealing someone else’s wireless for a few brief moments, I’m drawn into the daily sounds of the neighbourhood as clearly as if I was at 114A/1B Selimpur Road. It lifts my imagination to turn a very English flat with ugly grey carpets into a den of Eastern mysticism (not to mention poetic largesse), not least for necessitating on the floor seating, but only appropriate for any peeping Toms curious about the haunting lyrics....
najaro se najarein mili toh, jannat si mehaki fijaaye
lab ne jo lab chhu liya toh, aasmaan se barasi duwaaye
aisi apani mohabbat, aisi ruhe ibaadathum pe meherbaan do jahaan
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
teri baahon mein yeh jism khil gaya, teri saason mein chain mil gaya
kaise rahe abb hum judaho ho tere paas hum itane huye, tere khwaab apane huye
aise huye abb hum fidaaisi usaki inaayat, mit gayi har shikaayat hum pe meherbaan do jahaan
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
tere saaye mein mili har khushi, teri marji meri jindagi
le chal tu chaahe jahaanha ha meri aankhon mein najar teri hai, meri shaamo sahar teri hai
tu jo nahi toh main kahaankhil gayi meri kismat, paake teri yeh chaahat
hum pe meherbaan do jahaan
This practise what you preach can be quite tedious. If I’m exhorting people to save the planet by not being stupid about what they wear, then I’d best quickly adapt to life sans the world wide web after office hours.
Then again, ones background has a direct influence on just how scrupulous one is about stealing someone's unsecured broadband and frantically posting 3 days worth of thoughts....
Then again, ones background has a direct influence on just how scrupulous one is about stealing someone's unsecured broadband and frantically posting 3 days worth of thoughts....
MIA
I’m out of inspiration. I have hunted high. I have hunted low. But find it, I cannot. It is somewhere in this flat, without a shadow of doubt. I remember switching the alarm off and carrying it outside with me. I even heard it trill when I was unpacking in the bedroom. The bags are all empty, ready to be returned and stowed. The books and DVD’s are on display, the wardrobes full, the divan bounce tested. All that’s left is the blu tack attack. And the missing phone. I’ve just realised. Without the phone, I don’t even know what time it is. Well into the afternoon given the slating sun coming in through the windows. I wonder if there’s a phone booth nearby. Even if someone does visit, the answer phone isn’t working… hmmm. This is beginning to look dire. But I’m too tired to look again. I even inspected the kitchen for the offending vagrant. I smush and shake the pillows once again in the forlorn hope that it will materialise. It does not. I know not where else to look! It’s not like the house is full of mysterious nooks and crannies. I’ve only just unpacked! Perhaps a cup of tea to sooth my frazzled nerves. Oh. No electric kettle. Best put the microwave to test and hope it doesn’t explode. My only hope now is that someone calls me and steadfastly refuses to leave a message! Hello??? Anyone out there? Please?! I hope it didn’t get entangled in the laundry… urk. Nope. Not in there or in the rubbish bag(s). One of life’s unexplained mysteries. Mimi however, looks rather fetching in the Horn OK please photo frame.
Naturally, the phone is in the one place I was positive it wasn’t (and I did even give the covers a mighty wanking). A well spent pound (I lie - extortion!!! it wasn't even a 30 second call!!!) for a truncated message and on cue, Bebou to the rescue! I do wonder why I didn’t hear Vineet calling earlier… anyway. Equilibrium and limited Internet access is now restored, and I can munch my strawberries in peace. Don’t suppose it would be an overly bright idea to quaff one of the bottles of vino in search of a flower vase??? Aha! I have a plan for the pashmina and fan and apparently dinner too. Interesting. I’m sure other people have used a hangar in lieu of anywhere else to hang there belts, but as I unbuckle one that falls short of my hips and trade it for another, I wonder if they feel as though they’re saddling up. Or is it just me? Especially this double pronged one. I can almost hear the whinny! Apart from the residual debris on the floor and the potential wall adornment, I do believe I’m completely unpacked. Oddly missing some stuff, but tomorrow can just be devoted to artistic and culinary splendour.
Naturally, the phone is in the one place I was positive it wasn’t (and I did even give the covers a mighty wanking). A well spent pound (I lie - extortion!!! it wasn't even a 30 second call!!!) for a truncated message and on cue, Bebou to the rescue! I do wonder why I didn’t hear Vineet calling earlier… anyway. Equilibrium and limited Internet access is now restored, and I can munch my strawberries in peace. Don’t suppose it would be an overly bright idea to quaff one of the bottles of vino in search of a flower vase??? Aha! I have a plan for the pashmina and fan and apparently dinner too. Interesting. I’m sure other people have used a hangar in lieu of anywhere else to hang there belts, but as I unbuckle one that falls short of my hips and trade it for another, I wonder if they feel as though they’re saddling up. Or is it just me? Especially this double pronged one. I can almost hear the whinny! Apart from the residual debris on the floor and the potential wall adornment, I do believe I’m completely unpacked. Oddly missing some stuff, but tomorrow can just be devoted to artistic and culinary splendour.
World Cup Policy
We have a company policy on the world cup? Could this be a case of too much time on HR’s hands? Given the mass exodus on the 6th floor, I suspect not. I re-read the email:-
"The Firm recognises that employees may wish to take time off during the time of the football World Cup and we thought it useful to issue some guidelines in advance of the event. Clearly, we need to manage people's attendance at the office during this time, we we have put together the attached policy document.
With specific reference to England's group game versus Slovenia on Wednesday 23rd June, I confirm that we will be screening the match down on the 4th floor here at Portman Square and have room to accommodate approximately 80 people.
If you wish to watch this match (3.00 - 4.45 pm), please obtain your manager's approval first and then respond to this email using the voting buttons above. Places will be allocated on a first come first served basis. Please note that in order to minimise the impact on the business, it follows that if a particular Line Manager receives a large number of requests at the same time, some requests may not be approved. We ask those that are approved to respect the flexibility and make up the lost time during that week.
We will not be serving alcohol during the match and ask that staff do not 'bring their own'. We will , however, be serving beers, wine and soft drinks down on the 4th floor after the match and all are welcome to attend as we either toast England's success or drown our sorrows!"
Barrie brings up the world cup as I ask him about his plans for the weekend, which inevitably leads to the company policy. I’m already in snigger mode when he huffs how ridiculously narrow minded it is. Huh? Jaroslav is from Serbia, and Andy from Greece. We’ve had so many discussions about the national teams, and if the company really wanted a policy then they shouldn’t ignore the diversity of our teams. Wow. The thought had never crossed my mind and I’m torn between the ludicrousness of having a policy to begin with and the very valid comment Barrie’s making. Dammit. He’s right. If you’re going to ping out emails to the team then don’t assume we all want to watch the England match and give them the option. Telecast the matches of the all the nationalities we employ! You go Barrie. I shall put in a demand for Brazil and Portugal (on behalf of all good Goans). England’s gonna lose anyway.
"The Firm recognises that employees may wish to take time off during the time of the football World Cup and we thought it useful to issue some guidelines in advance of the event. Clearly, we need to manage people's attendance at the office during this time, we we have put together the attached policy document.
With specific reference to England's group game versus Slovenia on Wednesday 23rd June, I confirm that we will be screening the match down on the 4th floor here at Portman Square and have room to accommodate approximately 80 people.
If you wish to watch this match (3.00 - 4.45 pm), please obtain your manager's approval first and then respond to this email using the voting buttons above. Places will be allocated on a first come first served basis. Please note that in order to minimise the impact on the business, it follows that if a particular Line Manager receives a large number of requests at the same time, some requests may not be approved. We ask those that are approved to respect the flexibility and make up the lost time during that week.
We will not be serving alcohol during the match and ask that staff do not 'bring their own'. We will , however, be serving beers, wine and soft drinks down on the 4th floor after the match and all are welcome to attend as we either toast England's success or drown our sorrows!"
Barrie brings up the world cup as I ask him about his plans for the weekend, which inevitably leads to the company policy. I’m already in snigger mode when he huffs how ridiculously narrow minded it is. Huh? Jaroslav is from Serbia, and Andy from Greece. We’ve had so many discussions about the national teams, and if the company really wanted a policy then they shouldn’t ignore the diversity of our teams. Wow. The thought had never crossed my mind and I’m torn between the ludicrousness of having a policy to begin with and the very valid comment Barrie’s making. Dammit. He’s right. If you’re going to ping out emails to the team then don’t assume we all want to watch the England match and give them the option. Telecast the matches of the all the nationalities we employ! You go Barrie. I shall put in a demand for Brazil and Portugal (on behalf of all good Goans). England’s gonna lose anyway.
4a, Alexandra Court
Too much space for too few things and not enough space for too many other things. But now, it looks like home. Colours, textures, smells litter the once empty flat, echoing my personality on a cheap budget. It’s been a good days work. The bed has been broken in, the fridge is heaving (why I felt it necessary to stock it as though I had a family of four to feed, I have no idea), the Nakamichi installed and wafting Iktaara (after several panicked moments of being unable to locate a single CD) and I masticate my coriander, chilli and brie burger, surveying my new domain. I could get used to this. The coy combat boots have been located (amidst the kitchen stuff! Very Chaplinesque) There is much still to do, but I feel satisfaction, even as my spine curves most unbecomingly, the wall too cold to lean against. Jolly bad form for the pump to have wheezed to death just as I had decided on purple for my new divan. I feel creative, and can’t wait to unpack (Huh? Who? What??) so I can see if my visual liberties with the suitcases does turn out as funky as I want it. The crate will have to wait till next week, but time enough to consider a bright thwack of colour in the form of outrageously priced artificial flowers. I’m still missing a side table for the bed, but think a couple of storage cartons might just answer. I’m surrounded by high, blemish free white walls. Sadly, there’s only so much blue tack can do, but I should be able to stamp myself on 3 of the 6 surfaces available. I still haven’t figured out how to shut the top windows, and the flat is draughtier than I’d hoped for, the hot water still takes ages to arrive, there’s no vacuum cleaner and the heating rail doesn't heat….
But, it’s mine.
But, it’s mine.
Forty and Fit?
Old age continues to heap its indignities on my ever silvering hair (I have to admit to a certain degree of smugness creeping in at not needing to use graying). Apparently, hitting 40 has a detrimental effect on your risk profile, as Dimple informs me I will have to procure a medical certificate before I’m allowed to go skydiving. Given that (a) it’s a tandem dive (b) I’m only just 40 (c) they need you to sign a release and (d) all the above, this seems to be a clear case of ageism discrimination. We debate the wisdom of lying about my date of birth, and I urge Dimple to try and recollect if they actually verify age before letting you on board. She can’t remember if they asked for ID. We agree on a strategy : she will put me down as being ’71 born, and claim oversight (this was the woman who insisted Chilean immigration hadn’t return the other half, while it languished in her bag) if they demanded proof. In the interim, I would check with my neighbourhood NHS GP about the possibility of acquiring one and investigate any potential doctoring of my drivers license.
Dr. Jenny Steel who looks like she’s young enough to be my daughter (well…) looks a tad confused and wants to know if I’ve ever been sky diving before. She then asks for the form. Good point. If these damn divers wanted med certs, they should’ve given me a form to fill out. I tell her there isn’t one, and I just need a letter saying I’m fit. Hmmmm. Not a problem but quite possibly its something that will cost me. Excuse me? A menu is consulted, and yes, there is a charge of £15 to procure a medical certificate. My indignation at this outrageous daylight corruption threatens to overwhelm me. I thought faltu students in Bombay were the only ones that paid for a doctor’s excuse! I was here on legitimate grounds. Furthermore, as a taxpayer, surely I’ve given my pound of flesh to the NHS, and the least they can do is assure everyone else, that despite parting with that 0.46 kg, hitting 40 wouldn’t have debilitated me any further! My license has already proved impossible to forge (one of the disadvantages of ending in a 0), so I most reluctantly agree to the hafta.
A quick read of my medical history, three visits over the past 2 years, boring questions about my general health, a rather rude comment about not looking overweight, a calming BP readout, a few deep breaths as she dances a stethoscope across my chest and a few deeper ones as she does my back. One quick check as to the form with senior doctor in the house and she taps out a totally pheeka letter, stating that the checkup was unremarkable. Unremarkable?! For £15 I thought a slightly more vociferous if not floral defense of my fitness would have been in order and urge her to add something about being fit. She throws in a fit for sky diving and like in Sahakari Bhandar, hands me the letter with a yellow slip and directions to the cashiers. Needless to say, unlike Sahakari Bhandar, Paddington Green Health Centre does not accept plastic, I leave my hard won letter as hostage, with a promise to return before dusk with the ransom.
Dr. Jenny Steel who looks like she’s young enough to be my daughter (well…) looks a tad confused and wants to know if I’ve ever been sky diving before. She then asks for the form. Good point. If these damn divers wanted med certs, they should’ve given me a form to fill out. I tell her there isn’t one, and I just need a letter saying I’m fit. Hmmmm. Not a problem but quite possibly its something that will cost me. Excuse me? A menu is consulted, and yes, there is a charge of £15 to procure a medical certificate. My indignation at this outrageous daylight corruption threatens to overwhelm me. I thought faltu students in Bombay were the only ones that paid for a doctor’s excuse! I was here on legitimate grounds. Furthermore, as a taxpayer, surely I’ve given my pound of flesh to the NHS, and the least they can do is assure everyone else, that despite parting with that 0.46 kg, hitting 40 wouldn’t have debilitated me any further! My license has already proved impossible to forge (one of the disadvantages of ending in a 0), so I most reluctantly agree to the hafta.
A quick read of my medical history, three visits over the past 2 years, boring questions about my general health, a rather rude comment about not looking overweight, a calming BP readout, a few deep breaths as she dances a stethoscope across my chest and a few deeper ones as she does my back. One quick check as to the form with senior doctor in the house and she taps out a totally pheeka letter, stating that the checkup was unremarkable. Unremarkable?! For £15 I thought a slightly more vociferous if not floral defense of my fitness would have been in order and urge her to add something about being fit. She throws in a fit for sky diving and like in Sahakari Bhandar, hands me the letter with a yellow slip and directions to the cashiers. Needless to say, unlike Sahakari Bhandar, Paddington Green Health Centre does not accept plastic, I leave my hard won letter as hostage, with a promise to return before dusk with the ransom.
The debate goes on..
The perfectly done, melt in the mouth steak distracts us only for a short while. I demand to know why overseas spending has been ring fenced. Noble perhaps, but when your country is on the brink of serious deficit issues, surely nobility must give way to a baser need for survival. Africa's need will outstrip Britain's recovery, but Britain won't be much good for Africa if her coffers are always empty. But it's not the nobility is it that drove the righteous into Iraq. Do the contracts secured justify the taxpayers support of the continuous military presence? Where is the quid pro quo? The media is screaming about harsh measures that will come to bear upon us. Given the significant cuts that will be required in public spending, why not focus on those areas that would appear less critical in these times? Overseas aid? Inwards, yes please!
Slash the defence budget, not the school arts programs. Everyone waxes lyrical about the enriching effect sports and music have on children. Everyone remembers those teachers that left an impression on them. Isn't it better to invest in our future, protect that from harsh decisions instead of a game of oneupmanship? Defense of what? Who on earth would want the UK these days? Hell, who has for a while now? Nuke for suspected nuke? Or a child that smiles more and finds peace in melody and laughs with the adrenaline of animal exercise? Perhaps they'd be less prone to go to war if they had other skills....
Slash the defence budget, not the school arts programs. Everyone waxes lyrical about the enriching effect sports and music have on children. Everyone remembers those teachers that left an impression on them. Isn't it better to invest in our future, protect that from harsh decisions instead of a game of oneupmanship? Defense of what? Who on earth would want the UK these days? Hell, who has for a while now? Nuke for suspected nuke? Or a child that smiles more and finds peace in melody and laughs with the adrenaline of animal exercise? Perhaps they'd be less prone to go to war if they had other skills....
Dongle Disaster
“What?” I respond to the indistinct mumbling over my mobile. “St. Johns”. “No, I’m at Portman Square. You have the wrong address.” 3 days later, I realise while he might have had the wrong address, I still don’t have the dongle. Frustrated I call O2 back, explaining the situation and am told that the previous order will have to be cancelled and a new one placed. Given it took 32 minutes the last time, albeit with a lovely bloke with a lilting accent who was rather a pleasant chat, I’m not enamoured by the suggestion. I’m handed over to sales, who expectantly waits for directions. Did she not explain the situation to you?? Apparently she did, but he’d just like me to confirm it. Naturally. We run the gamut of irrelevant questions and try and curb my testiness when I’m asked if my flat is furnished. What the fuck? Since when has a sofa been a prerequisite to internet access? Furthermore, I don’t recall this level of inanity last Friday with the happy chappie. Eventually, we exhaust the inane questions and get down to brass tacks. My credit check is taking longer than expected, so he asks if it’s ok to call me back in 10 minutes. Given how many of those I’ve already wasted, I’m more than agreeable to his suggestion. Patiently, I doodle, update the blog, chat with colleagues, give pause to my bladder, check the news, add a buffer to the 10 min, checking that I am indeed logged onto the phone system. 25 minutes, before I curse and get on with my life. A trip down Oxford St. to pick up marzipan for Bewdi who’s never tried it, and vent my frustrations at the nearest O2 store. The only address that comes up is the old Healey & Baker on George Street, and a fatal flaw has occurred ensuring none of my cards are acknowledged. I give up defeated and leave the store, none the better connected. Stoically, I contemplate life at home without internet access. Between C&W and Westminster public libraries, my daytime is pandered to. But what does one do post business hours if the urge strikes? I waver. I break. I call. I expel. I realise he’s already said ok. The doctor to the rescue. Shit. I have to send him the link!
Dinner and debate
How we began the carbon footprint debate escapes me, but I’m sure it had something to do with the new government and the harsh times ahead. Electric cars, CRC’s, EPC’s, recycling, ordinary cycling, …. Why not go back to the basics, think laterally yet obviously. Energy usage of buildings.
Here’s an idea. Why don't we just break out of our mindset, and dress as the climate demands? Loose the ties and the suits, bring on the linens and crumpled cottons. Let our bodies breath naturally as they were meant to, sweeping ceiling fans circulating air, reducing the amount of people falling sick from the hot/cold syndrome, not to mention the over zealous passing of germs through a/c ducts. Reduce the consumption of energy in the most basic way. How many offices in Asia house people bundled in shawls and jumpers to combat the icy ability of the indoor air-conditioning. Restaurants in Hong Kong keep pashmina's handy for delicately bared shoulders. Erm, how but turning the ambient temperature up? Surely man's brilliance can come up with a less energy guzzling, more environmentally friendly answer to air-conditioning if we only help it a tad, but dressing the part.
Not a call for the more simple life, although I do veer in that direction every now and again, just a less constrained one. It's been too long since Louis XVI's wardrobe had a major overhaul. Technology is the future, banking is on the Internet. So why are we still pretending we're in Stockholm and not Singapore?
Coming Home
The phone chirps as I turn it on, “Welcome to France”. Uh oh. Thought I’d boarded the flight for Geneva? All the stars had been spectacularly in alignment so far, business class seats right up front, warm rolls with butter, dinner and a bed with la famille Tauros. So why is Vodafone welcoming me to France?! Mercifully, the satellites rush into position resulting in a, “Welcome to Switzerland” and all is well.
The familiarly sweeps over me as I instinctively turn and head towards the station. The train wends its way through the picture book perfect view of Lac Leman edged by the Alps blurring past the bright green foliage and I feel as though I’ve come home. A tad weird given I've only lived here for 2 (its been 5 in London), and this country is the antithesis of India. Pristine, sterile, closed.... but the feel of going home to natiue place persists. Ironic. Fond farewells ensue as I leave Guy and Matt at Vevey and walk into the warm sunshine fingers fumbling for Sheryl’s number when I spy a brown face, waving arms and bright purple tights descending upon me. Aunta Punta strikes again! I’m reminded of the extent to which the D’Souza women are vertically challenged as I lean forward to hug the little git.
A perfect homecoming, as we sip on Sauvignon Blanc critically assessing the stunning view in front of us (naturally overlooking the gentle verdant slope as it rolls down to the lake and the Alps behind), gorging on fried breadfruit (imported all the way from Mangalore), and reminiscing about how quickly the bacchas have grown up, especially Sammy and even Aunta Punta! The feeling of being home intensifies as Aunty brings out a tray of appams!! Oh my. Fresh appams and mutton stew! Bwaaahaahaaa – life does not get better! A tad surreal perhaps to feel Mangy in Vevey, but there you go. Accents get stronger, and ‘no Maaaas, have some more Maaas’ resound, amidst totally hysterical, water dribbling down the chin moments as Chiara panders to her willing audience with her demented canned laugh. How the mite does it is beyond me, but one sly look at you, before she launches into this fake gurgle sending Aunty and me into convulsions. A slow wind down with a leisurely chat with Dheeraj, the only man about the house, as Sheryl struggles to get the brat to sleep.
Morning dawns early, and I enjoy a solitary cup of tea, enthralled with the magnificent view, wondering if my plan of getting rich and buying a house in Montreux on the lake would ever materialise. Hardly matters. I’m here now. With a little girl I used to know who’s still in bed after a late night with her own little girl.
How quickly they grow…
The familiarly sweeps over me as I instinctively turn and head towards the station. The train wends its way through the picture book perfect view of Lac Leman edged by the Alps blurring past the bright green foliage and I feel as though I’ve come home. A tad weird given I've only lived here for 2 (its been 5 in London), and this country is the antithesis of India. Pristine, sterile, closed.... but the feel of going home to natiue place persists. Ironic. Fond farewells ensue as I leave Guy and Matt at Vevey and walk into the warm sunshine fingers fumbling for Sheryl’s number when I spy a brown face, waving arms and bright purple tights descending upon me. Aunta Punta strikes again! I’m reminded of the extent to which the D’Souza women are vertically challenged as I lean forward to hug the little git.
A perfect homecoming, as we sip on Sauvignon Blanc critically assessing the stunning view in front of us (naturally overlooking the gentle verdant slope as it rolls down to the lake and the Alps behind), gorging on fried breadfruit (imported all the way from Mangalore), and reminiscing about how quickly the bacchas have grown up, especially Sammy and even Aunta Punta! The feeling of being home intensifies as Aunty brings out a tray of appams!! Oh my. Fresh appams and mutton stew! Bwaaahaahaaa – life does not get better! A tad surreal perhaps to feel Mangy in Vevey, but there you go. Accents get stronger, and ‘no Maaaas, have some more Maaas’ resound, amidst totally hysterical, water dribbling down the chin moments as Chiara panders to her willing audience with her demented canned laugh. How the mite does it is beyond me, but one sly look at you, before she launches into this fake gurgle sending Aunty and me into convulsions. A slow wind down with a leisurely chat with Dheeraj, the only man about the house, as Sheryl struggles to get the brat to sleep.
Morning dawns early, and I enjoy a solitary cup of tea, enthralled with the magnificent view, wondering if my plan of getting rich and buying a house in Montreux on the lake would ever materialise. Hardly matters. I’m here now. With a little girl I used to know who’s still in bed after a late night with her own little girl.
How quickly they grow…
How excessively annoying is it to come across a gift wrapped square that you had frantically rummaged for in vain, more poignant for having announced it to the giftee? Moving always stirs the hornet's nest, and miraculously, my months of frenzied if futile searching to secure my combat boots are abruptly rewarded in the form of a shapeless M&S bag. I view my eclectic collection of foot ware and china with some degree of pleasure. Well, the china anyway, all prettily arrayed in the glass fronted kitchen cabinet. It will cause a twist in the median regions to leave them behind. All that is left now is to devise a cunning plan to abstract the crate coffee table, a result of a chance encounter at work, and deposit it in the living room. I'd best make enquiries to see if my Partner request carried the requisite weight and it is safely ensconced in the office away from other prying eyes...
crate ahoy
crate ahoy
Chwaapuk?
It’s official. Somya doesn’t have a frickin’ clue as far as men go. Actually, true as that maybe, more pertinently, she’s not even on the same planet forget ballpark when it comes to me. Strike two and I’m so NEVER going out with any man Somya thinks I’ll get along really well with. For fuck’s sake, he’s a small man. A small Frenchman. From what angle do I resemble Carla Bruni?? To be fair, he is rather interesting, and I did enjoy the evening. Well read, well travelled, articulate, funny and a diver to boot (with the most incredible South Sea shark/ray experiences), but not only is he petit, he kisses with sound effects. Chwaapuk, chwaaapuk. While I admit to multitasking, kissing and giggling are not like parma ham and melon. And I did try. But there really is no chemistry. Not to mention feeling a tad like a paedophile. So, more embarrassingly, how do I explain the excess moisture I can’t blame on the rain? My stomach sinks to my uterus as the thought flits through my mind. I’m just like a man. But wait. I rack my appalling memory. We began kissing while we were still sitting. He wasn’t little then, and he wasn’t quite as noisy either. That’s got to be it. Because once outside, and missing a vertical six inches (give or take), environmental conditions were most suited to the amplification of those chwaapuk noises. There’s just no way in hell I can sleep with this man, response to earlier stimuli notwithstanding. Definitely time to call for reinforcements.
N. B. : Note to self. Do not entertain ANY man that says Somya suggested most strongly that we should meet.
N. N. B : Second note to self. Always stand up when greeting a man you’re meeting for the first time and don’t let them sneak up and sit next to you.
P.S. : Am I just hugely superficial?
P.P.S. : No. He’s not a good kisser
P.P.P.S. : I must be a man!
P.P.P.P.S. : Maybe I’m just being unfair because I’m feeling particularly aggrieved with Somya at this point. Should I give him another try? Viva le France??
P.P.P.P.P.S. : It also occurs to me that I don’t kiss and tell. So why am I so aggrieved now? I like that word. Very apt. I feel deeply aggrieved.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. : A shorter, stockier, good kisser might’ve worked.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. : Maybe if we leave out the mouth to mouth altogether?
N. N. N. B : Seek help! Go to Switzerland.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: Bebous, if you're reading this, kindly do me the courtesy of picking yourself up off the floor and doing something to remedy the situation, especially given what a lousy job you did last time around!
N. B. : Note to self. Do not entertain ANY man that says Somya suggested most strongly that we should meet.
N. N. B : Second note to self. Always stand up when greeting a man you’re meeting for the first time and don’t let them sneak up and sit next to you.
P.S. : Am I just hugely superficial?
P.P.S. : No. He’s not a good kisser
P.P.P.S. : I must be a man!
P.P.P.P.S. : Maybe I’m just being unfair because I’m feeling particularly aggrieved with Somya at this point. Should I give him another try? Viva le France??
P.P.P.P.P.S. : It also occurs to me that I don’t kiss and tell. So why am I so aggrieved now? I like that word. Very apt. I feel deeply aggrieved.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. : A shorter, stockier, good kisser might’ve worked.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. : Maybe if we leave out the mouth to mouth altogether?
N. N. N. B : Seek help! Go to Switzerland.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: Bebous, if you're reading this, kindly do me the courtesy of picking yourself up off the floor and doing something to remedy the situation, especially given what a lousy job you did last time around!
Cliché supreme
The only thing you have to fear, is fear itself.
Trite but true. Whether it's spiders, losing those you love, diving, performance anxiety, cocktails, financial security, death or making a fool of yourself. It takes years off your life. Moments that will never happen again, ones you can never get another stab at.
The receptionist is baffled at my request for a medical certificate. I run through the now I'm forty patter again, this time more explicitly, careful to exclude mentally fit from the roster. She dubiously suggests I see the doctor, and finds me a slot on Friday morning. "Are you sure you want to go sky diving?", she asks triggering off my sniggers. We both dissolve into mirth and she can't wait to see me, Friday.
Still sniggering, the absurdity of it all strikes me. While fear is bound to be relative, my fears are positively incongruous. Ok, so fear is a strong word. Trepidation. Unease. Discomfort. Consternation. Deep dislike. You name it, I'll find a word for it. Social gatherings involving vast quantities of strangers. I like strangers just fine one on one. Even a bunch is fine. But send me to a 'networking' cocktail opportunity, christening at church, a social soirée dominated by small talk and my molars start grinding with alacrity, sending a spasm of pain up my temples. Do I do it? Yes. With the utmost of reluctance. Wrap a cord around my ankles and push me over. Stick me on a speedboat that flips over. Drape a python, krait and four other snakes over me and walk away. Lock me up in the womb of a pyramid. Weigh me down with cast iron and pull me under. Get me to walk around a flower show with blinking windmills on my head. Tell me I'm dying. Hell, tell me you're dying....
I'm not entirely socially inept. I just dislike having to overcome the deep rooted diffidence that has always plagued me. Please, please don't make me walk up, introduce myself and start chatting to strangers. I will grit my teeth and do it. Inhale. Exhale. Deeeeefly. Nope, the knot as big as a fist in my stomach only tightens with anxiety. As with everything, it's the spectre of fear which is paralysing. The actual event and fallout is never as bad as your imagination can paint it. I'll risk the physical, emotional, financial, social, spiritual, corporeal, multi dimensional, and even the unknown. I will take on the world and any marauding aliens. Just not at the christening....
Trite but true. Whether it's spiders, losing those you love, diving, performance anxiety, cocktails, financial security, death or making a fool of yourself. It takes years off your life. Moments that will never happen again, ones you can never get another stab at.
The receptionist is baffled at my request for a medical certificate. I run through the now I'm forty patter again, this time more explicitly, careful to exclude mentally fit from the roster. She dubiously suggests I see the doctor, and finds me a slot on Friday morning. "Are you sure you want to go sky diving?", she asks triggering off my sniggers. We both dissolve into mirth and she can't wait to see me, Friday.
Still sniggering, the absurdity of it all strikes me. While fear is bound to be relative, my fears are positively incongruous. Ok, so fear is a strong word. Trepidation. Unease. Discomfort. Consternation. Deep dislike. You name it, I'll find a word for it. Social gatherings involving vast quantities of strangers. I like strangers just fine one on one. Even a bunch is fine. But send me to a 'networking' cocktail opportunity, christening at church, a social soirée dominated by small talk and my molars start grinding with alacrity, sending a spasm of pain up my temples. Do I do it? Yes. With the utmost of reluctance. Wrap a cord around my ankles and push me over. Stick me on a speedboat that flips over. Drape a python, krait and four other snakes over me and walk away. Lock me up in the womb of a pyramid. Weigh me down with cast iron and pull me under. Get me to walk around a flower show with blinking windmills on my head. Tell me I'm dying. Hell, tell me you're dying....
I'm not entirely socially inept. I just dislike having to overcome the deep rooted diffidence that has always plagued me. Please, please don't make me walk up, introduce myself and start chatting to strangers. I will grit my teeth and do it. Inhale. Exhale. Deeeeefly. Nope, the knot as big as a fist in my stomach only tightens with anxiety. As with everything, it's the spectre of fear which is paralysing. The actual event and fallout is never as bad as your imagination can paint it. I'll risk the physical, emotional, financial, social, spiritual, corporeal, multi dimensional, and even the unknown. I will take on the world and any marauding aliens. Just not at the christening....
Back in the saddle again..
Trepidation. That’s what the gurgly thing in the pit of my stomach is. Can’t remember the last time I had a bonafide date date. An unknown quantity, this Frenchman, despite his accelerating particles and propinquity with Somya. Or perhaps its just the memory of the disastrous coupling that was her previous attempt at setting me up. Why is it always so much more discomfiting the first time you meet someone who’s less than six degrees away?
The whole expedition has me so nervous, I’m now actually contemplating paying up to read the messages from the 49 single men who’ve apparently sent me missives. Bet of those 49, 30 of them reside in the godforsaken, if beautiful home counties; 10 of them would be suitable for the end of a bargepole, leaving 9 local, readable profiles. A 25% success rate makes that 2 ¼ men I’d probably consider meeting. Sans stress. So, why am I wondering what to wear for this evening?? I’d really rather go skydiving. Although there too, I’m faced with ageism. Now that I’m 40, I need to produce a doctors certificate declaring me fit to be chucked of a plane, mid-flight. And it’s not even a solo jump! Cruel, cruel world! Guess I’d better ring the health centre to see if they’d oblige me, otherwise I wonder if I can coerce Jaaneman into faxing me one.
Actually, I’m a tad disappointed that it’s not a solo jump. The whole point was to see if I’d be any better at jumping off a plane with a chute strapped to my back as opposed to being shoved of a platform with a bungee cord attached to my ankles. For some obscure reason, I think the chute on back route will be easier, which is really bizarre given that it would be a free fall… but psychologically, your hands would be able to touch something. Come the 19th, we shall find out.
Thank god I’m seeing the Dutchman tomorrow! A sari should soothe my frazzled nerves...
The whole expedition has me so nervous, I’m now actually contemplating paying up to read the messages from the 49 single men who’ve apparently sent me missives. Bet of those 49, 30 of them reside in the godforsaken, if beautiful home counties; 10 of them would be suitable for the end of a bargepole, leaving 9 local, readable profiles. A 25% success rate makes that 2 ¼ men I’d probably consider meeting. Sans stress. So, why am I wondering what to wear for this evening?? I’d really rather go skydiving. Although there too, I’m faced with ageism. Now that I’m 40, I need to produce a doctors certificate declaring me fit to be chucked of a plane, mid-flight. And it’s not even a solo jump! Cruel, cruel world! Guess I’d better ring the health centre to see if they’d oblige me, otherwise I wonder if I can coerce Jaaneman into faxing me one.
Actually, I’m a tad disappointed that it’s not a solo jump. The whole point was to see if I’d be any better at jumping off a plane with a chute strapped to my back as opposed to being shoved of a platform with a bungee cord attached to my ankles. For some obscure reason, I think the chute on back route will be easier, which is really bizarre given that it would be a free fall… but psychologically, your hands would be able to touch something. Come the 19th, we shall find out.
Thank god I’m seeing the Dutchman tomorrow! A sari should soothe my frazzled nerves...
DIY Disaster
Right. Most of my stuff now lives at 4a, Alexandra Court. But I’m still resident at 4, Maida Vale. Why, you ask? Because a day of DIY has left me feeling fraught and mentally too fragile to attempt anything as strenuous as unpacking and cleaning. This is my third DIY project, and I’ve yet to come across any DIY kit that can even touch Meccano’s precision and fine edges. Yesterday, was not entirely unexpected given I was in Scrooge mode, unwilling to part with more than £25 for the privilege of not having to rummage through a suitcase for my delicates every morning, and the Argos catalogue provided a suitably attractive pine wood finish rack which I planned on adorning with 3 seagrass baskets to hold my unmentionables.
First hurdle. The pretty baskets are minuscule, regardless of the unnatural volume of my lingerie. But neither the bedroom nor my budget will permit a grander display, so Emma and I lug my second round of furniture hunt, the first being a peculiar named coffee table donated by Taks. It could only be a pretentious inside out coconut (aka brown on the inside and white on the outside unlike my lovely man Ket) panju who would refer to a large wooden spool with bolts and splinters as a coffee table. No wonder he doesn’t want it back!.
Right, DIY time. Sexy muscles rip the cardboard to reveal a bunch of wooden slats and a packet of screws and no sign of instructions. Hmmmm. A sever poke around reveals a broadsheet of directions, sparking the memory of seeing my screwdriver set in the sole bag remaining at DDM’s. Plan B. Emma will empty the box while I will nip across to fetch work DIY implements. I return to German boot camp as Emma takes control. We start at the very beginning, and it is soon apparent, that items under £15 quid come free of quality. We grit our teeth, curse the incompetent male who obviously designed this, and wield the screwdriver with a vengeance.
Our assembly does not inspire confidence. Au contraire, it has a decidedly unattractive wobble element to it. He of the small dick and hairy bum is invoked a few more times, as a perfect summer day mocks us through the window. An irate blister takes birth on my thumb, and the frame looks like a lobongo lotika. We’re going to screw this thing together if it takes all our fingers, and Emma and I swap places, ruthlessly driving the screws into the wood. In the manner of all good design, the middle slats have no holes, so it’s blister raising brute strength, except for the wood is so poor, it splits at one edge, and just to keep things even, Emma’s screw splinters through the other end. Undaunted, an unanimous decision is taken; that is the bottom. More grunting, aching shoulders, unreserved swearing, blistered palms and fingers ensues.
Our eyes meet grimly over the wood, nod and raise the shelf. Hmmmm. Not exactly a renaissance sculpture, and we debate the wisdom of stacking anything less flimsy than lingerie. The smelly seagrass baskets go on the middle shelf that we both had a crack at, and we cart it to the bedroom and give it a critical once over. A shift of the rattan trunk, teal pillows peeking from under a chocolate duvet and suddenly, the bedroom looks like home. Emma’s prediction of the call in the middle of the night announcing that our construction has dumped my undies all over the floor and collapsed in a heap of shame over it, lingers in the air between us, but I’m quite pleased with our efforts. It does seem to be precious little to show for an afternoon of sweat and struggle but just that little bit (ok, the bed and trunk too) seems to have filled the bedroom.
Now, it’s just the living room that looks bereft. Unfortunately, that’s the way it’s going to stay. That spool will have to be cleaned and re-born as a stand for my Nakamichi, which leaves me with an inflatable mattress/pillow/cushions combination to lounge about on, a luggage installation in the corner, fabric and paintings on the wall and no coffee table. Hmmmm. Perhaps, I ought to re-visit the installation and transmogrify that into a table. Better start collection boxes too for the bedroom side table. Siiigh. I wonder if it would be bad form to ask Nela if I could borrow my side table for a bit. Six months feels like a loooong time!
First hurdle. The pretty baskets are minuscule, regardless of the unnatural volume of my lingerie. But neither the bedroom nor my budget will permit a grander display, so Emma and I lug my second round of furniture hunt, the first being a peculiar named coffee table donated by Taks. It could only be a pretentious inside out coconut (aka brown on the inside and white on the outside unlike my lovely man Ket) panju who would refer to a large wooden spool with bolts and splinters as a coffee table. No wonder he doesn’t want it back!.
Right, DIY time. Sexy muscles rip the cardboard to reveal a bunch of wooden slats and a packet of screws and no sign of instructions. Hmmmm. A sever poke around reveals a broadsheet of directions, sparking the memory of seeing my screwdriver set in the sole bag remaining at DDM’s. Plan B. Emma will empty the box while I will nip across to fetch work DIY implements. I return to German boot camp as Emma takes control. We start at the very beginning, and it is soon apparent, that items under £15 quid come free of quality. We grit our teeth, curse the incompetent male who obviously designed this, and wield the screwdriver with a vengeance.
Our assembly does not inspire confidence. Au contraire, it has a decidedly unattractive wobble element to it. He of the small dick and hairy bum is invoked a few more times, as a perfect summer day mocks us through the window. An irate blister takes birth on my thumb, and the frame looks like a lobongo lotika. We’re going to screw this thing together if it takes all our fingers, and Emma and I swap places, ruthlessly driving the screws into the wood. In the manner of all good design, the middle slats have no holes, so it’s blister raising brute strength, except for the wood is so poor, it splits at one edge, and just to keep things even, Emma’s screw splinters through the other end. Undaunted, an unanimous decision is taken; that is the bottom. More grunting, aching shoulders, unreserved swearing, blistered palms and fingers ensues.
Our eyes meet grimly over the wood, nod and raise the shelf. Hmmmm. Not exactly a renaissance sculpture, and we debate the wisdom of stacking anything less flimsy than lingerie. The smelly seagrass baskets go on the middle shelf that we both had a crack at, and we cart it to the bedroom and give it a critical once over. A shift of the rattan trunk, teal pillows peeking from under a chocolate duvet and suddenly, the bedroom looks like home. Emma’s prediction of the call in the middle of the night announcing that our construction has dumped my undies all over the floor and collapsed in a heap of shame over it, lingers in the air between us, but I’m quite pleased with our efforts. It does seem to be precious little to show for an afternoon of sweat and struggle but just that little bit (ok, the bed and trunk too) seems to have filled the bedroom.
Now, it’s just the living room that looks bereft. Unfortunately, that’s the way it’s going to stay. That spool will have to be cleaned and re-born as a stand for my Nakamichi, which leaves me with an inflatable mattress/pillow/cushions combination to lounge about on, a luggage installation in the corner, fabric and paintings on the wall and no coffee table. Hmmmm. Perhaps, I ought to re-visit the installation and transmogrify that into a table. Better start collection boxes too for the bedroom side table. Siiigh. I wonder if it would be bad form to ask Nela if I could borrow my side table for a bit. Six months feels like a loooong time!
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