I'm hooked. If there was a body I could steal, it would be Sylvie Guillem's (although I might just keep my own arms). Utterly exquisite, her grace and fluidity is offset beautifully by Robert Lepage and Russell Maliphant as they romp through her production of Eonnagata. Her accent, a charming lilt to her telling of the tale of Chevalier D'Eon, a soldier, spy and diplomat who was a favourite at the court of Louis XV until he was forced to flee to London and earn his living in a circus. But unlike most solder, spy, diplomats, the Chevalier was a transvestite, who not only carried out his spying missions disguised as a woman, but who also (by choice and by royal edict) wore dresses in his daily life. The story telling is vibrant, interspersed with music, sword fighting, contemplation and dancing and Sylvie effortlessly rules the stage with her charisma and presence. The ballet may miss her, but the woman has an audience all her own. Bravo! Encore!!
With that as a prelude, I was looking forward to what Carlos Acosta's retirement from the ballet to modern dance would bring. A refund. Or rather, that is what it should have brought. 90 excruciating minutes of self indulgent choreography, repetitive moments reminiscent of amateur street dancing, discordant music, tortured self expression and an utter lack of respect for a paying public. Even the sight of him semi naked, bathed in ethereal light did little to elicit a response except for the pithy comment that one could just pay auto fare for a ride to the local akkhada to see that bit of muscle flexing.... 90 minutes of my life that I will never get back for a classic case of I'm so big a star, all I need to do is show up complex. Think again. If you're not prepared to just do what the director of the dance company tells you, then leave the creativity and new productions to real talent like Sylvie Guillem and her collaborators.
Grapes of Wrath
Delicate. That's how I feel this morning. An evening quaffing an entire bottle of Rioja punctuated with nibbles at my age is obviously no longer a good idea and my tube ride home is aborted at Bond Street due to unnecessary queasiness brought on by Tfl's less than smooth conveyance underground. My red wine marinated brain sketchily envisages a graph that simultaneously attempts to plot, distance, speed, trajectory, tingling blue toe and potential weaving en route, and directs my arm to flag down a bus instead. Motion is clearly not a sensible course of action and I reflect on the last time my equilibrium was so severely challenged by a bunch of grapes. Not since Usha's wedding in 2001, and that was more of a pentathlon concluding in one glass of smushed grapes too many. Nine years and progressive drop in consumption has me firmly classed as a lightweight.
I negotiate the single flight of stairs with impunity and miraculously, the keys just slot into their holes with practiced ease, my bravura stumbling as one shoelaces decides to knot itself, nearly causing me to keel over in an ungainly attempt to divest myself of these accouterments. Inexplicably, my journey within the confines of the flat is met with unexpected attempts at bodily harm as I bounce off walls and doors. Hmmmm, it would appear that fruit is wreaking havoc with my spatial awareness. Or perhaps it is simply an inner ear problem. In any event, I do believe the pitzy line has been firmly crossed, and I'm well into tunned (with a double n) territory. I retire to the shower to mull this over, feeling rather pleased at successfully negotiating the fluctuating temperatures to an acceptably soothing waterfall, the ideal acoustic foil to my full throated rendition of pop, polli geeti and opera.
Sadly, my metabolism hasn’t kept up with my diminishing capacity, and consciousness makes a pre-dawn strike, and a horribly familiar, if solitary bokum bokum invades my slowly returning sentience. Fucking pigeon! Refusal to check the hour does little to assist my determined attempts at looking less bleary eyed, and a violent turn to the other side proves to be a deeply faulty strategy as I feel the bed sway precariously, pinging flashes to the back of my tightly squeezed lids. Hallelujah. We have a hangover! Eventually, Bach’s second rendition of Fugue in D Minor invokes a cautious vertical attempt, but my equilibrium and spatial awareness are still not operating at optimal levels and I graze my way into the kitchen for a drink. Limited lucidity allows departure, but the fresh air does little to allay the dull throb in my head or the unease in my stomach. Poetic justice prevails as I muster enough intelligence for my first 2 hour long meeting of the day, surreptitiously thinking of alternate strategies to to try and feel less fragile as the day looms ahead portending the next 4 pm client meeting.
Apparently, these were the grapes of wrath.
I negotiate the single flight of stairs with impunity and miraculously, the keys just slot into their holes with practiced ease, my bravura stumbling as one shoelaces decides to knot itself, nearly causing me to keel over in an ungainly attempt to divest myself of these accouterments. Inexplicably, my journey within the confines of the flat is met with unexpected attempts at bodily harm as I bounce off walls and doors. Hmmmm, it would appear that fruit is wreaking havoc with my spatial awareness. Or perhaps it is simply an inner ear problem. In any event, I do believe the pitzy line has been firmly crossed, and I'm well into tunned (with a double n) territory. I retire to the shower to mull this over, feeling rather pleased at successfully negotiating the fluctuating temperatures to an acceptably soothing waterfall, the ideal acoustic foil to my full throated rendition of pop, polli geeti and opera.
Sadly, my metabolism hasn’t kept up with my diminishing capacity, and consciousness makes a pre-dawn strike, and a horribly familiar, if solitary bokum bokum invades my slowly returning sentience. Fucking pigeon! Refusal to check the hour does little to assist my determined attempts at looking less bleary eyed, and a violent turn to the other side proves to be a deeply faulty strategy as I feel the bed sway precariously, pinging flashes to the back of my tightly squeezed lids. Hallelujah. We have a hangover! Eventually, Bach’s second rendition of Fugue in D Minor invokes a cautious vertical attempt, but my equilibrium and spatial awareness are still not operating at optimal levels and I graze my way into the kitchen for a drink. Limited lucidity allows departure, but the fresh air does little to allay the dull throb in my head or the unease in my stomach. Poetic justice prevails as I muster enough intelligence for my first 2 hour long meeting of the day, surreptitiously thinking of alternate strategies to to try and feel less fragile as the day looms ahead portending the next 4 pm client meeting.
Apparently, these were the grapes of wrath.
My head feels like it’s going to explode. A sleepless Saturday, and 6 hours of self flagellation on Sunday till weary, your eyes surrender. The tension in my body however, holds firm, muscles tight and unyielding, still fighting against shadows, unable to let go. The mind febrile, leaping ahead to new scenarios, different mutations of the same theme, the hurt palpable and undiminished. The recognition that it is futile clashing with the stubbornness of hope. The battle rages relentlessly within me. The hours I am occupied, spent with others, laughing, debating, watching, eating, happy. And then, alone in the empty flat, imagination stalks me, taunting, furious, wounded. The headache plagues me. They whys and what ifs linger like a bad cough. Platitudes pour in, well meaning, caring, concerned, but withdrawal preceedes hindsight, gnawing at you as is its wont.
Welcome and Dhishooom!
It is only kismet that ensures that an evening of the most ludicrous Bollywood offering a house teetering on the edge of a precipice, a swarm of bees, a collection of inspired gangsters and some other random people, peppered with inimitably delivered lines that include "Oi, Sarkari aaspataal ki tooti hui bench", "Aaae bin ped ke phal..." "Aaj kal to buiscuit ko bhi Ji bulati, jaise yeh ParleJi" and the gently inquiring "Bonnet kahaan hain?", culminates into lunch the following day at Dishoom. London's answer to Bombay's disappearing Irani haunts.
The softly whirring ceiling fans, slanting mirrors over the counter, gola machine, a vivid poster announcing Sabitadevi in Dr. Mahurika or Modern Wife... with Motilal is the perfect foil for kheema pau (reminiscent of the kind served up by the smiley men at the Xavier's canteen) washed down with Thums Up as we suavely fling insulting filmi gangster dialogues at each other between slurps. Sadly, apart from a Berry pulao, the main menu slides into the Punjab, and the passion fruit/ginger and pomegranate/chilli golas are far too sophisticated for a kalakhatta trained palate. Still, the cutting chai in the requisite glass does the trick, as do the chunteys in their leftover mousse bowls with aluminium chamchas, and we pfaff, happily nostalgic, warbling the tunes for Fanta (brought on by the sight of a Vimto poster). A sali boti, dhansaak, cutless and caramel custard would render this eatery sublime. The rules of the house declare All Castes Welcome, so I shall return with Mr. Walker this week for another round of nostalgia.
The softly whirring ceiling fans, slanting mirrors over the counter, gola machine, a vivid poster announcing Sabitadevi in Dr. Mahurika or Modern Wife... with Motilal is the perfect foil for kheema pau (reminiscent of the kind served up by the smiley men at the Xavier's canteen) washed down with Thums Up as we suavely fling insulting filmi gangster dialogues at each other between slurps. Sadly, apart from a Berry pulao, the main menu slides into the Punjab, and the passion fruit/ginger and pomegranate/chilli golas are far too sophisticated for a kalakhatta trained palate. Still, the cutting chai in the requisite glass does the trick, as do the chunteys in their leftover mousse bowls with aluminium chamchas, and we pfaff, happily nostalgic, warbling the tunes for Fanta (brought on by the sight of a Vimto poster). A sali boti, dhansaak, cutless and caramel custard would render this eatery sublime. The rules of the house declare All Castes Welcome, so I shall return with Mr. Walker this week for another round of nostalgia.
Confluence
A meeting of two water bodies, a vision of churning foam, silt leaching into the pristine blue, a clash of wills or a harmonious dance, a burgeoning of excess, unity. Either, both. Oddly enough, Wednesdays performance by Akram Khan and Nitin Sawhney was more a damp squib than the Confluence it was billed as, and a global bid at work an eddying mass of opinions and thoughts instead. Art and life, yet again overlapping as is its wont.
The opening piece was inspired, a seamless, fascinating dance creating maya, a hand linking with another, their own or the others, whose arm, whose leg unclear, but coherent as one, a creature of two parts but still a single creature. Exquisite and riveting. Unfortunately, that was the highlight, with a fair amount of pretension creeping in, that the crowd lapped up, an amusing piece about immigration that had neither dance nor music, but honest and resonating, a compelling set of kathak spins by Akram Khan but otherwise an indifferent show.
Unlike the call which inspired slammed desks, exasperated sighs, ferocious jabbing of the mute button, voices changing cadence, thoughts surging and ebbing, a constant drone in the background, obstructive, creative, tedious, helpless, frustrated.... an urgent second offline call harmonious, productive and calming. Those boys should've taken notes.
The opening piece was inspired, a seamless, fascinating dance creating maya, a hand linking with another, their own or the others, whose arm, whose leg unclear, but coherent as one, a creature of two parts but still a single creature. Exquisite and riveting. Unfortunately, that was the highlight, with a fair amount of pretension creeping in, that the crowd lapped up, an amusing piece about immigration that had neither dance nor music, but honest and resonating, a compelling set of kathak spins by Akram Khan but otherwise an indifferent show.
Unlike the call which inspired slammed desks, exasperated sighs, ferocious jabbing of the mute button, voices changing cadence, thoughts surging and ebbing, a constant drone in the background, obstructive, creative, tedious, helpless, frustrated.... an urgent second offline call harmonious, productive and calming. Those boys should've taken notes.
I hate love storys
and atrocious grammar! I feel the spirit of Lynn Truss gouge at me as I wince at the opening titles. A moment of weakness, and now I'm 45% of the audience in a dank smelling auditorium at Cineworld, paying for the privilege of Bollywood's latest. Clearly, I lie. It was either this or the vacuum cleaner....
This, as it turns out, is the first Hindi film where I’ve actually enjoyed the second half more than the first! Predictable? Entirely! But the unknown faces were refreshing, the scrip light hearted, witty with a generous dollop of self deprecating humour, the supporting cast hilarious! The classic ‘ladkiyan buses ki tarah hote hain….’ is delivered with such panache, matched only by the ‘sexy butt’ exchange between the two heroes. Superb! My favourite moment though has to be the best mates succinct graph plotting the profit and loss relationship between a babe’s hotness vs her batameeziness, the two mothers, a charmingly successful director, a sultrily comical hot babe, not to mention a shockingly hard, tight, hot male body that’s on display every now and again. Much to be said about the new boys hitting the gym - You go Imran!
Paisa vasooli I’m thinking….
This, as it turns out, is the first Hindi film where I’ve actually enjoyed the second half more than the first! Predictable? Entirely! But the unknown faces were refreshing, the scrip light hearted, witty with a generous dollop of self deprecating humour, the supporting cast hilarious! The classic ‘ladkiyan buses ki tarah hote hain….’ is delivered with such panache, matched only by the ‘sexy butt’ exchange between the two heroes. Superb! My favourite moment though has to be the best mates succinct graph plotting the profit and loss relationship between a babe’s hotness vs her batameeziness, the two mothers, a charmingly successful director, a sultrily comical hot babe, not to mention a shockingly hard, tight, hot male body that’s on display every now and again. Much to be said about the new boys hitting the gym - You go Imran!
Paisa vasooli I’m thinking….
My family and other animals???
A woman of my word, I dial home to check up on the folks after their second consecutive weekend away at Lonavla. A more enervating trip sans ludicrous first time parents cloying, gushing and hovering over a not especially bright 18 month old. Pity, no pnpc to report, so I struggle to remember what my weekend was like, my hemming and hawing endeavours stalling with every full throated instruction yelled at the various domestics in and out of my mothers line of sight, and a sudden flurry of barking.
I resist the Shakespearean urge to go, 'Hark! Was that a bark?!' Barking? We Guhas of 14 Iris may have doggie bagged foodstuff for a number of years, but we've always stated upfront it was for Mim.... I wait and listen to the scary one scolding a mutt of some description, who retaliates by making off with her yellow dolphin. And to think the Beatles got flak for Lucy in the Sky - I didn't even know my mother had a yellow dolphin! Undaunted, Mommy dearest shouts at me over the cacophony attempting to elucidate upon the soundtrack. It would appear that my parents have acquired a 30% timeshare in the neighbours dog. A larger than usual spaniel, the one I've apparently seen before, usually confused about which door to head for. The scene is a familiar one and my mind races in an attempt to recollect the creature under discussion and fails miserably. "Black and white?" "Brown. You must remember him. You've seen him." I acquiesce demurely, with a soupçon of absentmindedness. "I must have."
"She's asthmatic, and they were thinking of giving the dog away, but the boys were really sad and Mr. Singhania really loves the dog, so they asked if we'd like to keep it, but I said, No! we're old, but he can spend some time at our place. Actually, I just don't think she likes dogs at all and she's a hypochondriac. The whole flat is being done and there's cement all over, so obviously she doesn't like dogs." Clearly. I ask what the dimwit is called. "Cuddles." I shudder delicately. Perhaps it's the breed that encourages daft names like this (like Sweetie is to Poms, Cuddles and Flakes is to cockers).
The sloppy spaniel is apparently still trying to come to grips with it's equation with Ba. His ultimate mission is to win over Ba. It is an uncertain relationship - Ba is happy to say "Ha ha, hellooo doggie...", even wave and chuckle at it, but doesn't like to be licked or have dog attached to his persona. Naturally, it makes the mutt even more curiously determined to know the big man better, albeit trepediaciously (I believe the story justifies a creative juste mot!). I grin, remembering the sight of a 6'3" suited man waving goodbye to two tail wagging 8" puppies, yipping around his briefcase, with strict instructions to behave.
Ma believes the poor chap is bored. He wants to play, but my folks are too old to be arsed and launches into his support system; The gentleman is hardly home, the boys have squash lessons, tuitions, school, blah, blah, and aunty hates dogs, but the money they spend on the critter. The mutt has his own maid, personal trainer and weekly beauty salon appointments. Hmmmm. I suggest with the utmost seriousness that my mother edify his mind with some duet chanting. Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf, Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf.... Her gurgle of laughter somewhat ruins her admonishment of my frivolity. Her ear splitting demand as to who the dog was left with negates my curiosity as to the lack of canine vocalisation in the background. They've been leaving the mutt with the folks longer and longer each day, so Minu the Scary has taken an executive decision and sent him straight back.
Reluctantly, I confess to a concall in 90 seconds and bid my parent a fond farewell. What yellow dolphin?????
I resist the Shakespearean urge to go, 'Hark! Was that a bark?!' Barking? We Guhas of 14 Iris may have doggie bagged foodstuff for a number of years, but we've always stated upfront it was for Mim.... I wait and listen to the scary one scolding a mutt of some description, who retaliates by making off with her yellow dolphin. And to think the Beatles got flak for Lucy in the Sky - I didn't even know my mother had a yellow dolphin! Undaunted, Mommy dearest shouts at me over the cacophony attempting to elucidate upon the soundtrack. It would appear that my parents have acquired a 30% timeshare in the neighbours dog. A larger than usual spaniel, the one I've apparently seen before, usually confused about which door to head for. The scene is a familiar one and my mind races in an attempt to recollect the creature under discussion and fails miserably. "Black and white?" "Brown. You must remember him. You've seen him." I acquiesce demurely, with a soupçon of absentmindedness. "I must have."
"She's asthmatic, and they were thinking of giving the dog away, but the boys were really sad and Mr. Singhania really loves the dog, so they asked if we'd like to keep it, but I said, No! we're old, but he can spend some time at our place. Actually, I just don't think she likes dogs at all and she's a hypochondriac. The whole flat is being done and there's cement all over, so obviously she doesn't like dogs." Clearly. I ask what the dimwit is called. "Cuddles." I shudder delicately. Perhaps it's the breed that encourages daft names like this (like Sweetie is to Poms, Cuddles and Flakes is to cockers).
The sloppy spaniel is apparently still trying to come to grips with it's equation with Ba. His ultimate mission is to win over Ba. It is an uncertain relationship - Ba is happy to say "Ha ha, hellooo doggie...", even wave and chuckle at it, but doesn't like to be licked or have dog attached to his persona. Naturally, it makes the mutt even more curiously determined to know the big man better, albeit trepediaciously (I believe the story justifies a creative juste mot!). I grin, remembering the sight of a 6'3" suited man waving goodbye to two tail wagging 8" puppies, yipping around his briefcase, with strict instructions to behave.
Ma believes the poor chap is bored. He wants to play, but my folks are too old to be arsed and launches into his support system; The gentleman is hardly home, the boys have squash lessons, tuitions, school, blah, blah, and aunty hates dogs, but the money they spend on the critter. The mutt has his own maid, personal trainer and weekly beauty salon appointments. Hmmmm. I suggest with the utmost seriousness that my mother edify his mind with some duet chanting. Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf, Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf.... Her gurgle of laughter somewhat ruins her admonishment of my frivolity. Her ear splitting demand as to who the dog was left with negates my curiosity as to the lack of canine vocalisation in the background. They've been leaving the mutt with the folks longer and longer each day, so Minu the Scary has taken an executive decision and sent him straight back.
Reluctantly, I confess to a concall in 90 seconds and bid my parent a fond farewell. What yellow dolphin?????
Life imitating art?
Darkness has it’s own urgency, and the moment is lost forever. The threat of melodrama is only ever a hint away from the surface, and it takes all my skill and discipline (which I lack in woeful quantities) to not let it erupt. Is it Salome’s brutality, the sight of my own blood oozing, viscous, thick, dark, magnetic, hypnotic, a LSD inducing combination of sugar, Earl Grey and Darjeeling throughout the day, hormones or Anthony Capella? Perhaps, all of the above.
I am unsure of my reaction to Anthony Capella. I’m repelled as much as I’m attracted to his style. Unable to put it down. Unable to complete it. I’m enthralled. The precision, beauty and easy fluidity of his words suck me into his world, the crude sexuality a jarring contrast. His visceral portrait of the gouging of the forest repels me, and I have to shut the book, unable to stomach the destruction. The eternal paradox, in a combination not unlike the various flavours of his coffee. It is extreme, incongruous yet oddly real. Discordant yet belonging. It upsets the balance, leaves me ambivalent, torn between the feral, the spiritual and the real. I retreat to the more comfortable world of Amit Chaudhuri, but it leaves me unsatisfied, mind whirring, the scent of blood and Africa in my nostrils. I want to sink my teeth into flesh, gouge it, taste the blood.
I am unsure of my reaction to Anthony Capella. I’m repelled as much as I’m attracted to his style. Unable to put it down. Unable to complete it. I’m enthralled. The precision, beauty and easy fluidity of his words suck me into his world, the crude sexuality a jarring contrast. His visceral portrait of the gouging of the forest repels me, and I have to shut the book, unable to stomach the destruction. The eternal paradox, in a combination not unlike the various flavours of his coffee. It is extreme, incongruous yet oddly real. Discordant yet belonging. It upsets the balance, leaves me ambivalent, torn between the feral, the spiritual and the real. I retreat to the more comfortable world of Amit Chaudhuri, but it leaves me unsatisfied, mind whirring, the scent of blood and Africa in my nostrils. I want to sink my teeth into flesh, gouge it, taste the blood.
Preordained randomness
My pen flows over the paper, the thoughts unclear, but the need compelling to write a letter, forming an unseen connection with the recipient. Others see a lone woman writing, but I’m not alone, I’m talking albeit more of a monologue, but even that gives me pause as I see a mouth curl, a nose wrinkle in irritation at what I’ve written. Who would I be if it wasn’t for the people in my life who have touched me? Shaped me. In anger, sorrow, love, joy, hope. The eternal question, is it all neatly laid out or a random series of events. Another paradox I struggle with. I like the randomness of it (3 shuffles sort of gives the game away) but yet, there is a strong sense of what is right, so how random is it. Perhaps movies with alternate endings, except you have choices at every step like those infernal build as you go along stories that drive me insane. Crossroads, different directions to take, each one leading you to another series of roads, right, left, up, down… An endless map, already drawn, the randomness limited to the choices you make on your journey. Is that truly random, or a mere calculated risk? Or could a meteor come crashing down and obliterate the map. Destroying life, creating life. Is this new life then utterly random, or again the choices you make pre-destined. Any gambler will tell you there will be a system to beat the odds, win against the house. Art imitating life?
Moments and memories
The frizzy blond haired giant jiggles against my chair, his presence impinging into my space despite a couple of shuffles in the opposite direction to ward it off. I do not like people around me like this. When I’m in the mood for solitude as I read my book, write my letter, inhale the fragrance of my tea, smile at the green vista, interrupted by colourful roofs in front of me. Yet, even in solitude, to be able to share the things that make you smile, is to double the pleasure it affords you. The sun valiantly struggles to pierce through the clouds, filtering through the leaves that dance in the lilting breeze. The light catching the purity and innocence of the fresh green of a new leaf, fluttering, playing with the darker, knowing shade of green. A perfect moment that makes you still, a smile teasing the corners of your mouth, and it makes me wish I could paint it, wanting to capture the magic so I can carry it with me when I leave, a memory to hoard in my Pandora’s box when I’m in Singapore. The moment continues, but I know there is only here and now. No past. No future. I breathe it in deeply, tasting it, loving it, living it. The joy unsullied, but I would have liked to have shared this perfect moment with someone. A shared smile, a shared appreciation. That’s the thing with perfect moments and life.
The slinky sleuth strikes again
‘Where are you? I have a dinner at Mary’s and am headed in that direction’. Unsuspecting words, little does he know that I’m subtly scoping Mary’s front door even as his voice tails off, nonchalantly sipping on my fourth cup of tea. An innocuous tourist, enjoying a semi sunny day at Little Venice, pausing to smile at the long boats slipping underneath into the tunnel, intermittently scrawling a letter to an old friend. I assure the voice that no one has entered or exited the building in the past couple of hours. A weighty copy of Amit Chaudhuri’s Immortals transmogrifies what could have otherwise been a suspicious newspaper wielding Russian spy episode, and my lazy glances over the top of the book at the blond Mohawk threatening a passage towards Mary’s door goes unnoticed. It is a skill. One I have in abundance, to slink into my surroundings, to become one with it. The distinctive aroma of French fries curls towards me from the adjoining table, momentarily distracting me from my vigil. Twenty five minutes to the rendez vous. I ask for the check but their swipe machine isn’t working. A lightning assessment of the situation has me reaching for the phone, casually suggesting an earlier bus stop and cash. Flawless. Mission accomplished.
Salome
Possibly my last trip to the Royal Opera House, so I pull out all the stops. This time, I am surrounded by other formal wear, but it feels unnatural not to be hit from altitude sickness as we head for the Grand Tier. Uncharted territory. I have no clue where the bars are, if they have glasses of water on the ready, where the loos are, the ice cream, the sandwich platters on offer…. It is disconcerting to be able to view the actors faces so closely, yet be unable to marvel at the splendour of the venue. This is one of my favourite buildings in London, and despite the flawless line of sight to the stage, I feel cheated at not being able to enjoy the majesty of its interiors or wallow at the glorious glass façade during the interval.
Salome. The image of the forbidden dance of the seven veils, debauchery at its ultimate. Something I’ve always been intensely, even voyeuristically curious about. I’ve never associated unbridled eroticism with Opera. Full frontal nudity as the curtain goes up feels more gratuitous than erotic. As we move on, conflicting emotions overtake me. Boredom, disenchantment with the music (German operas were never my favourite), revulsion at Salome’s truculent waywardness, the shocking depravity of her demands. Yet, the characters feel more like caricatures, and I don’t feel any passionate link with them or the moment. The stark violence and blatant sexuality that ought to gratify all your baser instincts, left me unfulfilled. The dance of the is a waste of space. Even the scene of the execution, the magnificent naked body of the executioner (no frontal nudity for the men), taut, powerful muscles covered in blood failed to move me.
Yet, Salome’s obstinacy of demand, Jochanaan’s head is both appalling and compelling. It is the sight of the lustrous blood saturating the pristine white of Salome’s undergarment, the stark contrast growing from stains transferred from the executioner to a river of red staining her front, alive, gleaming wetly, beckoning to the feral within that stays with me.
Salome. The image of the forbidden dance of the seven veils, debauchery at its ultimate. Something I’ve always been intensely, even voyeuristically curious about. I’ve never associated unbridled eroticism with Opera. Full frontal nudity as the curtain goes up feels more gratuitous than erotic. As we move on, conflicting emotions overtake me. Boredom, disenchantment with the music (German operas were never my favourite), revulsion at Salome’s truculent waywardness, the shocking depravity of her demands. Yet, the characters feel more like caricatures, and I don’t feel any passionate link with them or the moment. The stark violence and blatant sexuality that ought to gratify all your baser instincts, left me unfulfilled. The dance of the is a waste of space. Even the scene of the execution, the magnificent naked body of the executioner (no frontal nudity for the men), taut, powerful muscles covered in blood failed to move me.
Yet, Salome’s obstinacy of demand, Jochanaan’s head is both appalling and compelling. It is the sight of the lustrous blood saturating the pristine white of Salome’s undergarment, the stark contrast growing from stains transferred from the executioner to a river of red staining her front, alive, gleaming wetly, beckoning to the feral within that stays with me.
BtB
The phone call seals my fate. Singapore it shall be. The nervous knot in the pit of my stomach roils uneasily. A new start. Alone. The chance to fix something excites me. Leaving Aashish behind scares me. Then there’s a part of me that just wants to go home. Siiigh. The fundamental flaw of having a motto that goes, "Be Bold. Be Brave." Gah! Me and my big mouth.
Letting go
It's like watching a stricken hand, gnarled with rheumatism being prised open. One finger at a time, slow, painful, resisting. Forcefully holding it open, digits claw like, shaking in denial. The lines on the palms now reluctantly visible. The thumping heartbeat helplessly acknowledges the futility of fighting, the body surrendering to the inevitable.
Under the Sun
The Dutchman is one of those rarities. Someone with who time has no meaning. For nothing that you say is out of bounds, nor do you ever run out of things to talk about. The subject is irrelevant. We will have an opinion and a spirited debate, even if we are in agreement. Nuclear fission, rain forests, S&M, handmade chocolate, sustainability, REM sleep, F1, pancakes, unemployment, theology, defence budget, Schrödinger’s cat, Galapagos islands, children, risk management, cycling, red wine, Opera…. and now, knitting. One of the few things about this city that I will miss.
Basic instinct
I’ve always acknowledged with ease, that it’s but a fine veneer of civilisation separating man from his fellow animals. I’ve been comfortable with my own feral disposition that breaks its way through now and again. Yet, the recognition of a dormant primal instinct in oneself is still horribly startling. I’m not shocked at the violence of its manifestation, violence is part of who I am, but rather the undeniably primordial nature of the call. Insanity. Reality.
Scarf of Stress
While a blossoming blue toe is not convivial to a tramp across Hampstead Heath, it does poetically blend in curled up on Somya's grey sofa, as we recover from a day of shopping, drinking and eating. I eye the mildly antiseptic disposition of the pale green wool that tickles my feet. A scarf. For Nikki. The knitting needles bring back memories of Didi and her incredible handiwork, Aunty L's fabulous sweaters, and my fingers reach out to caress the strands that have been woven together. Somya urges me to have a go.... and curiosity drives me to pick up the needles. It's been too long to even remember, but my hands hesitantly draw them against each other, finger twirling the strand around. My movements are timid and slow. Too tight, is Somya's stern pronouncement as she unravels my efforts. I abandon the effort, focusing on one of my most favourite women instead, wishing I could steal some of her serenity and grace. Somya nudges me towards another attempt, but I tell her I failed a home science class because I couldn't find anyone to crochet for me (my mother being the worst seamstress/cook on the planet, and Ba, while skilled at chefness, threading needles and doing buttons, ignored when it came to art of stupid lace type things) make her watch a silly French film instead. It's gone 2 am, and the scarf of stress is progressing prodigiously. We're both tired, but reluctant to go to bed.
Morning brings with it the heavenly scent of Makaibari, and I cave into Somya's suggestion of another go. I feel more relaxed than the night before, and the memory flows more fluidly through my fingers, in, loop, out, under, over.... the needles clack repetitively, and a spot check declares it loose enough to pass muster. My hands pick up their pace, more confident now, and my mind is lulled into a sense of security, surrounded by the comforting sounds of domesticity from Somya in the kitchen, Nina banging around in the bathroom as the needles clack on. The scarf of stress takes on a life of its own, fingers flying faster, mind wandering as random thoughts flit through. Didi's mastery with the costumes for Wonder Girl, secrets shared with P, Sammy's skinny arms wrapping around my neck in a goodnight hug, sitting in a jeep in the pelting rain with Sachin, Amit, Chetan and Aashish, crying ourselves silly, bhutta in the rain after school, a deeply embarrassing oversight of a blatantly obvious TV in a room, the excruciating burning of an allegedly healing spray on broken skin, a leg broken in 11 places, friends, family, laughter, tears. Incidents replay them in my mind randomly, heart surging frighteningly, calming, hands never still and it crosses my mind, that this is what the cliché means.... the tapestry of life, being woven into fabric. Maybe this is how they feel, what their shawls, kelims and other handiwork represent.. flashes from their lives, running through to their fingers as they weave.
Somya inspects my contribution to the scarf of stress. Hmmm... loose, tight, loose, perfect, tight.... my state of mind, moments of my life, now part of a flowing piece of knitwear. What we say, what we hide, what we feel....
Morning brings with it the heavenly scent of Makaibari, and I cave into Somya's suggestion of another go. I feel more relaxed than the night before, and the memory flows more fluidly through my fingers, in, loop, out, under, over.... the needles clack repetitively, and a spot check declares it loose enough to pass muster. My hands pick up their pace, more confident now, and my mind is lulled into a sense of security, surrounded by the comforting sounds of domesticity from Somya in the kitchen, Nina banging around in the bathroom as the needles clack on. The scarf of stress takes on a life of its own, fingers flying faster, mind wandering as random thoughts flit through. Didi's mastery with the costumes for Wonder Girl, secrets shared with P, Sammy's skinny arms wrapping around my neck in a goodnight hug, sitting in a jeep in the pelting rain with Sachin, Amit, Chetan and Aashish, crying ourselves silly, bhutta in the rain after school, a deeply embarrassing oversight of a blatantly obvious TV in a room, the excruciating burning of an allegedly healing spray on broken skin, a leg broken in 11 places, friends, family, laughter, tears. Incidents replay them in my mind randomly, heart surging frighteningly, calming, hands never still and it crosses my mind, that this is what the cliché means.... the tapestry of life, being woven into fabric. Maybe this is how they feel, what their shawls, kelims and other handiwork represent.. flashes from their lives, running through to their fingers as they weave.
Somya inspects my contribution to the scarf of stress. Hmmm... loose, tight, loose, perfect, tight.... my state of mind, moments of my life, now part of a flowing piece of knitwear. What we say, what we hide, what we feel....
Battle of the Sexes
I have no idea where it began, but soon enough, my inbox was littered with challenges, bravado, threats, sneers.... the gauntlet thrown, and smacked handily back. A girls vs. boys Netball challenge very loosely disguised as a team bonding event. Apparently something to distract us from the sorry year the recession has brought on. Riiiight. Or in other words as überboss declares, it's to inflict total humiliation upon Kim for having the effrontery to even suggest the men would do anything other than annihilate the fairer lot.
Statistically, we didn't stand a chance. But clearly, no one had assessed the stats before the challenge was issued. The men outnumber the women more than 2:1 in not just numbers but height! For some peculiar reason, the vast number of females in client solutions seem to be vertically terminated at under 5 feet! Not exactly the qualification one would seek when banding together a team for a game that involves shooting at a hoop some distance above the extended arms of someone 6 feet tall. Apparently, Netball being a 'woman's' sport gives us the edge. Hmmmmm. I suppose that could be proffered as sound argument, had more than just 2 actually ever played it. I have yet to understand why we would have chosen to challenge the males to a game that none of the women know how to play! Suffice to say, by the time we boarded the tube bound for our destiny, we were au courant with the fact that each side fielded 7 players.
A few dubious 'are you sure we ought to be following Brakey and Tony - do they even know where they're going' later, we find the Netball court, and have a blink of an eye briefing. You can't hold the ball for more than 3 seconds. You can't run with the ball. You cannot come closer than 3 feet to your opponent. You can't leave your section of the court. You can't bounce the ball. So what the fuck can you do then? Oh, you can take one step with the other foot...! We are so gonna get creamed. I'm given a bib with GS on it. Think that was Goal Shooter (although why anyone would want to call a basket a goal is beyond my limited comprehension). Naturally, I'm stuck in my third with Guy. Like it isn't enough for us to spend all day together, we're shoving and treading all over each other in an attempt to bond more!
Needless to say, the girls got creamed. I cannot tell you what the score was, but suffice to say we had only 1 on our side, and Guy and I were mostly bored in our third as all the action happened at the other end. To be fair, we did enjoy our vantage position rather too much, the sight of 4 foot nothing Kelly ineffectually leaping with arms outstretched and missing Charlie's armpits, Vanessa being spun around before turning invisible behind a stolid G child... Mercifully, the hysterical giggles prevailed and we swapped to mixed teams and some more serious sweating. I haven't run around and panted at a game in more than 20 years I think, and I'm glad to report that my philosophy towards life is safe and sound (as a gentle reminder, that would be, I don't care about being fit because we're all going to die....). I am built for speed and I hassle Michael as much as I can amidst chuckles at my persistent flaunting of the you can't move with the ball rule, before tagging to get off court prior to my expiry (and no, I feel not the slightest shame at seeing how fit everyone else is!).
I returned on court with a flourish as the GD (Goal Defender, naturally) and with some superb athleticism from Matt, kept our score flawless, and I even refrained from knocking Lexi off her feet several times. Unfortunately, my last overenthusiastic defense knocked the goal off kilter, and ensured a swollen ankle that took me off play. Flushed, sweaty and exhilarated, I hobble along with the now very well bonded team to the pub. A gradual wind down, a toast to our gauntlet thrower, a promise of making this an annual event and some ardent beseeching to the organisers of the next bonding event for something a little less physically demanding (and it wasn't even me! My vote's for contact sport..) and some hideous Marmite covered snacks later, I leave the party.
It is karma that my shower decides to go on strike and tepid water soon turns to freezing, scuttling my plans of a relaxing bath, and I'm left to minister a bag of frozen chips to my bulbous ankle as I ply myself with spaghetti with quattro formaggi, before contemplating a splint for my throbbing big toe, now cleverly disguised as a smurf. This morning, I ignore Pascale's suggestion that I stick to pilates as she spies my blue toe perkily peeking from my chappals at work and throw dirty looks at Mr. half a leg in a plastic brace on his rather rude comments about my footwear. Next time, I'll remember to cut my nails and get better fitting sneakers... Bring it on boys!
Statistically, we didn't stand a chance. But clearly, no one had assessed the stats before the challenge was issued. The men outnumber the women more than 2:1 in not just numbers but height! For some peculiar reason, the vast number of females in client solutions seem to be vertically terminated at under 5 feet! Not exactly the qualification one would seek when banding together a team for a game that involves shooting at a hoop some distance above the extended arms of someone 6 feet tall. Apparently, Netball being a 'woman's' sport gives us the edge. Hmmmmm. I suppose that could be proffered as sound argument, had more than just 2 actually ever played it. I have yet to understand why we would have chosen to challenge the males to a game that none of the women know how to play! Suffice to say, by the time we boarded the tube bound for our destiny, we were au courant with the fact that each side fielded 7 players.
A few dubious 'are you sure we ought to be following Brakey and Tony - do they even know where they're going' later, we find the Netball court, and have a blink of an eye briefing. You can't hold the ball for more than 3 seconds. You can't run with the ball. You cannot come closer than 3 feet to your opponent. You can't leave your section of the court. You can't bounce the ball. So what the fuck can you do then? Oh, you can take one step with the other foot...! We are so gonna get creamed. I'm given a bib with GS on it. Think that was Goal Shooter (although why anyone would want to call a basket a goal is beyond my limited comprehension). Naturally, I'm stuck in my third with Guy. Like it isn't enough for us to spend all day together, we're shoving and treading all over each other in an attempt to bond more!
Needless to say, the girls got creamed. I cannot tell you what the score was, but suffice to say we had only 1 on our side, and Guy and I were mostly bored in our third as all the action happened at the other end. To be fair, we did enjoy our vantage position rather too much, the sight of 4 foot nothing Kelly ineffectually leaping with arms outstretched and missing Charlie's armpits, Vanessa being spun around before turning invisible behind a stolid G child... Mercifully, the hysterical giggles prevailed and we swapped to mixed teams and some more serious sweating. I haven't run around and panted at a game in more than 20 years I think, and I'm glad to report that my philosophy towards life is safe and sound (as a gentle reminder, that would be, I don't care about being fit because we're all going to die....). I am built for speed and I hassle Michael as much as I can amidst chuckles at my persistent flaunting of the you can't move with the ball rule, before tagging to get off court prior to my expiry (and no, I feel not the slightest shame at seeing how fit everyone else is!).
I returned on court with a flourish as the GD (Goal Defender, naturally) and with some superb athleticism from Matt, kept our score flawless, and I even refrained from knocking Lexi off her feet several times. Unfortunately, my last overenthusiastic defense knocked the goal off kilter, and ensured a swollen ankle that took me off play. Flushed, sweaty and exhilarated, I hobble along with the now very well bonded team to the pub. A gradual wind down, a toast to our gauntlet thrower, a promise of making this an annual event and some ardent beseeching to the organisers of the next bonding event for something a little less physically demanding (and it wasn't even me! My vote's for contact sport..) and some hideous Marmite covered snacks later, I leave the party.
It is karma that my shower decides to go on strike and tepid water soon turns to freezing, scuttling my plans of a relaxing bath, and I'm left to minister a bag of frozen chips to my bulbous ankle as I ply myself with spaghetti with quattro formaggi, before contemplating a splint for my throbbing big toe, now cleverly disguised as a smurf. This morning, I ignore Pascale's suggestion that I stick to pilates as she spies my blue toe perkily peeking from my chappals at work and throw dirty looks at Mr. half a leg in a plastic brace on his rather rude comments about my footwear. Next time, I'll remember to cut my nails and get better fitting sneakers... Bring it on boys!
The baptism of Barbara Benedetta Borgese
An impressive introduction to a grouchy little git, with a permafrown - What a perfect child! The full implication of the FDG's pretty pink invite only sinks in later.... not only do I break out in panic at the thought of having to mingle with strangers, and do it with some modicum of having acquired the appropriate social skills, I have never actually been to a christening before, despite my smattering of godchildren, fake and otherwise. Frantic questions as to what would be considered appropriate attire for such a momentous occasion, why a silver spoon would be an uplifting gift elicit entirely unhelpful responses from the likes of Jimmy C and slightly better ones from the mother of my first fake goddaughter. My plans to import exotica from India is scuppered by my couriers negligent approach to going to Bangalore for a business meeting and I'm left to fend for myself.
Sunday dawns with the promise of continued sunshine and a healthy debate ensues over the appropriateness of a halter neck at church, footwear and the most fetching colour. I astound myself with ensemble that includes hot pink high heels, pashmina and clutch bag and sally forth for my first encounter of a spiritual kind (I was deemed 'unsuitable' to offer any sort of spiritual guidance to my first fake godchild, and given the bent of my life of late, my resentment at that slight has abated considerably). The tinny announcement as we pull into Baker Street turns my insouciance into scowling annoyance as I anxiously assess alternate routes to get me to the church on time. A 20 minute journey turns into an hour long one, not intended for pretty pink shoes, via the scenic route of the taxi stand at St. Pancreas. But, I am in time!
I wonder just how sweaty and windswept I look as I ignore the suspiciously wary glances of the buxom, high heeled ladies outside the church, and head inside. Thankfully, I barely have time to take in the vastness of the interior when I hear my FDG bearing down on me. Hallelujah! An introduction to Marushka bolsters my confidence and the day begins to look less fraught. I look around in appreciation somewhat confused at the sheer numbers filling the pews, and wonder why so many people have brought their babies all dressed ready to be dunked. The penny makes nary a move when the FDG urges us to move behind so we’re sat with the family. It is a bit odd that her mom and sister are so far behind… but once again, I’m distracted by the sight of bare shoulders, backs and chests.
I struggle to keep my mouth shut at the sight of a pair of lactating breasts spilling out of a flimsy bit of jersey – the classic chav strapless, unsure whether Jesus would find the display offensive, but curious about gravity. Marushka agrees and we stare unabashedly as more of the same totter by, my mouth giving way at the sight of a 52DD display, long into menopause, most disturbingly thrust up as cleavage of the most frightening sort. I have never seen so many massively boobed women gathered in a single place anywhere, let alone a place of worship. Anna does have some eclectic friends…… The smiley priests take the floor and Cha Ching…! the penny finally does drop, as they proceed with roll call and I realise the big boobied clan belong to another baby. Who knew it was going to be an assembly line of tots waiting to be sprinkled?
5 babies, 2 priests, 10 parents, 16-18 godparents and a bevy of assorted family, friends and wailing children. All is revealed (no pun intended!). BB, Maria, Lucrezia, Daniel and an older boy dwarfed by the splendour of the beautiful interiors. The ceremony proceeds, the choir and organ resounding through the cavernous hall and you can’t help but beam at the sight of the scowling little face. Corrine reads beautifully, prayers are said and the children are dunked in the holy water. The little boy forgoes his tears at having an impromptu hair wash when he’s lifted high to applause from the rest of us. There is something so fundamental about the gesture, like Musfasa with that whiny Simba, as the babies are held aloft for the world to acknowledge, with pride, love and joy. Naturally, BB and her momma get the catcalls and loudest applause. The entourage then form a cavalcade and finally come down the aisle, and there is something in that, which touches something inside me and the sight of a radiant FDG holding BB in chuck away mode, flanked by Giuseppe and Corrine moves me to tears. Her billion watt smile as she bat her lashes furiously makes the lump in my throat grow and I find myself wishing I wasn't there alone, that there was a hand to tangle with mine, sharing this beautiful moment, wishing I had what they did.
Duly baptised, the rest of the day is now devoted to much alcohol, loads of laughter and vast quantities of food! Certainly a 4th of July celebration I will remember for a long time! All Hail....... Barabara Benedetta Borgese!
Sunday dawns with the promise of continued sunshine and a healthy debate ensues over the appropriateness of a halter neck at church, footwear and the most fetching colour. I astound myself with ensemble that includes hot pink high heels, pashmina and clutch bag and sally forth for my first encounter of a spiritual kind (I was deemed 'unsuitable' to offer any sort of spiritual guidance to my first fake godchild, and given the bent of my life of late, my resentment at that slight has abated considerably). The tinny announcement as we pull into Baker Street turns my insouciance into scowling annoyance as I anxiously assess alternate routes to get me to the church on time. A 20 minute journey turns into an hour long one, not intended for pretty pink shoes, via the scenic route of the taxi stand at St. Pancreas. But, I am in time!
I wonder just how sweaty and windswept I look as I ignore the suspiciously wary glances of the buxom, high heeled ladies outside the church, and head inside. Thankfully, I barely have time to take in the vastness of the interior when I hear my FDG bearing down on me. Hallelujah! An introduction to Marushka bolsters my confidence and the day begins to look less fraught. I look around in appreciation somewhat confused at the sheer numbers filling the pews, and wonder why so many people have brought their babies all dressed ready to be dunked. The penny makes nary a move when the FDG urges us to move behind so we’re sat with the family. It is a bit odd that her mom and sister are so far behind… but once again, I’m distracted by the sight of bare shoulders, backs and chests.
I struggle to keep my mouth shut at the sight of a pair of lactating breasts spilling out of a flimsy bit of jersey – the classic chav strapless, unsure whether Jesus would find the display offensive, but curious about gravity. Marushka agrees and we stare unabashedly as more of the same totter by, my mouth giving way at the sight of a 52DD display, long into menopause, most disturbingly thrust up as cleavage of the most frightening sort. I have never seen so many massively boobed women gathered in a single place anywhere, let alone a place of worship. Anna does have some eclectic friends…… The smiley priests take the floor and Cha Ching…! the penny finally does drop, as they proceed with roll call and I realise the big boobied clan belong to another baby. Who knew it was going to be an assembly line of tots waiting to be sprinkled?
5 babies, 2 priests, 10 parents, 16-18 godparents and a bevy of assorted family, friends and wailing children. All is revealed (no pun intended!). BB, Maria, Lucrezia, Daniel and an older boy dwarfed by the splendour of the beautiful interiors. The ceremony proceeds, the choir and organ resounding through the cavernous hall and you can’t help but beam at the sight of the scowling little face. Corrine reads beautifully, prayers are said and the children are dunked in the holy water. The little boy forgoes his tears at having an impromptu hair wash when he’s lifted high to applause from the rest of us. There is something so fundamental about the gesture, like Musfasa with that whiny Simba, as the babies are held aloft for the world to acknowledge, with pride, love and joy. Naturally, BB and her momma get the catcalls and loudest applause. The entourage then form a cavalcade and finally come down the aisle, and there is something in that, which touches something inside me and the sight of a radiant FDG holding BB in chuck away mode, flanked by Giuseppe and Corrine moves me to tears. Her billion watt smile as she bat her lashes furiously makes the lump in my throat grow and I find myself wishing I wasn't there alone, that there was a hand to tangle with mine, sharing this beautiful moment, wishing I had what they did.
Duly baptised, the rest of the day is now devoted to much alcohol, loads of laughter and vast quantities of food! Certainly a 4th of July celebration I will remember for a long time! All Hail....... Barabara Benedetta Borgese!
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