Ha Ha!! I've realised the "gym" is totally online - I have but to log in to 'my locker' to unleash it's power. I can book classes online, get put on a "watch list" for classes that are already booked, and view my schedule. Also, when I book a class online, it sends me an email reminder which can be saved into my calendar. Too much nice!!! I get swept away by this discovery and start booking classes and putting myself on watchlists for that elusive and unreasonably popular 'anti-gravity' yoga. I get rather competitive and keep checking every few minutes to see how my watchlist is doing..... sucess! 1 spot pops up for the anti-gravity and I swoop in to book it!
Which is why, I'm now standing in front of a hammock suspended from the ceiling questioning my enthusiasm. Apparently, hanging upside down helps you look younger... something about blood rushing to the thyroid glands and such like. Personally, to me, this is just a fad that's taken a life of it's own, but I have to admit, as the class progresses, I start enjoying it... when I did regular yoga, I never did the head stands, but with the fabric taking all the weight and effort out of it, it's a piece of cake and I blithely hang upside down and even do the swinging giraffe. Surprisingly, the end where one snuggles into the hammock and wraps it around like a cocoon to bend and stretch before just laying there gently swaying in the dark, doesn't make me nauseous and I rather enjoy it.
Hot yoga, however, is a different ball of string. Again, the thrill of discovery of the virtual booking system has me in hot water. Almost literally. I take my cue from the others in the room and fetch a large towel and a glass of water. 50 minutes of yoga done far to quickly for my liking, with no correction for positions, broken up surya namaskars, and drops of sweat pit-patting on to my towel results in a mental note to self. Either go back to a proper yoga institute or try and regular temperature sweaty classes where you might lose some calories!
A new freshly laundered towel awaits, and this time I return from my shower to the appropriate locker to find all my belongings intact. That bit of normalcy propels me to check out my weight and as I toss my towel and step onto the offending piece of machinery that sent me to class despite myself, lo and behold! I seem to have shed another 1.4 kilos since my last check, bringing it to a grand total of 2.4 kilos in week 1. Clearly, sweat accounts for a lot more weight than I'd given it credit for :).
Guess I will be back on Sunday for another torturous session of Zumba.
Alice steps into the twilight zone
A session with my personal trainer Jake who tells me if I intend to walk on the treadmill, I may not as well bother (Gee thanks!), followed by a half hour of Zumba leave me legless. I head for the locker room and my favourite part, the shower and towel off. I return to find my sweaty stuff lying outside my locker, which is open .... and empty. Tilt head, teeny frown as brain tries to process the visual information. Did I not lock the locker when I left for my PT session? Admittedly I was in a rush, but.... I did take my clothes off to change when I got here. I distinctly remember neatly putting down watch, phone, poddy... even hanging up my shirt, but the locker is emptier than Mother Hubbard's cupboard. Bewilderment rules and I wonder if some good samaritan has taken all the stuff up to reception in an pre-emptive move at temptation to others? I can understand my phone and wallet being knocked, but who on earth would want my sandals? Or my pants??
Security and I have a confab and she thinks I might have mistaken my locker and we try my card on several others around it, but no luck. I'm pretty damn sure that I had the corner locker. She heads upstairs to inform the management and I hang around in my towel, contemplating what would happen if my stuff wasn't at reception. Hmmmmm. No phone. No keys. The only numbers I know by heart are non Singaporean. I guess I can go up and ask to use the net and try and email Prithi. Oh. No top either. One of the reception staff comes back and we go through the whole exercise again. Apparently it's happened before and it's always a case of mistaken locker. Still now joy and I'm truly at a loss to explain why someone would take my clothes, shoes and rucksack with salad. My body is tired and simply doesn't care anymore. I decide to get dressed and figure out how to get into my house... unfortunately, there are no 'XL's left and the 'L' I've picked doesn't want to cooperate. I finally manage to fight my way into it, don my sweaty tracks and sneakers and head upstairs.
I log in and send an email to PM and Rashmi to tell her I'm unlikely to be able to join the concall in 10 min. Luckily I find CF online and tell him of my bizarre dilemma and get PM's number. The very helpful young woman lends me her mobile and even says I can call overseas. Naturally, PM refuses to answer. Siiigh. It's now 8.17 pm and I'm wondering if there'd be anyone at work that could let me in to retrieve my spare keycard. I try PM a couple of more times, except I'm dialing my own mobile! Luckily, this happens when chirpy chickie comes to check on me, and she has the brilliant idea to call in the locker room while I'm wondering if I need to cancel cards and file a police report. I decide to head to the office anyway, and tell CF - I can always come back here if no one's left at work.... Chirpy chickie bounces back beaming.... there's a locker ringing downstairs. Hallelujah!
I follow her downstairs, and guess what.... it's the corner locker.... but the other corner!! Dear Lord. Senility has already come to claim me. A long day perhaps, and 90 minutes at the gym has completely scrambled my brain into puzzling why anyone would steal my shoes and my salad..... seriously...I need to get some sleep and some memory pills. My gratitude is heartfelt and my embarrassment complete. I am now officially one of those women who would lose her head if it wasn't attached to her neck! The "gym" experience has clearly sent me straight into the arms of the early onset of dementia.
Security and I have a confab and she thinks I might have mistaken my locker and we try my card on several others around it, but no luck. I'm pretty damn sure that I had the corner locker. She heads upstairs to inform the management and I hang around in my towel, contemplating what would happen if my stuff wasn't at reception. Hmmmmm. No phone. No keys. The only numbers I know by heart are non Singaporean. I guess I can go up and ask to use the net and try and email Prithi. Oh. No top either. One of the reception staff comes back and we go through the whole exercise again. Apparently it's happened before and it's always a case of mistaken locker. Still now joy and I'm truly at a loss to explain why someone would take my clothes, shoes and rucksack with salad. My body is tired and simply doesn't care anymore. I decide to get dressed and figure out how to get into my house... unfortunately, there are no 'XL's left and the 'L' I've picked doesn't want to cooperate. I finally manage to fight my way into it, don my sweaty tracks and sneakers and head upstairs.
I log in and send an email to PM and Rashmi to tell her I'm unlikely to be able to join the concall in 10 min. Luckily I find CF online and tell him of my bizarre dilemma and get PM's number. The very helpful young woman lends me her mobile and even says I can call overseas. Naturally, PM refuses to answer. Siiigh. It's now 8.17 pm and I'm wondering if there'd be anyone at work that could let me in to retrieve my spare keycard. I try PM a couple of more times, except I'm dialing my own mobile! Luckily, this happens when chirpy chickie comes to check on me, and she has the brilliant idea to call in the locker room while I'm wondering if I need to cancel cards and file a police report. I decide to head to the office anyway, and tell CF - I can always come back here if no one's left at work.... Chirpy chickie bounces back beaming.... there's a locker ringing downstairs. Hallelujah!
I follow her downstairs, and guess what.... it's the corner locker.... but the other corner!! Dear Lord. Senility has already come to claim me. A long day perhaps, and 90 minutes at the gym has completely scrambled my brain into puzzling why anyone would steal my shoes and my salad..... seriously...I need to get some sleep and some memory pills. My gratitude is heartfelt and my embarrassment complete. I am now officially one of those women who would lose her head if it wasn't attached to her neck! The "gym" experience has clearly sent me straight into the arms of the early onset of dementia.
Alice in Wonderland - say what?!
The mysterious world of the "gym" continues to fascinate me, and I enjoy slathering Heavenly Gingerlily all over my body. A well deserved hot shower before my calves join the litany of unexpected muscles that have been called into action after too many months. Not sure the additional 50 calories after the MTV Groove experience was such a good idea, but I felt like I needed something serious after that giggly session.
I move from Heavenly Gingerlily and cleanse and condition my hair with Heavenly Lily Pili. So much nicer. I'm tempted to us Heavenly Lily Pili on my torso, but a fear of encouraging lustrous hair tither gives me pause. I debate the risk of using the Heavenly shampoo and conditioner on my legs, but my fear is deep rooted and years of waxing has done little to allay that fear. I reluctantly refrain and rest content with Heavenly Lily Pili on my head. Yep. I just like to say it. Heavenly Lily Pili. Lily Pili. Lily Pili. Lily Pili. How marvelously silly.
As I dress for my departure, I read a notice about lockers for shoes. Hmmmm. This could be handy - give them a home instead of carting them back and forth every day. I can see them at the bottom of the lockers and my desire for them is inversely proportional to the number that's still left on offer. Still, bolone mein kya jata re kicks in and I inquire with the reception. A different chirpy chappie this time beams at me, "Of course we do". Naively, I respond with a "Great! I'd love one". "Would you like me to tell you the terms?". Alarm bells start somewhere at the back of my head. "Sure". "It's $25 down and then along with the fortnightly charges for the gym it another $15". "Are you serious - $30 a month for my shoes to live here? Oh my. It's ok, I'll just cart them around".
$25 + $15 every fortnight to rent a locker to house my shoes. a) No wonder they still have them available b) Are you fucking kidding me? c) Real estate prices in the CBD are ludicrous d) Guess I should be grateful for my otherwise exorbitant rent!
Alice in Wonderland - Torture MTV Groove style
I try to get in for a Anti Gravity Yoga class, but all of them (they had one at 7 and then another at 8.15 and that's just this evening) are booked right up to the weekend. Hmmmmmm..... naturally, now I'm dying to try one out. I suck it up and resign myself for another hour of torture. The backs of my thighs send me piteous messages. Wasn't an hour of Latin Fitness enough punishment for the double mushroom Swiss? Just give us a year... please, not two consecutive days.... I ignore them, but it's a struggle.
The class hasn't begun and the instructor chappie is Singaporean with the most ginormous butt I've seen on them. It's even bigger than mine and that's even before he mentions the fact. How is that even possible? He must be genetically modified. In the 3 years since I've moved, no one, but no one has a butt of any description in this country! How bizarre. Anyhow, we start the warm up which is peaceful, but my body stays taut anticipating the impending beating it will get. Big butt then goes off to fiddle with the music, constantly muttering to himself and doing little dance moves. Oooook. Is this normal? I look around, the other women seem sanguine, so I let it go, but I can feel a tiny frown knocking on my brow. He's back...
And he's talking about some steps. Dance steps. Step clap, pah, pah, pah.... Huh? One, two, pah, pah, pah. Excuse me? The others start following him. I keep my mouth from dropping into a gape and try and do the same. I thought this was a fitness class. Exercise, sweat. They just pump it up and you struggle to keep up. Clearly there was a misunderstanding. He does the first segment and we follow. I decide that the treadmill is my only option on a Tuesday since clearly I don't have a hope in hell at the anti gravity class. We do it with the music this time. By the third sequence, the silliness of it all gets to me and I find myself giggling, but I do the butt shaking and the hands. Steps, follow, try, try again, music, whole sequence... from the top! I never thought I'd find myself taking anything from the top with a five, six, seven, eight! but apparently I had been misinformed by destiny. We were never going to make Beyonce's back up dancers, but after several hilarious attempts, some even passable at the entire sequence, we completely botched the transition into a repeat and collectively lost the plot to spontaneous laughter. Big butt then did the whole thing with us flourish et al (he's just that sort) and demanded applause before informing us it was our turn. I swear, the woman next to me took a nervous pre performance gulp and we launched into it and jiggled our way through it twice most happily and applauded ourselves...
I'm not sure how I feel about this hour. Let's wait till next week and see....
The class hasn't begun and the instructor chappie is Singaporean with the most ginormous butt I've seen on them. It's even bigger than mine and that's even before he mentions the fact. How is that even possible? He must be genetically modified. In the 3 years since I've moved, no one, but no one has a butt of any description in this country! How bizarre. Anyhow, we start the warm up which is peaceful, but my body stays taut anticipating the impending beating it will get. Big butt then goes off to fiddle with the music, constantly muttering to himself and doing little dance moves. Oooook. Is this normal? I look around, the other women seem sanguine, so I let it go, but I can feel a tiny frown knocking on my brow. He's back...
And he's talking about some steps. Dance steps. Step clap, pah, pah, pah.... Huh? One, two, pah, pah, pah. Excuse me? The others start following him. I keep my mouth from dropping into a gape and try and do the same. I thought this was a fitness class. Exercise, sweat. They just pump it up and you struggle to keep up. Clearly there was a misunderstanding. He does the first segment and we follow. I decide that the treadmill is my only option on a Tuesday since clearly I don't have a hope in hell at the anti gravity class. We do it with the music this time. By the third sequence, the silliness of it all gets to me and I find myself giggling, but I do the butt shaking and the hands. Steps, follow, try, try again, music, whole sequence... from the top! I never thought I'd find myself taking anything from the top with a five, six, seven, eight! but apparently I had been misinformed by destiny. We were never going to make Beyonce's back up dancers, but after several hilarious attempts, some even passable at the entire sequence, we completely botched the transition into a repeat and collectively lost the plot to spontaneous laughter. Big butt then did the whole thing with us flourish et al (he's just that sort) and demanded applause before informing us it was our turn. I swear, the woman next to me took a nervous pre performance gulp and we launched into it and jiggled our way through it twice most happily and applauded ourselves...
I'm not sure how I feel about this hour. Let's wait till next week and see....
Alice in Wonderland
I don't know if it's eagerness or anxiety, but I'm early for my MTV Groove class at the "gym". I've changed into the XL clingy t-shirt (this time purple to match with my laces) and skulk around guiltily, unsure what one does in such a situation. At my pilates class, I catch up on the newest gossip on Branjelina and red carpet wow's. The floor I'm on, only has equipment and scary individuals doing really, really hard exercises, that elicit an odd combination of awe and disgust. I sidle towards the treadmills, pretending an interest, trying to decide between the static bikes and them. Luckily they have massive screens and a rather obvious start button and the woman next to the empty one is not running. Just a gentle walk, that I know I can keep up with so I take a deep breath and step on one for further investigations.
I gird my loins and jab at the orange START button. It does, slowly and gently. Ok. This is good. I find the section that alludes to speed, so I crank it up. So far so good, it's a gentle stride. I try the fabled number 6, and my thighs send up rude remarks, so I turn it down a notch. I get comfortable enough to keep the pace and check out what more is on the screen. I'd noticed one of the cyclists watching TV and I was intrigued. I find it and also realize there's a skype icon! No way!! You can chat with people on skype while you walk?? Too much nice!! Since I'm clearly a newbie sans headphones (my neighbour is plugged in), I make a mental note to ping people to log into skype for a demo at the very minimum.
The TV channels are mostly sport - golf if you can believe it (yawn), but I also do find a beautifully garish traditional Chinese soap with subtitles and get drawn in. So much more interesting than the 3 calories I've burnt so far... I can see folks gathering inside Studio 1 which is where I ought to be. They're early and I make a note to self to carry headphones next time and start checking for ways to stop this contraption 5 minutes before class begins. I'm only faintly worried at this time - what happens if I can't figure out how to stop it?!? I'm quite taken in by the rest of the technology on this machine - my memories of a treadmill are the ones where you had to start walking really, really heavily to get it to move! You've come a loooong way baby!
8 minutes before class, I'm debating what damage my credibility will suffer if I were to holler "HALP!!" in an effort to stop this machine, when my eyes rest of a large red panel button marked STOP. Aha. Maybe it is just that simple and I put my faith in the god of treadmills and go back to the soap where Missy and Huiyan are debating Ma Jiang's intentions verrry slowly. I'm at 48 calories and more people get into Studio 1. Time to crank it up and I start walking at 6 and manage to squeeze in 2 more calories before attempting the stop button and voila! It works. The machine slows down and comes to a complete halt.
My confidence wavers somewhat as does the floor when I step off it. Uh oh! I can feel the treadmill under my feet. I very gingerly step towards Studio 1 which thankfully is not that far away, but does involve negotiations with a single step. Success and my wobble across is not apparent, I think. Time for some new torture....
I gird my loins and jab at the orange START button. It does, slowly and gently. Ok. This is good. I find the section that alludes to speed, so I crank it up. So far so good, it's a gentle stride. I try the fabled number 6, and my thighs send up rude remarks, so I turn it down a notch. I get comfortable enough to keep the pace and check out what more is on the screen. I'd noticed one of the cyclists watching TV and I was intrigued. I find it and also realize there's a skype icon! No way!! You can chat with people on skype while you walk?? Too much nice!! Since I'm clearly a newbie sans headphones (my neighbour is plugged in), I make a mental note to ping people to log into skype for a demo at the very minimum.
The TV channels are mostly sport - golf if you can believe it (yawn), but I also do find a beautifully garish traditional Chinese soap with subtitles and get drawn in. So much more interesting than the 3 calories I've burnt so far... I can see folks gathering inside Studio 1 which is where I ought to be. They're early and I make a note to self to carry headphones next time and start checking for ways to stop this contraption 5 minutes before class begins. I'm only faintly worried at this time - what happens if I can't figure out how to stop it?!? I'm quite taken in by the rest of the technology on this machine - my memories of a treadmill are the ones where you had to start walking really, really heavily to get it to move! You've come a loooong way baby!
8 minutes before class, I'm debating what damage my credibility will suffer if I were to holler "HALP!!" in an effort to stop this machine, when my eyes rest of a large red panel button marked STOP. Aha. Maybe it is just that simple and I put my faith in the god of treadmills and go back to the soap where Missy and Huiyan are debating Ma Jiang's intentions verrry slowly. I'm at 48 calories and more people get into Studio 1. Time to crank it up and I start walking at 6 and manage to squeeze in 2 more calories before attempting the stop button and voila! It works. The machine slows down and comes to a complete halt.
My confidence wavers somewhat as does the floor when I step off it. Uh oh! I can feel the treadmill under my feet. I very gingerly step towards Studio 1 which thankfully is not that far away, but does involve negotiations with a single step. Success and my wobble across is not apparent, I think. Time for some new torture....
Gaamccha, my gaamccha...
Thankfully, the salad is delicious and I have bananas and oranges to tide me over till dinner. Don't suppose a dozen catch cakes topped by 4 dollops of the most sinfully luscious chocolate is a good idea at this particularly fraught point of time in my life. The sight of my newly presented gaamccha gives me some solace. Transported from Gariahaat, crisply starched, the checked blue gaamccha trimmed most becomingly with a dark red is a bhadralok of gaamcchas.
My first memory of a gamccha is that of it being red and attached to Kolkatar Didi (my maternal grandmother). Every time she was near the bathroom, it appeared and clung to her. She took it in with her for a bath, got it completely soaked, somehow magically wiped herself with it and then had it draped around her body or hair. I was fascinated. But somehow, it was just something that Didi had and used and that was that.
That is, until a few years ago, many years after that wonderful lady passed away that my mother was headed back for a visit and asked me what I wanted. "A gamccha" I squeaked. Huh? Where did that come from? She looked at me strangely. "A gamccha?" said my mother. "No, really, what do you want me to get for you?". " A gaamccha", I repeated. She started sniggering. I insisted, she giggled. I glared, she roared. "There so cheap and silly", she gasped. I shrugged. She gave me the look that implies you're a moron, but you're my daughter and I love you. I never got the gaamccha. But I secretly coveted it. I wasn't sure what exactly I'd do with it, given my preference for rough towels that scrape off water most satisfyingly (in case you're wondering, a gaamccha is just a length of cotton fabric, usually always in checks, used by true blue Bengali's as a towel type thingy. It's soft and wringable)
Tail end of last year, my banker and I trade holiday plans.. he's off to the Sunderbans and asks me what I'd like from Calcutta. Unbidden, my mouth opens, "A gaamccha", I declare. A moment of silence as he registers my voice and then he laughs. "A gaamccha?" "Yes.". "But why? Only you would come up with something that mad". This time, I have a plausible response....apart from the entirely legitimate, I want! "I thought I could use it when we go diving... between dives to dry off... they dry off really quick as well don't they?". He keeps shaking his head so I launch into red checks. "Well, they should be available all over Gariahaat". I hasten to insist that he doesn't go out of his way, feeling a tad foolish now the words are bouncing around the meeting room.
Come New Year and we catch up so I can get a desk calendar for 2014 and voila! There it is, complete with sticker for Rs.120 from Gariahat, my gaamccha!! I'm so thrilled, I trill my pleasure. He's amused and leaves me to it. The gaamccha is now draped over my sofa pretending to be a comfort blankie and keeps my skin from sticking to the sofa. A knight in shining armour even when dry :). One of these days, I'll even take it to the bath....
My first memory of a gamccha is that of it being red and attached to Kolkatar Didi (my maternal grandmother). Every time she was near the bathroom, it appeared and clung to her. She took it in with her for a bath, got it completely soaked, somehow magically wiped herself with it and then had it draped around her body or hair. I was fascinated. But somehow, it was just something that Didi had and used and that was that.
That is, until a few years ago, many years after that wonderful lady passed away that my mother was headed back for a visit and asked me what I wanted. "A gamccha" I squeaked. Huh? Where did that come from? She looked at me strangely. "A gamccha?" said my mother. "No, really, what do you want me to get for you?". " A gaamccha", I repeated. She started sniggering. I insisted, she giggled. I glared, she roared. "There so cheap and silly", she gasped. I shrugged. She gave me the look that implies you're a moron, but you're my daughter and I love you. I never got the gaamccha. But I secretly coveted it. I wasn't sure what exactly I'd do with it, given my preference for rough towels that scrape off water most satisfyingly (in case you're wondering, a gaamccha is just a length of cotton fabric, usually always in checks, used by true blue Bengali's as a towel type thingy. It's soft and wringable)
Tail end of last year, my banker and I trade holiday plans.. he's off to the Sunderbans and asks me what I'd like from Calcutta. Unbidden, my mouth opens, "A gaamccha", I declare. A moment of silence as he registers my voice and then he laughs. "A gaamccha?" "Yes.". "But why? Only you would come up with something that mad". This time, I have a plausible response....apart from the entirely legitimate, I want! "I thought I could use it when we go diving... between dives to dry off... they dry off really quick as well don't they?". He keeps shaking his head so I launch into red checks. "Well, they should be available all over Gariahaat". I hasten to insist that he doesn't go out of his way, feeling a tad foolish now the words are bouncing around the meeting room.
Come New Year and we catch up so I can get a desk calendar for 2014 and voila! There it is, complete with sticker for Rs.120 from Gariahat, my gaamccha!! I'm so thrilled, I trill my pleasure. He's amused and leaves me to it. The gaamccha is now draped over my sofa pretending to be a comfort blankie and keeps my skin from sticking to the sofa. A knight in shining armour even when dry :). One of these days, I'll even take it to the bath....
Give me death....
My life as I know it is officially over. Cereal, yoghurt, salad and fruits. That's going to have to be my life for the foreseeable future. The digital readout on the scales makes me think Jindal. CF casually tells me to use the treadmill at 6.5 to see the weight drop off in 2 months. 6.5 what??? Bloody gym bunny. I viciously jab at the beans of my lunch salad. I tell PM I'm depressed and she reminds me of the box of gelato I acquired last night, now languishing in my fridge and I groan. Bradley Cooper and the American Hustler is the reason for my double depression. A movie that has no clue what it wants to be and and tediously weaves it way through the last 10 minutes of what it's all about being compared to Good Fellas?? Really?!? A perfectly legitimate reason for all that gelato! Not to mention the catch cakes that were being sold next door.
Chirpy chappy at the gym had asked me what my goals were. Strike off to die happy from that list. His assessment of 3 times a week to get into shape in 3 months was a gross miscalculation. But then he hadn't realized the order of magnitude of the task any more than I had. There go my plans of canceling this most peculiar membership in a quarter.
Chirpy chappy at the gym had asked me what my goals were. Strike off to die happy from that list. His assessment of 3 times a week to get into shape in 3 months was a gross miscalculation. But then he hadn't realized the order of magnitude of the task any more than I had. There go my plans of canceling this most peculiar membership in a quarter.
My thighs and knees start to complain. Maybe I should just slather the gelato all over them instead.
Virgin Active
Went for my first class at the gym today. Such a novel experience to tap in to a gym... and then battled with my locker for 7 minutes trying to get the sophisticated electronic lock to obey my desire for it to seal the contents I'd rendered within. Luckily, I had espied someone doing it and someone else struggling with it (my instructor for the day as it turns out), so I didn't just screech and stalk out sure in the belief the gym was against my karma.
Poncy gyms apparently give you lycra type clothes to wear during the workout. The lady guarding the kit and the towels asks me what colour I want. Really? You want me to pick between pink and purple? She holds up a L against me and then decides and XL is more appropriate. I have to agree and I start wishing I lived in Florida. I accept a pink shirt but decline the shorts - a bruise the size of a continent even when fading on cellulite is not an attractive sight.
I make my way to Studio 1 and it's just the two of us. We agree that I just take it at my own pace and avoid the jumps. Jumps? What the hell kind of Latin Fitness class is this? I'm expecting dance related exercise..no jumping. Sadly, as a few more reluctant souls fill in, she informs us that it's 'fitness' and not just dance. Bugger.
My list of hate has now expanded to include locals that do not sweat. My towel is damp, the pink shirt soggy and despite frequent dashes for the towel, I managed to drip on the floor. The torture lasts an hour and takes all the joy out of any form of dance. My knees are begging me for mercy and my bruise has informed me that squatting type nonsense isn't appropriate. I also know that 'good job ladies' is a platitude. I hobble down to the locker room and the electronic lock obeys almost like it can feel the end of the rope I'm on. I strip, sodden top, soaked panties (yeah! I wish!!) and a wet waistband of my tracks. Ugh. I send up a prayer to the fairies that dry things and head for the showers. Hmmm, clearly designed for small people, but then I find the lever for the rain shower and I wallow. Wallow and do full paisa vasooli to all the Molton Brown products. The towel is the best thing in my entire gym experience to date. Big, rough and deeply comforting. Then I make the mistake (naturally after having seen someone else do it!) of climbing atop the weighing scales. I'm rendered speechless and spluttering. How the fuck?! When? I step off, shake my head and climb back up again.... this cannot be right. Dear Lord. I'm doomed.
On my way out, I feel compelled to ask what classes are on tomorrow. Of course, we at Virgin Active are far to sustainable to use paper timetables and I'm handed an iPad with the list of classes. Naturally, both anti gravity yoga classes are full and I settle for dance class.... MTV Groove apparently... I'm too depressed to care and leave to scour Soho 1 for a salad.
Poncy gyms apparently give you lycra type clothes to wear during the workout. The lady guarding the kit and the towels asks me what colour I want. Really? You want me to pick between pink and purple? She holds up a L against me and then decides and XL is more appropriate. I have to agree and I start wishing I lived in Florida. I accept a pink shirt but decline the shorts - a bruise the size of a continent even when fading on cellulite is not an attractive sight.
I make my way to Studio 1 and it's just the two of us. We agree that I just take it at my own pace and avoid the jumps. Jumps? What the hell kind of Latin Fitness class is this? I'm expecting dance related exercise..no jumping. Sadly, as a few more reluctant souls fill in, she informs us that it's 'fitness' and not just dance. Bugger.
My list of hate has now expanded to include locals that do not sweat. My towel is damp, the pink shirt soggy and despite frequent dashes for the towel, I managed to drip on the floor. The torture lasts an hour and takes all the joy out of any form of dance. My knees are begging me for mercy and my bruise has informed me that squatting type nonsense isn't appropriate. I also know that 'good job ladies' is a platitude. I hobble down to the locker room and the electronic lock obeys almost like it can feel the end of the rope I'm on. I strip, sodden top, soaked panties (yeah! I wish!!) and a wet waistband of my tracks. Ugh. I send up a prayer to the fairies that dry things and head for the showers. Hmmm, clearly designed for small people, but then I find the lever for the rain shower and I wallow. Wallow and do full paisa vasooli to all the Molton Brown products. The towel is the best thing in my entire gym experience to date. Big, rough and deeply comforting. Then I make the mistake (naturally after having seen someone else do it!) of climbing atop the weighing scales. I'm rendered speechless and spluttering. How the fuck?! When? I step off, shake my head and climb back up again.... this cannot be right. Dear Lord. I'm doomed.
On my way out, I feel compelled to ask what classes are on tomorrow. Of course, we at Virgin Active are far to sustainable to use paper timetables and I'm handed an iPad with the list of classes. Naturally, both anti gravity yoga classes are full and I settle for dance class.... MTV Groove apparently... I'm too depressed to care and leave to scour Soho 1 for a salad.
Stop Press! Virgin tries to get Active!
For those in the know, my antipathy and ignorance of all things gyms is no surprise. However, unusual and cruel circumstances amalgamating hormones, age, too many double mushroom swiss orders and the most lusciously wicked gelato has driven me over the edge. In a weak moment of despair at jeans that pinched my ass, I called, visited and signed up at Virgin Active. It was prophetic. This calamitous incident happened sometime in November and two credit card statements later, I propel myself to the stupendous 3 storey dungeon of torture. An unnaturally chirpy gentleman asks me if I want to use the equipment and I assure him of my lack of desire to do so.... instead, I gratefully clutch at his offer of a tour of the magnificent facilities.
At reception level, they have a 'mini' something he called it - a bunch of treadmills and other pieces of equipment that were for quickies. We then headed upstairs to a brand new floor which housed the main set of machines - row after row, flanked by the 'power plate' room which has these machines that buzz under you as your work out and a horrific room packed to the brim by static cycles, an empty studio innovatively labeled Studio 1, another room filled with people thwacking big ballast punching bags and i'm informed that this is an 'Impact' class and the punching bags are moved to the side to make room for other torturous forms of exercise. There's once section which has big, fat weights and pumped up muscly men toying with them - they even have a floor area that's either reinforced or something for Olympic style weightlifting. Naturally all in front of a mirror so one can preen as needed. Needless to say, my brain has glazed over a while ago (the cycle room did it!) and I meekly follow him to another area on the floor which has hopscotch type diagrams on the floor. Apparently we are in the high impact circuit areas, which inexplicably is very popular. There are 2 such areas, and I'm sure the functionality of each was expounded upon, but by this time, panic had set in and all I could think was, "Shit! What on earth possessed me to get a membership at a gym?? I must have been mad. I don't want to come here".
My chirpy chaperon guides me back to the reception are and then further down a another floor. A studio creatively called Studio 2 (I think) has a glass pane which allows me to spy on a bunch of people hanging on to red hammock type thingys suspended from the ceiling. It's the 'anti gravity' yoga class and hanging upside down can help extend your spine given how sitting at work all day compresses it. The logic is flawless and I tentatively inquire if one has to have a certain number of years as a practitioner of yoga prior to attempting this and his casual "Oh no" doesn't reassure me. These classes are always packed but they have a cancellation for the 2pm slot - do I want to give it a go? Hell. I suck in my stomach....why not.... we're all going to die anyway...
Finally, we get to the non threatening part of the tour - the locker rooms which are cavernous and provide Molton Brown toiletries. Ooooohoooo.... I'm instructed to walk past the showers into another unisex area for some more cool stuff. I dutifully follow orders and find myself meeting up with chirpy chaperon at an area with foot basins. This then branches out to cold and hot rooms for either sex and then meets again at the back for the Salt room - moderately headed by some significant and exotic salts to 30 degrees. One can only enter the unisex areas in bathrobes, so I need to be worried by the unexpected sight of naked dangly bits. Right. That really was my main worry. I pretend an interest in the brownish crystals of salt and we went our way back separately through the His and Her locker rooms. Ta dah! Tour over. He beams. I smile back weakly. I'm overwhelmed.
My peripheral vision registers people working out diligently and I'm overwhelmed and a complete flight risk. We head back up to the reception and what do you know, someone has sneaked in and booked that last slot while we were on tour. Kismet??? One can only hope......
At reception level, they have a 'mini' something he called it - a bunch of treadmills and other pieces of equipment that were for quickies. We then headed upstairs to a brand new floor which housed the main set of machines - row after row, flanked by the 'power plate' room which has these machines that buzz under you as your work out and a horrific room packed to the brim by static cycles, an empty studio innovatively labeled Studio 1, another room filled with people thwacking big ballast punching bags and i'm informed that this is an 'Impact' class and the punching bags are moved to the side to make room for other torturous forms of exercise. There's once section which has big, fat weights and pumped up muscly men toying with them - they even have a floor area that's either reinforced or something for Olympic style weightlifting. Naturally all in front of a mirror so one can preen as needed. Needless to say, my brain has glazed over a while ago (the cycle room did it!) and I meekly follow him to another area on the floor which has hopscotch type diagrams on the floor. Apparently we are in the high impact circuit areas, which inexplicably is very popular. There are 2 such areas, and I'm sure the functionality of each was expounded upon, but by this time, panic had set in and all I could think was, "Shit! What on earth possessed me to get a membership at a gym?? I must have been mad. I don't want to come here".
My chirpy chaperon guides me back to the reception are and then further down a another floor. A studio creatively called Studio 2 (I think) has a glass pane which allows me to spy on a bunch of people hanging on to red hammock type thingys suspended from the ceiling. It's the 'anti gravity' yoga class and hanging upside down can help extend your spine given how sitting at work all day compresses it. The logic is flawless and I tentatively inquire if one has to have a certain number of years as a practitioner of yoga prior to attempting this and his casual "Oh no" doesn't reassure me. These classes are always packed but they have a cancellation for the 2pm slot - do I want to give it a go? Hell. I suck in my stomach....why not.... we're all going to die anyway...
Finally, we get to the non threatening part of the tour - the locker rooms which are cavernous and provide Molton Brown toiletries. Ooooohoooo.... I'm instructed to walk past the showers into another unisex area for some more cool stuff. I dutifully follow orders and find myself meeting up with chirpy chaperon at an area with foot basins. This then branches out to cold and hot rooms for either sex and then meets again at the back for the Salt room - moderately headed by some significant and exotic salts to 30 degrees. One can only enter the unisex areas in bathrobes, so I need to be worried by the unexpected sight of naked dangly bits. Right. That really was my main worry. I pretend an interest in the brownish crystals of salt and we went our way back separately through the His and Her locker rooms. Ta dah! Tour over. He beams. I smile back weakly. I'm overwhelmed.
My peripheral vision registers people working out diligently and I'm overwhelmed and a complete flight risk. We head back up to the reception and what do you know, someone has sneaked in and booked that last slot while we were on tour. Kismet??? One can only hope......
Time and Othello
It is excruciatingly difficult to find things to do at work when you have none. Time does stretch on interminably and no matter how many times you go to the coffee machine or the loo, or how long a lunch you indulge in, it’s only 3.42pm. I could do some stuff, but none of it is critical or client related, so I’m pretty much at why bother. Maybe because I’m bored. I’ve finished cleaning out my drawers and failed to find my ticket for tonights performance of Othello, checked the website and established there are no tickets available for sale online, called Interbrand and dropped Cathie an email in the hope I mistakenly handed all three tickets to Prithi. Naturally, she is at a client pitch and will only be done post 5pm so there’s no way for me to actually check whether I’ve merely manhandled the ticket or actively managed to lose it. You may think my tribulations lame compared to poor Othello, but he simply has to deal with chicanery and treachery from without and not dementia from within! The rain has started and I’m not sure if I’m perturbed or pleased. Apparently the tickets can be used for another days performance if it gets washed out, which would give me a chance to actually speak with Prithi and find out if my $48 was a meager donation to a lost cause….
Mactan - my last day
Poetic justice. My last dive ends with an early sighting of the sardines... this time pretending to be an upside down twister. I had hoped I would see them, but was content even without, so when Ole pointed in their direction, I couldn't help but laugh with joy (not an easy feat when breathing into a regulator I assure you).... I made my 100th dive that morning, and while that was something I was hoping to do at the outset of the trip, my first brush with the sardines made me realize that it really didn't matter how many dives I'd done.... this experience transcended any number of dives I might have done. It's like when we were on safari and saw the leopard or the river crossing.... you can make trip after trip, year after year and never be lucky enough to witness that sort of magnificence. Seems only fitting I take a chance and treat myself to a nice dinner, so I take a stab at the steak. If one isn't fussy about the meat, this turned out to be the best meal of the trip thus far, quite delicious and I'm content with life.... a perfect way to end a perfect day and a perfect trip.
Mactan - another day
Why does it feel like unbeknownest to me, I'm sharing the room with some random stranger? Here I am, all neatly tucked into bed, when the shower squeaks on... hmmmm.... interesting. Naturally, I refuse to get out of bed and skulk towards the shower curtain a la psycho, but I do have to wonder if it's just paper thin walls, an over active imagination or dinner??
The Philippines is not renowned for it's cuisine.... and the "resort" that I'm at, takes great pains in ensuring I have no cause to identify any dissonance on that count. My foray into local cuisine with a pork 'adobo' and rice leaves me uninspired and with a lingering sense of having consumed something a la detergent and I indulge the begging cat at my feet with a chunk. She inspects it for an unnecessarily long few moments before gnawing and gnawing and gnawing away at it. Oddly enough, she doesn't put her paws up on my legs begging for more. I give her another piece regardless. Suffering is best dealt with through sharing. I confine myself to a hamburger doused with ketchup most nights and play Philippino roulette just with lunch. Toasted cheese sandwich turns out to be a viable alternative to an oily American breakfast, and I master the art of picking off the noodles from top of the massive plate of beehoon, with minimal disturbance to the oil layer at the bottom. The fresh juices are good although the banana juice does leave me a tad regretful for having been overly adventurous. On the bright side, this is one good way of losing weight???
The Philippines is not renowned for it's cuisine.... and the "resort" that I'm at, takes great pains in ensuring I have no cause to identify any dissonance on that count. My foray into local cuisine with a pork 'adobo' and rice leaves me uninspired and with a lingering sense of having consumed something a la detergent and I indulge the begging cat at my feet with a chunk. She inspects it for an unnecessarily long few moments before gnawing and gnawing and gnawing away at it. Oddly enough, she doesn't put her paws up on my legs begging for more. I give her another piece regardless. Suffering is best dealt with through sharing. I confine myself to a hamburger doused with ketchup most nights and play Philippino roulette just with lunch. Toasted cheese sandwich turns out to be a viable alternative to an oily American breakfast, and I master the art of picking off the noodles from top of the massive plate of beehoon, with minimal disturbance to the oil layer at the bottom. The fresh juices are good although the banana juice does leave me a tad regretful for having been overly adventurous. On the bright side, this is one good way of losing weight???
Macan - Day something
The diving at Mactan is shockingly gorgeous. I don't really know why I'm so taken aback with the sumptuousness of the reef and the thriving marine life it supports. Maybe because it's just a hop, skip and jump away from both the airport and the city, surrounded by careless locals and non eco friendly Japanese tourists? I'm doing 4 dives a day and each time I hit the water, I'm impressed. I discover something new. My focus has always been the marine life, but this trip has made me appreciate the coral as well, especially during the night dives, where the torchlight makes them glow like jewels adorning a harem. The colours are bold, rich and blend incongruously together. Pinks, reds, greens, blues, yellows, blacks.... I'm entranced by the tiny coral beings that mimic miniature fir trees in shocking hues and that suck into themselves and disappear into the coral if you rush water over them. I start at the sight of coral that looks like a mine and gape at a starfish with 10 arms! I notice subtleties in the fish species and spend hours post diving poring through the fish book.
I also think I know why I don't write about the diving - because there's just too much to say, to try and share the exquisite beauty. It has to been seen, to be experienced. You can't read about it. Even watching it on film is oddly dissatisfying as the two dimensional view is grossly inadequate to capture the depth of it's richness.
But, as I'm marveling at the richness of the house reef, my peripheral vision is snagged by something white and as I turn to focus on it, my brain tries to synthesize the information my eyes are relaying... it large, white and not natural. A shipwreck? But it's suspended mid water and not morbidly resting at the bottom as all good wrecks must. As my neurons fire processing the fact that it seems to be getting bigger, my emotions go 'Whoaaaa! It's coming towards me!!' The thing is indeed looming larger and what do you know... it's a submarine. I kid you not, a real submarine with ratty little tourists with cameras peering through the portholes taking photos of the coral. How bizarre! I'm offended at the thought of being part of someones vacation photos, while stifling the urge to giggle at the sheer silliness of it. Certainly got more than I bargained for on this dive...
P.S. - Sadly, the silliness serves only to destroy what nature has given us. The day before my departure, news is that the submarine got to close to the coral and hit it. It's been pulled for now and there's hue and cry from environmentalists and divers about how this should not be allowed..... wonder how long before it's back and uncaring about keeping a safe distance from both the reef and the divers...
I also think I know why I don't write about the diving - because there's just too much to say, to try and share the exquisite beauty. It has to been seen, to be experienced. You can't read about it. Even watching it on film is oddly dissatisfying as the two dimensional view is grossly inadequate to capture the depth of it's richness.
But, as I'm marveling at the richness of the house reef, my peripheral vision is snagged by something white and as I turn to focus on it, my brain tries to synthesize the information my eyes are relaying... it large, white and not natural. A shipwreck? But it's suspended mid water and not morbidly resting at the bottom as all good wrecks must. As my neurons fire processing the fact that it seems to be getting bigger, my emotions go 'Whoaaaa! It's coming towards me!!' The thing is indeed looming larger and what do you know... it's a submarine. I kid you not, a real submarine with ratty little tourists with cameras peering through the portholes taking photos of the coral. How bizarre! I'm offended at the thought of being part of someones vacation photos, while stifling the urge to giggle at the sheer silliness of it. Certainly got more than I bargained for on this dive...
P.S. - Sadly, the silliness serves only to destroy what nature has given us. The day before my departure, news is that the submarine got to close to the coral and hit it. It's been pulled for now and there's hue and cry from environmentalists and divers about how this should not be allowed..... wonder how long before it's back and uncaring about keeping a safe distance from both the reef and the divers...
Mactan - Day 1
I've always struggled with posting anything about my diving. The experience is too personal and overwhelming to try and put into words. But the cat food seems to have been a turning point and while it will still be impossible to describe the wonder that exists underwater, I'm going to make a few attempts to capture these few days in Mactan. My first visit to the Philippines and my first dive trip alone. It's been an unforgettable experience and one of the best for the sheer surprise of what I found.
My first evening, I emerge all showered and wondrous for having seen the sardine run and settle down at the bar. The sky is dark except for a orange blaze, shimmering behind strands of cloud. While I'm bemoaning a lost sunset, I realize it's the rising moon... which eventually evolves into a in impossible giant pearl in the sky and I feel like a Miss World contestant all gushing at winning the prize. What a perfect end to a spectacular day. An unforgettable brush with the Gods that are sardine and now this...
I want to call and share the experience with someone and as I debate between CF and my mother, Dr. Velkar pops up. He's the one who pithily reminds me that it's the most base of instincts that makes me think that this is what God might look like and as I'm chatting with him, I'm distracted by the sound of thumpa thumpa and and unexpected 'woack, woack' chant.. pulsing green and red lights wafting across the water as a disco ball makes a valiant effort to compete with the moonlight glancing off the waves.... 'woack, woack.... Hang on a second... I know this sound... 'woack, woack...... Gangam style'. Sheesh! I'm reminded I'm in Karaoke heartland and I abandon myself to the surreal.... this is going to be a fun trip!
My first evening, I emerge all showered and wondrous for having seen the sardine run and settle down at the bar. The sky is dark except for a orange blaze, shimmering behind strands of cloud. While I'm bemoaning a lost sunset, I realize it's the rising moon... which eventually evolves into a in impossible giant pearl in the sky and I feel like a Miss World contestant all gushing at winning the prize. What a perfect end to a spectacular day. An unforgettable brush with the Gods that are sardine and now this...
I want to call and share the experience with someone and as I debate between CF and my mother, Dr. Velkar pops up. He's the one who pithily reminds me that it's the most base of instincts that makes me think that this is what God might look like and as I'm chatting with him, I'm distracted by the sound of thumpa thumpa and and unexpected 'woack, woack' chant.. pulsing green and red lights wafting across the water as a disco ball makes a valiant effort to compete with the moonlight glancing off the waves.... 'woack, woack.... Hang on a second... I know this sound... 'woack, woack...... Gangam style'. Sheesh! I'm reminded I'm in Karaoke heartland and I abandon myself to the surreal.... this is going to be a fun trip!
What if God was a sardine??
I don't believe in God, but I do believe in a swarm of sardines. Stupid fish to say the least and justly deserving of life in a tin.... that is, until you see them as they were meant to be. Gazabillions of them suddenly appearing like a menacing cloud and then a flash of movement and a guberzillion twinkling stars in their place... a blink of an eye, and it's an ominously dark thundercloud coming towards you before moving out of reach, resembling fairly lights and fireflies. It's like watching Star Trek and Voodoo. The experience is existential and you feel blessed to have been surrounded by the magic, mesmerised and lost. So caught up in the moment that nothing else exists. This is how it feels to be frozen in a moment. This must be God.
I've read about the sardine run and wanted to do it... eventually, and like others, for the goodies that are the fallout i.e. all the predators that chase the sardines. How foolish. The run is the sardines. Pelagics are thrilling without a doubt, and they really push the adrenalin button. Nothing like spying a herd of Hammerheads and being eyeballed by a couple of beady eyed sentinels or feeling your heart step up into uber gear as five Bull Sharks turn and head straight at you - the first time you've ever seen a shark in anything but profile, but. But, the vision of a million silvery moon flakes in the distance flitting and flirting into waves, clouds, balls and ribbons is indescribable. Dangerously so, as you forget to breath for the sheer wonder of it.
Survival - the most basic instinct of all living things. As you watch them move off into the distance, you think you've spied a whale, but then a flash of glitter and it's a sentient being from outer space. Up close, mindless vacuous individuals, swimming frantically. The Collective, a thing of supreme beauty, joy and unnatural peace.
I hate to admit it, but I have been moved by a bunch of sardines.
I've read about the sardine run and wanted to do it... eventually, and like others, for the goodies that are the fallout i.e. all the predators that chase the sardines. How foolish. The run is the sardines. Pelagics are thrilling without a doubt, and they really push the adrenalin button. Nothing like spying a herd of Hammerheads and being eyeballed by a couple of beady eyed sentinels or feeling your heart step up into uber gear as five Bull Sharks turn and head straight at you - the first time you've ever seen a shark in anything but profile, but. But, the vision of a million silvery moon flakes in the distance flitting and flirting into waves, clouds, balls and ribbons is indescribable. Dangerously so, as you forget to breath for the sheer wonder of it.
Survival - the most basic instinct of all living things. As you watch them move off into the distance, you think you've spied a whale, but then a flash of glitter and it's a sentient being from outer space. Up close, mindless vacuous individuals, swimming frantically. The Collective, a thing of supreme beauty, joy and unnatural peace.
I hate to admit it, but I have been moved by a bunch of sardines.
Friendly advice...
because im that kind of woman....
It's probably not the wisest thing to do - step out of the hosue clad only in a towel to toss the garbage, even if it is just a door away. On the other hand, it is a rather interesting way to meet neighbours and ensure their children never come by on halloween...
It's probably not the wisest thing to do - step out of the hosue clad only in a towel to toss the garbage, even if it is just a door away. On the other hand, it is a rather interesting way to meet neighbours and ensure their children never come by on halloween...
Ask and ye shall receive??
After that plaintive post about the absence of a classic dark chocolate mousse in this uncivilised world, I am struck by the age old argument about life. Is it all mapped out in this great cosmic game or is it merely a series of random occurrences.
Well, my position on the debate has tended towards the randomness theory, but now I'm forced to think order and method. A momentous moment wrought about by Kingfisher airlines when just days after feeling orphaned by chocolate mousse, I am served up the, and I do mean, the best post prandial dark chocolate mousse I have encountered. It made me moan, horrified my co-passengers (perhaps not all...), and beg for another. I asked. I received. I inhaled. I purred. There is a God.
For the first time ever, I eagerly anticipated my return flight and yet another round of excess (I had planned to ask for seconds right off the bat...). That's when the debate reared it's ugly head again, reinforcing in the most obnoxious manner, that my support of the random was justified. Kingfisher cancelled it's flight, and then nonchalantly headed towards obscurity...... along with that chocolate mousse.
Well, my position on the debate has tended towards the randomness theory, but now I'm forced to think order and method. A momentous moment wrought about by Kingfisher airlines when just days after feeling orphaned by chocolate mousse, I am served up the, and I do mean, the best post prandial dark chocolate mousse I have encountered. It made me moan, horrified my co-passengers (perhaps not all...), and beg for another. I asked. I received. I inhaled. I purred. There is a God.
For the first time ever, I eagerly anticipated my return flight and yet another round of excess (I had planned to ask for seconds right off the bat...). That's when the debate reared it's ugly head again, reinforcing in the most obnoxious manner, that my support of the random was justified. Kingfisher cancelled it's flight, and then nonchalantly headed towards obscurity...... along with that chocolate mousse.
The Continuum
Hmmmmmm. I've just realised that electronia does allow you to collect far more junk that you would have otherwise. I have 41 drafts on my blog. 41 incomplete meanderings, demi thoughts, re-tellings, rhapsodies.... I just read a few, and there are some which make me struggle to remember what the hell I was thinking!! Well, there's no other play for it but to weed out the deletes and restore the rest. Of course, this will completely screw the timeline as I'll be publishing things done in 2011 in 2013, but let's just call it my homage to Gene Roddenberry.
Re-discovering Hong Kong
I've sadly been treating Hong Kong with less than the respect it deserves lost in the age old disdain of a local that's slurped noodles here as a child. 2012 has seen me here twice already and each visit has delighted me with something new and hitherto undiscovered.
The first is courtsey the now Flying Dutchman, who managed to unearth and procure tickets for a performance of the Saturday Night Jazz Club which promised a quirky program with renditions from the era of Swing and a rather more eyebrow raising hip-hop, rap and break dance performance. No idea of what to expect, the swing band set the mood and got us bopping before taking rather a bizarre turn with the Philippino big band leader with his wife ((?) we suspect!) launching into Lady Gaga, but still good fun. But the piece de resistance was without a doubt, the Korean hip hop band - yes, blond haired mops on boys with suspenders et al with cool dance moves a la ghetto but all theirs and the Taiwanese rapper who launched his rap to Take 5! Incredible. I have never seen a fusion of jazz and rap, and not only left me gaping and laughing in awe with the sheer beauty of it, but I have to take my hat off to the genius who even contemplated that this might be a good idea! Just brilliant and while the performance ensured we lost our dinner reservations, I've never been happier to sacrifice my stomach for some undiscovered soul. A bravura performance and a superb evening!
This weekend saw us in a feeding frenzy of dimsums, first at Maxim's followed by an entirely unnecessary and inappropriate Madarin High Tea at the Mandarin Oriental when my search of chocoalte mousse was thwarted post lunch. Why we thought the dainty fingure sandwiches, petit patesseire and mini quiches were (a) not very much and (b) prelude to teeny scones is beyond me. Naturally, they only breed full size scones and persist and handing out one plain and one fruit to the accompaniment of clotted cream and a most hideous rose jam (or so I hear.... suffice to say I wondered why they'd put ketchup next to the cream, and the brave Ms. M bravely recoiled at it's attarness and waved her hands around for strawberry jam). Naturally, such an incident deserved complaints right up to the UN, and the only way to mollify the situation was to ensure lashings of strawberry jam. Feeling sick, we wound our way up the hill to the hotel to glam up a tad for drinks at Sevva of the magnificent views over Central and hte Harbour. Sadly, the frostbite nipping our butts had us heading indoors to finish our drinks before a lazy scouting of all LKF had to offer topped by strawberries and and chocolate fondant.
Sunday, saw us trek over to Kowloon and a rather well kept Michelin secret. A tiny, hole in the wall dimsum restaurant, cleverly called One Dim Sum that snagged the coveted Michel start last year. You can find it through the queues outside and the neighbourhood populace cannot be overly thrilled with the influx of foreigners to their local diner. As we waited and planned our meal checking with panic far too often if our number had been called, they handed out take away parcels in copious quantities to cars and people that would pull up and patiiently wait till their doggie bag was announced with a flourish. All the tables are the same size and are re-configured with the greatest efficiency to seat tables of 1 to 8 and what can I say except it was worth the wait. The best baked bbq pork buns I've ever eaten (and I'm not a fan) along with the best steamed Chiew Chow dumplings (the same ones at Maxium had the texture, but this one had flavour exploding in your mouth with hte first bite!). Naturally, we had to order seconds, and for the princely sum of HKD 135 (that's about 10 quid), stumbled out looking like overstuffed dumplings.
Plan B was to attempt to reduce the resembles to a dumpling so we elected to walk to the next station, and stumbled upon the goldfish market which had some of the coolest fish I've seen in any tanks including one with an oversized braniac forehead (that just looked so wrong!), hordes of turtles, plastic easter island statues (clearly something fish are fond of?!), albino frogs, kelp and underwater greens in plastic bags and artifically coloured fish that looked like they got into a fight with a box of Faber Castell crayons and lost. From that to Wan Chai and the spanking new Convention Centre sat on the bay overlooking Kowloon, Causeway Bay and Central (rudely interrupted by a softee), pretending to be Yann Arthus Bertrand as we watched batches of dough buns being fried, then getting distracted by a signboard for a dive shop on the 2nd floor.... A manicure, pedicure and massage later, I was prepared to call this a rather successful weekend.
Miiiiind the Gap
The English pride themselves for their eccentricities and stiff upper lip. But let's face it, they give sentimentality a whole new meaning. In most countries, the department of transport would be reviled by the common folk that have no choice but to use what is on offer. The TfL on the other hand, is like a favourite grandfather indulging his pet progeny's brat. Oswald Laurence's widow, was devastated when she no longer heard his voice booming the stentorian "Miiiiiind the Gap" at Embankment station. For 40 years, it was Oswald's voice that warned the jaded travelers of the London tube pitfall, and after his death, Dr. Margaret McCollum would take the tube to still be able to hear his voice. If that doesn't kill you with it's "awwwwww" quotient, then brace yourself.
Dr. McCollum who would wait for the next train just to be able to hear her beloved's voice, inquired as to it's disappearance and was told the new digital system couldn't get his voice on it. So, as all good English do, she wrote to TfL and asked if she might have a copy of the recording of her husband's announcement. I will not digress into what might happen if such a request was made to the BEST in triplicate, but just state that the TfL authorities not only gave instructions to the staff to track down the recording and send her a CD of the it, but now they're working on restoring the Oswald's announcement at Embankment Station.
And they say the English are unromantic!!!
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-21719848
Dr. McCollum who would wait for the next train just to be able to hear her beloved's voice, inquired as to it's disappearance and was told the new digital system couldn't get his voice on it. So, as all good English do, she wrote to TfL and asked if she might have a copy of the recording of her husband's announcement. I will not digress into what might happen if such a request was made to the BEST in triplicate, but just state that the TfL authorities not only gave instructions to the staff to track down the recording and send her a CD of the it, but now they're working on restoring the Oswald's announcement at Embankment Station.
And they say the English are unromantic!!!
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-21719848
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