Here we are - Same place, same time, same women and yes, same dilemma! She forgot to write up her notes after the last massage!!! Whoever said change is the only constant didn't know much about us obviously. 'Right' says Somya as she scans her papers, with her best professional demeanour which like her towel technique could do with some work. 'What advice did you give?' she mutters to herself. 'I gave you good advice didn't I?' as we studiously avoid looking at each other. 'Apparently' I respond in my most encouraging voice. 'So, what advice did I give you?', and reflexively my eyes snap up to hers, and we're lost, engulfed by the giggles, punctuated by severely unladylike snorts. Luckily, I remember some of her spiel from the last time, and offer up dry brushing - a brief confabulation on why that was good advice, and it's duly recorded.
Since I'm a fast learner, and past experience tells me this will take a while yet, I scavenge for food and virtually inhale whatever I can lay my hands on (who said massage wasn't fattening?!) before tending to my pretty pink toes, when the rustling of papers and under breath muttering is rudely broken by a 'Fuck!' 'Now what?' I said, trying to colour within the lines. 'Did I find any fibrosis??' she demands? 'Huh? I thought you were looking for crystal deposit?' She dismisses my contribution with a negligent wave of her hand... personally, I don't think she knows what fibrosis' is/are?? She's back to muttering about thoracic, deltoids and trapezoids, and I'm now idly curious as to which came first.... Musculature or Geometry, and naturally we debate this for a bit. Math is older than medicine so Geometry beats Musculature (but then given our pediculosis revelation, I'm open to correction…). We return to the matter at hand - a flurry of questions... did I explain the treatment? did I do this.. that.. and the other.. and I just nod amiably till my brian registers the fact that my antennae are quivering with indignation... and I replay the last question... 'Did I deal with you Gluteus Maximus?'. 'Hang on!' I rudely interrupt her flow. 'You bloody well did not!' 'Not what?' she asks confused. 'Deal with my Glutinuous Maximus!' I yelp, most upset. If there's one thing I love, it's a butt massage, and nowhere in all our muscles groups study sessions had this come up as a thing to be inflicted upon a willing case study, and yet, here the questionnaire was asking if it had been dealt with?!?! This was about when the Freudian connotations of my tongue trip occurred to me, and let me tell you, the sound of hilarity warring with righteous anger sounds makes for some very interesting acoustics. 'You should bloody well read this stuff up before the massages, so you know what to look for when you're massaging...!' I rant. 'Abhi to paad rahi hoon na?!' she retorts. (loosely translated as a rude "I’m reading it now aren't I"). I overlook her lack of preparation with a benign eye - what she needs is a massage. I'm not being frivolous here - since eBay hasn't parted with it's massage table yet, we're still working on my bed, which means she's contorted over my body while torturing me, which isn't helping her back any. 'What about the pressure?' she demands. 'What about it?' 'Was it alright?' I shrug - it had been fine. Really. Just a different story that I had a stiff neck and shoulders following that and her right thumb was unable to bend.... She glares at me. Apparently a shrug is inadmissible as an answer. 'Yeah, sure. fine'. I'm rapidly losing interest in the inquisition. 'So what pressure was it?' she queries, her pencil poised. 'What?' 'Was it light, medium or hard?' she elaborates patiently. 'How the fuck should I know?! You're the one giving the massage!! What were you doing?' Honestly! Women, I tell you!!! 'I don't know!' she yells. 'How can you not?!' I yell back. 'What did it feel like?' she persists, her tone edging on accusatory. 'Pain and torture!' I shoot back, glaring at her. Then the silliness of it all overwhelms us, and we give up. Yep. R&R That's what we both need. Some serious R&R - relaxation and recovery!
We deliberate abandoning the homework, but somehow finish it, and then do a dry run of the massage. I don't need the book any more for the back... effleurage the whole back 3 times, then 3 circles - lumbar, thoracic, cervical, then effleurage again... you know the song. We move our operation to the bedroom, and do the whole routine – right from the welcome madam, you can leave your jewellery here…. (takes an awfully long time to unscrew 6 rings!), all very professional till we get to the dreaded ‘protect the clients modesty’ towel adventure, which completely unwomans us, causing Somya to lapse into in inelegant ‘Chaal. Laet ja..’ (a not very refined manner of saying drape yourself on the bloody bed). You really didn’t think we were going to be able to sustain the client relationship did you??? There is much work to be done in this arena…
The ceaseless creaking of my bed, like a comforting straightforward shag with little variation, makes me smile. Last session had it offering up erratic squeaks and groans as if were being put through some serious S&M. No bum balancing today, and the silence apart from a stray mutter from her and the gyrations of the bed is soothing, and I feel my body actually relax into the bed. It’s the quietest it’s ever been (despite what my downstairs neighbour might be thinking) and her hands are confident and sure as they skim and knead and effleurage over my legs, back and shoulders. I think she's got it – the most relaxing massage under those hands since we began this caper! Hallelujah!! Houston we have lift off.
A massage a day keeps pediculosis away???
So, how lucky can a woman get? Apparently, unbelievably so….. I can just see the lot of you thinking of the most unspeakable things that might fit that category. Mostly to do with men and rude behaviour involving dark chocolate and whipped cream, I suspect… Well, you can ease up on your panting, and suck up that saliva (ugh! Gross imagery!). What I’m talking about here, is the desire for learning. Someone else’s naturally....., Somya to be precise. For those ignorant of how history has unravelled, I used to know Somya in Bombay many years ago (neither of us like to dawdle over these mangy details) and reconnected in London in the recent past, to our great mutual satisfaction, and in the same neighbourhood as well (that was a result of deliberate engineering and not kismet however). Still, the fact remains, she’s a good friend, who lives nearby and had this sudden desire to improve herself. As a friend, I wholeheartedly supported this noble endeavour, and when it transpired, that salvation lay through holistic healing, which included the word ‘massage’, my support knew no bounds. A handy neighbourhood medic cum masseuse – doesn’t get much better than that!
Still, we are in the UK and they just don’t let you loose on the general junta without full on training and insurance indemnity, so for those of you who were under the delusion that our Somya would be reminiscent of your neighbourhood maalishwaali, put away your paltry Rs.150. She will be ‘phofessionally’ qualified, possibly ‘certified’ and definitely with a massage table. So there, Kantabai eat your heart out. But, to get to this exalted status, Somya’s had to sacrifice weekends hitting the books – anatomy, musculature, physiology… yep, it’s like being back in school, except for this time around, you need to know more than where your gluteus maximus is! (4.5657 points to those who swear gluteus maximus is to be found in Asterix, along with radio and ulna…).
Being the supportive friend that I am, I offer myself as her ‘case study’, and lesson 1 commences with much fanfare. It’s decided, because I’m lazy, the venue for test /practice massages will be my place, and Somya turns up with all her paraphernalia: Mexican carpet to drape over the bed, copious quantities of notes, towels, and a full on professional demeanour (which lasts all of 15 seconds). We agree on olive oil – actually, she instructs and I fetch, and after a quick read up of her notes, dimming of the lights to a suitable seductive level, and agreeing on a soothing oud (that's a Moroccon sitar type instrument) rendition in the background, we’re ready to go…. The first challenge, and what might possibly be her undoing… the great English towel wrap. Living in the land of the politically correct has its own peculiarities - it’s apparently not done to tell your clients to strip down to their undies and hop on…., So, modesty must be protected and comfort maintained with some fancy towel work. Except, Somya hasn’t been paying attention, and muffs it. So there I am, my modesty shielded by a large towel, lying flat on my stomach, as she commences her manoeuvres. ‘hmm, now how did they do this.. first fold this one here, then move it like so, then take the other one.. no that’s wrong. Maybe it’s this, first, fold, no that’s not right either.. how did they do it?...’ That, my friends, is a foretaste of things to come. And before I know it, the whole towel escapade has gone horribly wrong, and I’ve been none to gently pushed and poked in an attempt to get rid of the towel I had, only to wind up towelless completely. Right. She’s going to flunk the towel test.
Having given up on the towels, we just get on with it Well, she does anyway, and I’m thinking, I feel like I’m being basted. Olive oil.. just chuck in a little rosemary, thyme, tarragon, and call me Italian! Just the legs and back… remember, this is the first class. She gets to my back, muttering under her breath all the time, ‘now easy, gentle strokes along the outside of the spine, oh… I forgot my notes.. but I’m not supposed to leave you.. always have your hands on the client…’ and then the both of us are in splits at this delicate dilemma – to abandon the fundamental principle of keeping your hands on the body, or find out where those are hands are supposed to move to next! Sanity prevails, and Somya leaves me giggling as she fetches her user guide and we continue, mutter, massage, giggle, mutter, massage, giggle.. and voila. Lesson 1 complete, although I felt a bit incomplete being only partially basted, so remedied that with more olive oil while we drank tea and reviewed the session. A very fragrant night.
Lesson 2, was a lot more technical and exhausting, not helped by the fact that we began after 10 pm. A long drawn out consultation, which I failed miserably. Her sample case study was depressed, had man trouble, was unhappy at work and thusly deeply stressed, so the benefits of massage were bountiful. My profile was a bit lightweight – mostly healthy, happy, stress free, and just loved being massaged. Well, between us we managed some creative expansion to that just to give her case study profile a bit of meat. Between my scarfing down random wantons and Somya’s drinking tea, choosing the appropriate writing implements, googling some of the more technical terms that popped up in the paperwork (if any one that reads this can tell me what "pediculosis" means without referring to anything or anyone else, I will cook them a 4 course meal), we managed to complete all the documentation (and this included a trip back to her place coz she’d forgotten the most critical bits of paper..!!!) having read all the necessary bits, established the client healer relationship and signed off all release forms for any injury claims, we were finally ready for the damn massage.
This time, experience came into play, and we had sunflower oil instead of olive (lighter and easier spread in case you’re wondering – it’s not about the flavour!), notes with us right off the bat. But alas! The towel syndrome was inevitable. She thought she’d cracked it, and didn’t take notes, and there we went again.. mutter, mutter ‘no that’s not right.. it’s like this.. .let’s try again…’ 18 marks for the towels, so don’t snigger. Anyway, we gave that up as a lost cause for the moment, and with the directions precariously balanced on my bum, we crack on – a pretend cleaning of the feet, then the back of the legs, spine, shoulders, and a hunt for the trapezoid and some other complicated muscles that I can’t even recollect, gentle soothing strokes, draingage of the lympatic system… all going well, mutter, mutter….. 'hain, again? but i've already done that.... i did it before i was supposed to.. oh well, mutter mutter' and then, it’s time to flip over. But can one just flip over? Don’t be ridiculous, there’s towel technique involved here as well, and after some most inelegant yanking, which was meant to have me gracefully roll over with the towel now draped over my front, well, at least in theory, we just admitted between guffaws, towel grabs and rude displays of flesh, that she was going to have to do some serious note taking if she wanted those 18 marks.
New territory… the face and shoulders… and I swear, any injury I sustain will be a result of being massaged under mirth. My body tensing in anticipation of damage.. I mean what can you expect when your masseuse keeps muttering, and not under her breath either, of what she’s doing wrong, and what she ought to have done instead…. So much for a relaxing massage. Still, we made it through this one unscathed, and then realised, that she was supposed to have done a pre and post massage write up… which again set us off into hysterics… what did you notice in the client when you were massaging her…we decided crystal deposits sounded good as did structural integrity problems (first very kindly pointed out by this sadist masseur in Berlin who I had the privilege of paying for to be told in my agony that I was structural unsound….). Well, at least she can’t complain, might be happy and unstressed but hey, structurally flawed – that’s got to make for a good case study! Tonight is supposed to be lesson 3…. and I can feel my trapezoids tense in anticipation….and oh yes.. pediculosis has nothing to do with your feet, but everything to do with.... get this, head lice. And in case you were beset with overriding curiosity, there is a National Pediculosis Association founded in 1983.... you live and you learn!
Still, we are in the UK and they just don’t let you loose on the general junta without full on training and insurance indemnity, so for those of you who were under the delusion that our Somya would be reminiscent of your neighbourhood maalishwaali, put away your paltry Rs.150. She will be ‘phofessionally’ qualified, possibly ‘certified’ and definitely with a massage table. So there, Kantabai eat your heart out. But, to get to this exalted status, Somya’s had to sacrifice weekends hitting the books – anatomy, musculature, physiology… yep, it’s like being back in school, except for this time around, you need to know more than where your gluteus maximus is! (4.5657 points to those who swear gluteus maximus is to be found in Asterix, along with radio and ulna…).
Being the supportive friend that I am, I offer myself as her ‘case study’, and lesson 1 commences with much fanfare. It’s decided, because I’m lazy, the venue for test /practice massages will be my place, and Somya turns up with all her paraphernalia: Mexican carpet to drape over the bed, copious quantities of notes, towels, and a full on professional demeanour (which lasts all of 15 seconds). We agree on olive oil – actually, she instructs and I fetch, and after a quick read up of her notes, dimming of the lights to a suitable seductive level, and agreeing on a soothing oud (that's a Moroccon sitar type instrument) rendition in the background, we’re ready to go…. The first challenge, and what might possibly be her undoing… the great English towel wrap. Living in the land of the politically correct has its own peculiarities - it’s apparently not done to tell your clients to strip down to their undies and hop on…., So, modesty must be protected and comfort maintained with some fancy towel work. Except, Somya hasn’t been paying attention, and muffs it. So there I am, my modesty shielded by a large towel, lying flat on my stomach, as she commences her manoeuvres. ‘hmm, now how did they do this.. first fold this one here, then move it like so, then take the other one.. no that’s wrong. Maybe it’s this, first, fold, no that’s not right either.. how did they do it?...’ That, my friends, is a foretaste of things to come. And before I know it, the whole towel escapade has gone horribly wrong, and I’ve been none to gently pushed and poked in an attempt to get rid of the towel I had, only to wind up towelless completely. Right. She’s going to flunk the towel test.
Having given up on the towels, we just get on with it Well, she does anyway, and I’m thinking, I feel like I’m being basted. Olive oil.. just chuck in a little rosemary, thyme, tarragon, and call me Italian! Just the legs and back… remember, this is the first class. She gets to my back, muttering under her breath all the time, ‘now easy, gentle strokes along the outside of the spine, oh… I forgot my notes.. but I’m not supposed to leave you.. always have your hands on the client…’ and then the both of us are in splits at this delicate dilemma – to abandon the fundamental principle of keeping your hands on the body, or find out where those are hands are supposed to move to next! Sanity prevails, and Somya leaves me giggling as she fetches her user guide and we continue, mutter, massage, giggle, mutter, massage, giggle.. and voila. Lesson 1 complete, although I felt a bit incomplete being only partially basted, so remedied that with more olive oil while we drank tea and reviewed the session. A very fragrant night.
Lesson 2, was a lot more technical and exhausting, not helped by the fact that we began after 10 pm. A long drawn out consultation, which I failed miserably. Her sample case study was depressed, had man trouble, was unhappy at work and thusly deeply stressed, so the benefits of massage were bountiful. My profile was a bit lightweight – mostly healthy, happy, stress free, and just loved being massaged. Well, between us we managed some creative expansion to that just to give her case study profile a bit of meat. Between my scarfing down random wantons and Somya’s drinking tea, choosing the appropriate writing implements, googling some of the more technical terms that popped up in the paperwork (if any one that reads this can tell me what "pediculosis" means without referring to anything or anyone else, I will cook them a 4 course meal), we managed to complete all the documentation (and this included a trip back to her place coz she’d forgotten the most critical bits of paper..!!!) having read all the necessary bits, established the client healer relationship and signed off all release forms for any injury claims, we were finally ready for the damn massage.
This time, experience came into play, and we had sunflower oil instead of olive (lighter and easier spread in case you’re wondering – it’s not about the flavour!), notes with us right off the bat. But alas! The towel syndrome was inevitable. She thought she’d cracked it, and didn’t take notes, and there we went again.. mutter, mutter ‘no that’s not right.. it’s like this.. .let’s try again…’ 18 marks for the towels, so don’t snigger. Anyway, we gave that up as a lost cause for the moment, and with the directions precariously balanced on my bum, we crack on – a pretend cleaning of the feet, then the back of the legs, spine, shoulders, and a hunt for the trapezoid and some other complicated muscles that I can’t even recollect, gentle soothing strokes, draingage of the lympatic system… all going well, mutter, mutter….. 'hain, again? but i've already done that.... i did it before i was supposed to.. oh well, mutter mutter' and then, it’s time to flip over. But can one just flip over? Don’t be ridiculous, there’s towel technique involved here as well, and after some most inelegant yanking, which was meant to have me gracefully roll over with the towel now draped over my front, well, at least in theory, we just admitted between guffaws, towel grabs and rude displays of flesh, that she was going to have to do some serious note taking if she wanted those 18 marks.
New territory… the face and shoulders… and I swear, any injury I sustain will be a result of being massaged under mirth. My body tensing in anticipation of damage.. I mean what can you expect when your masseuse keeps muttering, and not under her breath either, of what she’s doing wrong, and what she ought to have done instead…. So much for a relaxing massage. Still, we made it through this one unscathed, and then realised, that she was supposed to have done a pre and post massage write up… which again set us off into hysterics… what did you notice in the client when you were massaging her…we decided crystal deposits sounded good as did structural integrity problems (first very kindly pointed out by this sadist masseur in Berlin who I had the privilege of paying for to be told in my agony that I was structural unsound….). Well, at least she can’t complain, might be happy and unstressed but hey, structurally flawed – that’s got to make for a good case study! Tonight is supposed to be lesson 3…. and I can feel my trapezoids tense in anticipation….and oh yes.. pediculosis has nothing to do with your feet, but everything to do with.... get this, head lice. And in case you were beset with overriding curiosity, there is a National Pediculosis Association founded in 1983.... you live and you learn!
and you thought saturday night could only get that exciting....
And just when you thought it couldn’t get more eventful on a Saturday night than being driven up to a party with a police escort….think again. I didn’t think I’d get so lucky as to find another friendly ride on my way back to the station, so I let prudence take precedence over bravery, and asked Erica to get me a minicab. And since this isn’t a short story, well not really, let me just say, that the only barbeque worth it’s fat, is Matts. Normally, I find barbeques really very silly – you stand around outside usually when the sun’s only pretending to have made an appearance, for food that never seems to, and when it finally does, it’s usually burnt, and then you have to wait for ages for more charred offerings to show up. Not at Matts. Never at Matts – been twice now, and both times, spectacular!! Not only is the food ready, and there’s somehow lots of it, it’s bloody delicious. Have to give the Aussie’s credit where credit is due. Barbie is their birthright. And by God, they shall have it!! So after not intending to eat really (this was the same day as a rather largish dimsum lunch (like there’s any other kind), topped up by a fulsome dessert at Haagen Dazs, and we know how that story goes…yep… the old, ‘I feel sick!’ and walking to Tottenham Court Road and back to Bond Street Stn. via Leicester Sq. and a couple of navel rings, I was still feeling sick, but somehow, those gorgeous sausages were irresistible – can’t remember how many I inhaled before I came up for air…and the burger and chicken was almost as good… didn’t waste my time with the buns and pasta salad, but demolished the tomato/mozzarella and the potato salad.
Coming back to the minicab, I peered out the window, and there they were, a tough old broad greying hair, glasses, bright red lipstick and painted talons, smoking a cigarette parked next to her flaming red Mercedes cab. Yipee…!! As I say my ta ta’s and thank yous, and doubtful yeah, let’s do dinner with your mum and my folks, the broad checks me out and asks in a gravely voice straight out of Casablanca (and yes, I’m talking Sam here), ‘is it just you?’ Like just me isn’t good enough? But I refrain from getting pugnacious – she looks like she could punch my lights out, and trust me, I don’t think that way about many men…and nod instead. ‘You can ride up front with me in that case’. Oh my. A promotion, all before dessert as well. Anyway, once belted in, we set off, and she launches into this story about this people carrier that she encountered on her way over, trying to reverse, and he just had to wait for a second to let her pass. There’s men drivers for you… ok, good start. I admire the colour of her car, and then she chats with someone outside the pub as we stop for oncoming traffic. ‘I never take those guys outside the pub – too rough’ she tells me. ‘mostly I’m dropping women off coz they feel safer with me..’ right…. I feel compelled to participate – that’s what sitting up front with the help does to one… and so I ask chattily ‘How long have you been driving a cab?’ ‘Ever since the divorce. Two years now..’ and that was that. Khul ja sim sim. It turned out that it had been rather a depressing day for her, no thanks to her bastard ex-husband. She used to have a thriving kebab shop before he ran it into the ground. And get this, he’s got the house, because ‘I was dumb enough to make the deed in his name, now wasn’t I?’ a purely rhetorical question I assure you. Anyway, he now wants to sell the house. Her house, bought with her money, and she’ll see him in hell before she sells it. She moved out with the Merc, because she didn’t really fancy going to jail for murder. Seemed like a sound plan. But the kids are still at home with the lazy lying git, and he’s now apparently tell her daughter, who’s about to turn 18, that he has no money. The poor girl was meant to go abroad for a holiday with her best friend, and said friends mum as a treat, coz she’s been working so hard at college and such like, and this bastard, tells her he has no money, and take some of her to boot…!! Ouch.
I’m wishing now that I had just sat in the backseat, all aloof and regal, but c’est la vie… Bastard ex was her first love. They always suck. After 6 years of dating, from when they were sixteen and in Greece, she discovered he was seeing a slew of other women on the side…and dumped him, and went on to marry a nice Englishman, Mr. Wilson (and I know this because that was the name on the deed of her previous house in case you’re wondering how I might have come across this little tidbit..), and they were happy enough together, two kids, but rather tragically, he popped it by the time he was 34. That’s really a rather cavalier way of putting it, but you have to understand, the whole evening in terms of mobility had been rather surreal. Anyway, Gigolo found his way to the UK, and back into her life, and naturally, they had to get married as his visa had expired – a minor fact he’d neglected to tell her when they first reconnected, but she felt a stirring of the old je ne sais quoi…..and bought the house and put his name on the deed.. all I can say, he must have been really good in bed!!
Ah – I almost forgot. Somewhere between her buying him the house and supporting him with the kebab house before he managed to get rid of that, she discovered through other sources, that our man had a 3 year old child from someone else…. The only reason he’d never told her, was because, hey, it was in the past… and it seems he never bothered to see that child, well, 28 year old now and probably grateful never to have seen him. Raspy voice also had two kids with him, in case I haven’t mentioned that yet, and they all live in her house with him. Well, he can want to sell the house, but no way she’s letting that happen. Made him an offer – for cash and given that he sounds broke, a good strategy. £25,000 – take it and transfer the deed to her name, or go to hell. She’ll never let him sell the house. Seemed more than fair if you ask me, and I stoutly told her so. Mistake number three hundred and sixty two. The conversation veered to me…. If I was married, and I guiltily admitted to being separated. A deep knowing nod and a raspy ‘You’re much better off without him honey’. I finally knew what it felt like to be in the power of Zorba the Greek. ‘I’ve seen it all.. it doesn’t matter what colour you are – black, white, blue, green… men are men and they’re all bastards’. All this while taking a turn without the brakes, breaking off only to honk and rudely gesture and yell a the guy in the car next to us.. ‘doesn’t he know there’s only the left turns? There’s only a single lane for left her. Stupid bastard. Men drivers.’ Thankfully, we were now racing closer to home and at Harrow road, when she asked if I had my bearings, the relief in my voice was quite genuine when I said ‘oh yes’. ‘good, you don’t want to get lost again tonight do you.’ Yep – had told her about the police car ride, and she’d grudgingly admitted they were alright.
Just turning into Maida Vale, she hit the brakes to let an unsuspecting male bicyclist precariously paused at the sidewalk take the pedestrian crossing, muttering, ‘I’d run you over just as easily mate, without a second thought. Hell, I’d shoot each and every last one of you with a shotgun if I could.’ Cheerful stuff. The next few minutes I directed her to my place, and don’t ask me why, but felt compelled to ask if she’d like to come in for a cup of tea. Thankfully, before I could articulate the thought, she said she might go on to have a cup of tea with a friend of hers who was just over at Princess Street, and then before I could help myself, my lips parted and I heard myself ‘would you like to come up for a cup of tea with me..?’ before I snapped it shut again. Luckily, she’s a very focused woman, and she hadn’t seen her friend in a while… phew. Saved by someone else’s cup of tea. But she did have the last word as she deposited me at the my door ‘Don’t worry luv, you’re better off without him. Take care and have a good life..’ Zorba has left the building. Goodnight!
Coming back to the minicab, I peered out the window, and there they were, a tough old broad greying hair, glasses, bright red lipstick and painted talons, smoking a cigarette parked next to her flaming red Mercedes cab. Yipee…!! As I say my ta ta’s and thank yous, and doubtful yeah, let’s do dinner with your mum and my folks, the broad checks me out and asks in a gravely voice straight out of Casablanca (and yes, I’m talking Sam here), ‘is it just you?’ Like just me isn’t good enough? But I refrain from getting pugnacious – she looks like she could punch my lights out, and trust me, I don’t think that way about many men…and nod instead. ‘You can ride up front with me in that case’. Oh my. A promotion, all before dessert as well. Anyway, once belted in, we set off, and she launches into this story about this people carrier that she encountered on her way over, trying to reverse, and he just had to wait for a second to let her pass. There’s men drivers for you… ok, good start. I admire the colour of her car, and then she chats with someone outside the pub as we stop for oncoming traffic. ‘I never take those guys outside the pub – too rough’ she tells me. ‘mostly I’m dropping women off coz they feel safer with me..’ right…. I feel compelled to participate – that’s what sitting up front with the help does to one… and so I ask chattily ‘How long have you been driving a cab?’ ‘Ever since the divorce. Two years now..’ and that was that. Khul ja sim sim. It turned out that it had been rather a depressing day for her, no thanks to her bastard ex-husband. She used to have a thriving kebab shop before he ran it into the ground. And get this, he’s got the house, because ‘I was dumb enough to make the deed in his name, now wasn’t I?’ a purely rhetorical question I assure you. Anyway, he now wants to sell the house. Her house, bought with her money, and she’ll see him in hell before she sells it. She moved out with the Merc, because she didn’t really fancy going to jail for murder. Seemed like a sound plan. But the kids are still at home with the lazy lying git, and he’s now apparently tell her daughter, who’s about to turn 18, that he has no money. The poor girl was meant to go abroad for a holiday with her best friend, and said friends mum as a treat, coz she’s been working so hard at college and such like, and this bastard, tells her he has no money, and take some of her to boot…!! Ouch.
I’m wishing now that I had just sat in the backseat, all aloof and regal, but c’est la vie… Bastard ex was her first love. They always suck. After 6 years of dating, from when they were sixteen and in Greece, she discovered he was seeing a slew of other women on the side…and dumped him, and went on to marry a nice Englishman, Mr. Wilson (and I know this because that was the name on the deed of her previous house in case you’re wondering how I might have come across this little tidbit..), and they were happy enough together, two kids, but rather tragically, he popped it by the time he was 34. That’s really a rather cavalier way of putting it, but you have to understand, the whole evening in terms of mobility had been rather surreal. Anyway, Gigolo found his way to the UK, and back into her life, and naturally, they had to get married as his visa had expired – a minor fact he’d neglected to tell her when they first reconnected, but she felt a stirring of the old je ne sais quoi…..and bought the house and put his name on the deed.. all I can say, he must have been really good in bed!!
Ah – I almost forgot. Somewhere between her buying him the house and supporting him with the kebab house before he managed to get rid of that, she discovered through other sources, that our man had a 3 year old child from someone else…. The only reason he’d never told her, was because, hey, it was in the past… and it seems he never bothered to see that child, well, 28 year old now and probably grateful never to have seen him. Raspy voice also had two kids with him, in case I haven’t mentioned that yet, and they all live in her house with him. Well, he can want to sell the house, but no way she’s letting that happen. Made him an offer – for cash and given that he sounds broke, a good strategy. £25,000 – take it and transfer the deed to her name, or go to hell. She’ll never let him sell the house. Seemed more than fair if you ask me, and I stoutly told her so. Mistake number three hundred and sixty two. The conversation veered to me…. If I was married, and I guiltily admitted to being separated. A deep knowing nod and a raspy ‘You’re much better off without him honey’. I finally knew what it felt like to be in the power of Zorba the Greek. ‘I’ve seen it all.. it doesn’t matter what colour you are – black, white, blue, green… men are men and they’re all bastards’. All this while taking a turn without the brakes, breaking off only to honk and rudely gesture and yell a the guy in the car next to us.. ‘doesn’t he know there’s only the left turns? There’s only a single lane for left her. Stupid bastard. Men drivers.’ Thankfully, we were now racing closer to home and at Harrow road, when she asked if I had my bearings, the relief in my voice was quite genuine when I said ‘oh yes’. ‘good, you don’t want to get lost again tonight do you.’ Yep – had told her about the police car ride, and she’d grudgingly admitted they were alright.
Just turning into Maida Vale, she hit the brakes to let an unsuspecting male bicyclist precariously paused at the sidewalk take the pedestrian crossing, muttering, ‘I’d run you over just as easily mate, without a second thought. Hell, I’d shoot each and every last one of you with a shotgun if I could.’ Cheerful stuff. The next few minutes I directed her to my place, and don’t ask me why, but felt compelled to ask if she’d like to come in for a cup of tea. Thankfully, before I could articulate the thought, she said she might go on to have a cup of tea with a friend of hers who was just over at Princess Street, and then before I could help myself, my lips parted and I heard myself ‘would you like to come up for a cup of tea with me..?’ before I snapped it shut again. Luckily, she’s a very focused woman, and she hadn’t seen her friend in a while… phew. Saved by someone else’s cup of tea. But she did have the last word as she deposited me at the my door ‘Don’t worry luv, you’re better off without him. Take care and have a good life..’ Zorba has left the building. Goodnight!
You have to love this country....
Saturday night, there I was all dressed up and looking pretty, full on with pink toes, glancing with what can only be described as a look of annoyed perplexity at the map in my hands. Good old multimap, the fail safe for all new directional ventures seemed to have let me down. The station was behind me, the road I came down on the map, but this stupid Margravine Gardens was meant to be on the other side of the station. Not where I was hopelessly meandering waiting for divine intervention in that short distance been Baron's court tube station and Matt's house on stupid Tasso road. Stupid map. Stupid suburb in zone 2. A quiet little residential street off the cemetery, lined with neat little houses and not a soul to be found amidst all the quaintness. And why should these domesticated souls be wondering the streets at 8 o'clock on a Saturday waiting to be accosted, might you ask? Well, because I'm bloody well lost aren't I???
So, there I am, a glamorous vision impatiently tapping her toes (well, it might have made for a better effect if I'd had on murderous stilettos, but I can look haughty in chappals as well…maybe), wondering just what the hell to do, when a-ha… a police car, without it's sirens wailing…. that just slowed down to a pause a few feet ahead of me (not surprising as I was standing on the corner, and well, guess it's good policy to follow some of the traffic rules they prescribe for the civilians)… so I tentatively waggled my fingers at them wondering if they might stop en route to their important business and point me on my way… Not that I was hoping for much as my last few encounters with the police in various locales weren't exactly my most glorious moments - Bombay in Dec was to have them ask for my license because I was apparently in a bus lane (yes, really…. A bus lane… in BOMBAY!!), and before that in Spain, a couple of parking tickets, one which I had to pay, and the other for which I can't return to Vejer in case they have my mug shot up at the local taverna, and even before that, in Austria, a hefty fine for speeding (well, for getting caught actually….), but I digress. My tentative waggling was because of those latent but overpoweringly grim memories of the Swiss police. The very same ones took the curve midway up a mountain barely slowing down to peer at us. Us? Four hapless women, at less than their usual stunning selves (3 min. 12 seconds in that weather will do it to you), crawling around the car tyres in the subzero temperatures so characteristic of a charming Swiss winter, making pathetic attempts at putting on snow chains… (as it transpired, they were the wrong size for this bloody car, and no, I have no idea why therefore they were in the boot!!). Did the protectors of the peace commiserate? Check for frostbite? Throw us a bounty bar? Ask for our phone numbers??? Hell no. They looked at us with their patented impassive faces, and just kept driving.
So, thusly, the tentative waggling of the fingers – almost apologetic if you will. A sort of, 'could I possibly have your attention if its really not to much trouble…', without expecting anything really. The driver hadn't noticed me, but there was someone in the back seat who did, and said something to the driver so they came to a full halt in the middle of that tiny street, so I elegantly scurried up and asked them if they could put me in the right direction to Tasso road… hmm what road? T a s s o… ah Tasso – don't know where it is luv, so I conjure up my rubbish map… and we have a confab about that, with me doing my graphic directional hand display, and disparaging the map while I do it (women are so good at multitasking). No joy… they hadn't a clue either, but hey, at least they stopped!!
And now, especially for the Swiss, pay attention…. This is truly the city's finest… 'Tell you what luv, why don't you just pop into the back and we'll drop you off?' 'What?!' really???' 'Yeah – we're dropping him off anyway..' nodding to the bloke in the back. 'If you could, that would be fabulous! Thank you!' and before he could change his mind, I lunged for the rear right door, and slid in as gracefully as a desperately lost woman in chappals can, and lo and behold, the prisoner in the back was this rather good looking chappie…!! Betterer and betterer!!! 'We'll just drop him off first… where are you off to then, a birthday party?' asks the driver chattily, and it's just like being at a tea party. 'actually, it's a barbeque… but it was his birthday a few days ago…' 'Ah, then you should leave behind any bottles you might be carry in the backseat' Uh-oh – he's busting me for alcohol possession?? Ah no – he's been funny, English ishtyle, and I giggle in appreciation and partly with relief… (being Mumbaichi mulgi and whatnot…these things can be stressful)
And then, we're back at Baron's court stn, dropping off the good looking dude, and now we're down to business. 'can you have a look at the map then' driver asks buddy in passenger seat 'don't have my glasses so won't be able to read anything…' uh-oh. He didn't really say that did he? I mean what the hell kind of a policeman goes around in his car, visually impaired??? Naturally, I don't say anything – my mother brought me up with good manners. 'Right luv, you have a look then..' So I do, and we head off in some direction which I'm pretty sure is the wrong one… see, it's not that I don't know my way at all, it's just that I need to be able to find my way through the cemetery but they shut at night. A bit futile if you ask me since no one's really going to leave…! But as usually, yet again, I digress. Where were we? Ah yes, heading the wrong way, when 'what's your name?' 'Apara' (great now he's going to arrest me), 'nice to meet you' and shake his hand with my left returning the sentiment with heartfelt warmth…. I was too surprised to negotiate the right hand around the headrest…. and then I explain as best I can to the driver whose name, rather appallingly, I can't remember, that I think it's in the opposite direction. (that's an awfully long sentence). So we turn in the right direction, and the younger, cuter and blinder officer takes charge, and gets the sat nav going….and starts giving directions. Now, this is too much, and I just can't resist, so I ask… 'you can see that without your glasses?' 'don't you trust him?' 'it's just that he said he couldn't read the map without his glasses, and I'm as blind as a bat without mine….so I was wondering..' Younger, blinder grins and points to the sat nav screen 'I'm just directing him in the general direction of that square, see, that's where Tasso road is'. Hunh. I didn't even see that… but now with his finger pointed at it…. Voila! So we follow his directions, and driver takes us up the wrong way, so we have to reverse… and I ask if they're about to go off shift – can't imagine them, no matter how friendly, just offering minicab services to all directionally challenged folk on the street. And yes, they were, therefore the dropping off of handsome at the station before calling it a night themselves. 'I'm sorry….!' 'oh no – no matter luv, you just have a pint on us..' 'wouldn't you like to come in with me for a drink?' 'ah – most people don't like us coming into their homes…' 'I'm sure Matt's been pretty good this week..' and then, we're turning into tasso road. 'What number was it?' '20' I return pat. Then I'm wondering… is it? Or did I just dream up that figure? Anyway, I get dropped off at Matt's door…and they insist I have a drink for them, but decline my freely bandied offer of generous quantities of Matt's alcohol. So I exit the car and promptly scramble through my bag for my mobile to make sure I don't ring one of his neighbours doorbells, meandering away from #20 and the darling men, are waiting for me…. 'number 20's this one..' and they wait to see me safetly unlatch the gate and walk to the door, before reversing their way out of Tasso road and to whatever pub they'd go to after they knock off work. Muaaah. My money on the Metropolitan police… everytime!! Muaah.
You know, I certianly do NOT want this blog to look like a movie review website, but I just can't help myself!! It's been one of those weeks and I'm on film number 3. But that's not the shocker. What is the shocker, is that I'm actually going to roundly recommend this particular film. So peepuls, hold on to your hats, I'm not wasted.... but you MUST go see "Chak De India". LOL! If only I could see your faces. But I kid you not. I went under severe duress (no surprises there), considering that fact that I can't stand Shahrukh Khan, don't give a toss about hockey of any denomination and believe the best way to watch a Hindi film is with a finger on the fast foward button, but hey, thought I'd at least catch up with friends. I sort of invited Emma to join us (was spending the day with her being esoteric over Eggs Benedict for brunch and then photo exhibition at the Tate), but between the Tate and movie start, managed to dissuade her with my dire caveats on her watching of the movie and she decided it was too big a risk to take. Thought I'd cut out during the interval - Hah! I wasn't going till I found out how it ended. Yes, it's about the Indian National Hockey team, the women's team i.e. and SRK is their coach, and yes, there are the requisite moments for SRK to get all emo and blurry eyed and deliver his dialogues with strain, but have to admit, he looked fantastic - all fit and toned. So much so, I wouldn't mind having that come and coach me! But I digress. Contrary to Bollywood belief, the film wasn't about him. It was all about the women, and what a bunch of women. Hard core stereotypes, but just so bloody endearing. Each one of the women had their characters so well defined - physically, emotionally and verbally and it was a treat to watch them in action. The dialogues were their own, at least it felt like it. Actually, that's one of the things about this film. Apart from the garbage SRK spews, everybody else said things that they would have said in real life, and the best line had to be the bewildered English coach pleading for enlightenment, "I'm confused, which one is Didi?". Priceless. The women come across as gutsy, and there are bits, where strong men are portrayed, i.e. those unthreatened by this motley lot who give them their due. For me, the turning point came when the Indian men's team saluted their abilities - kicker of a scene. The hockey matches are a revelation - don't know who the director is (shall Google in a minute), but he's a fucking genius. All of us were on the edges of our seat during the world championships, willing India on, and biting our nails for the tense matches!! For God's sake - Hockey!! Pretty incredible to have managed to get a bunch of jaded, scoffing desi's to this stage. Not sure if the women were all hockey players, or just athletes or stray actresses (esp. the ladies from Jharkhand - you've got to love them, Ho?!). Naturally, there are the typical Hindi movie bits that really annoy you and make you want to slap someone, but hey - all the more reason to apprecaite the best bits of the film of which there are a damn sight more than I would have believed. Hats off to the Women's Hockey team, and if they ever actually start playing at international levell, I'll be buggered if I don't make a valiant effort to follow their efforts! Chak De India!!
Just saw La Vie en Rose a couple of nights ago, and it's a phenomenol movie. It's the only film I've ever been to where at the end, when the screen goes blank, the crowd just sat there in stunned silence.... for a full 45 seconds, before someone started a tenantive applause going, which stuttered across the rest of the audience. None of the usual fidgeting, rushing out of seats the minute the last scene is obvious. Rather eerire to have an entire theatre of people just staring at a blank wall. These French really know how to do death - the ending was really powerful. Sort of like having someone reach in for your guts and twist them around really good before yanking them out.
For the tasteless (and you know who you are), it's a biopic on Edith Piaf, the French crooner. She was given the name Piaf (Sparrow in French) by Louis Leplee, the man that discovered her singing for her supper on the corner of a Parisian Street. It was an incredible life, an incredible woman. When she belts it out, the hairs on your arms stand to attention, and she was a complete diva - talented, temperamental, hard living, gutsy and arrogant. As she says, when her manager fusses over her because she's kept a composer waiting for over two hours "What's the point in being Edith Piaf!" . Marion Cotillard is just superb as Piaf - I have no idea how close the resemblance is, but this is how I'll always think of her. Part fluttering sparrow and part wild animal, both hurling themselves against the bars of a cage. And while she owns the movie, I just have to say that Jean Pierre Martins is entirely edible.
The beginning is a little slow and could possible have done with some tighter editing, but by the time you get to the second half, Edith rules you. An inspiring woman. An inspiring life.
For the tasteless (and you know who you are), it's a biopic on Edith Piaf, the French crooner. She was given the name Piaf (Sparrow in French) by Louis Leplee, the man that discovered her singing for her supper on the corner of a Parisian Street. It was an incredible life, an incredible woman. When she belts it out, the hairs on your arms stand to attention, and she was a complete diva - talented, temperamental, hard living, gutsy and arrogant. As she says, when her manager fusses over her because she's kept a composer waiting for over two hours "What's the point in being Edith Piaf!" . Marion Cotillard is just superb as Piaf - I have no idea how close the resemblance is, but this is how I'll always think of her. Part fluttering sparrow and part wild animal, both hurling themselves against the bars of a cage. And while she owns the movie, I just have to say that Jean Pierre Martins is entirely edible.
The beginning is a little slow and could possible have done with some tighter editing, but by the time you get to the second half, Edith rules you. An inspiring woman. An inspiring life.
Red Bull Air Race World Series 2007
I'm hooked! If there's any of you that's reading this blog who is an F1 fan, this is an absolute must new sport to follow. I HATE flying - motion sickness and whatnot, but I have to say I really enjoyed this experience. It's all about speed, and how good these guys are. Found out about it by default - someone in the company had spare tickets so sent a group email around and I checked out the website http://www.redbullairrace.com/ and well, I had to go. It was fabulous, although the waiting between the quarter finals and semi's was really pakaoing and they only had 2 helicopters doing cool flips and flying backwards to keep you occupied, it was only for a bit of the time. The venue was O2 at Canary Wharf and it was spectacular. These guys are so good, they fly barely a few meters off the water, and unlike F1, they don't actually race together :-) (d-uh: safety reasons... it's in the air), but it's all about the times they turn in. They have a qualifying on Saturday and here the 12 fastest are pared down to the top 8. After that, the eleminations quick in and that's really nerve wracking, coz you could have a better time than someone else following you, but if the guy you're paired with is faster...... it's bye bye baby. Basically, the 8 pilots pair off and race against each other, the faster one winning and moving to the semis. We actually had one of the quarter finalists with a 2 second faster time, but he was beaten by his pair, so got knocked out at this stage. The semis were great, with the times getting tighter and tighter, and no accidents as they zipped through the pylons just meters above the Thames, and finally, after a Mexican wave that looked more like a tidal wave across the banks of the Thames (both sides, in case you were wondering) start off, much to the dismay of the exceedingly partisan London crowd, Mike Mangold clipped the local hero Paul Bonhomme by 2 seconds plus change (as the American commentator was wont to say) - great stuff. Really spectacular, and fun as well, coz it's all to blaring music - really sexy stuff. The 3 place podium semis actually had the Bond theme going, so it was just too cool for words. London was the 6th of the series for this year, and they've already done exotic locales like Abu Dhabi, Rio de Janerio, Turkey and Interlaken and just the venues make this quite an addictive sport. Now that I've added air racing to my list of motorsports to follow, I'm hoping that one of these days, I'll get to watch it in Rio. Maybe this would be a good time to start the SEND APARA TO RIO FUND :).
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