No more worries for the rest of your days..... all very well for a garish meerkat and a flatulent warthog, but really, a lion does need more. Unimpressed by the movie, I reluctantly went for the West End production with 'ooohaaawammmaaawaaaay.. .in the jungle, the mighty jungle....' running through my head, only to deserve the pity observation at the end of the first tableaux, that for someone who didn't like musicals I seemed to be rather enjoying myself. What can I say. I have never, never been this blown away by a production. The story is still stupid, the music plah, the dialogues uninspiring and Simba, quite simply, a twat. But the production............... leaves you breathless.
The design team inspires awe in their ability to conjure up costumes and sets that reflect the fluidity of motion in the wild. Masks at the end of spine like overhangs above the head, a mix of own limbs and prosthetics, arched backs, swaying torsos, undulating necks; human and artificial blending together in such exquisite harmony, that it makes the phrase 'poetry in motion' seem trite. This was like watching the Savannah come alive, feeling the hair on the nape of your neck rise as the cheetah slinks her way through the front of the stage, the joy of watching the baby elephant hustle behind momma, the lanky giraffes, the menacing buzzards, the incoherent butterflies flitting, the twisted paradox of the hyenas, the birds roosting on the rhino. Without a doubt, the single most incredible visual unreality I have seen on stage. Watching the water hole shrink, made my throat parch with anxiety, even as the visualisation of the stampede upset my pulse.
Picturing it in my head, makes my senses leap as I wonder at the sheer genius of the innovative design, the fluidity of movement. But it does mean that the opening scene ruins you for what follows - well, perhaps I exaggerate.... but suffice to say, when that abysmal orange creature (who for some inexplicable reason is the only character that is a ventriloquists dummy!!!) shows up, boredom steps in, staved off only by the hair raising voice and presence of the strong, sultry and sensuous Nala (that's the tawt's girlfriend), Zaszu, Scar, the raging hyenas and the Magic Woman.
I have never seen anything this visually evocative or stunning on stage ever before. A gazillion times better than the film ever could be. Now if only it had been the Lioness Queen, we might have had a runaway winner....
Witch Hunting
"£50,000 per annum. Must be able to cackle and not be allergic to cats."
It occurs to me that I'm very much in the wrong game as I re-read the article. Why am I giving Guy grief about my frustrations at not being valued, when the job doesn't call for any cackling?? While I lack in several essential skills such as whistling and eyebrow raising, I am well renowned for my lack of any sort of allergies to feline creatures, and have been crossly shushed for inappropriate cackling often enough (although if I'm honest, I'd just be a sorry second to Priyé's natural talent). Still, a recession calls for some hard choices.
This could be a key career move - apparently according to the staff at Wookey Hole in Somerset, it's a straight forward role. Live in the cave, be a witch and do things witches do. "We are witch less at the moment so need to get the role filled as soon as possible". Apparently, ambitious witch varieties seeking a key career move are encouraged to show up dressed for work armed with an "essential with accoutrements". Perhaps the FDG, FGT and I should show up as a trio??
Naturally, political correctness gone mad cannot demand a woman for the job. That would be sexual discrimination unless documentary proof showing that the original witch was female can be procured. Most shortsighted of those people who insisted on using stakes. Nevertheless, interviews involving 'on-site' assessment of a range of 'standard tasks' will happen on 28th July at 1100.
Broomstick, check. Pointed hat, check. Wicked heels, check. Cackle, check. Black cat, check. Beaten cauldron, check. Gnarly fingers with shocking pink nails, check. Witch expression, check. Hissing invective, check. Funky spells, check. Proclivity towards the weird, check. That leaves me about a dozen days to work on my nose....... time to rustle up some newt tongues and bat blood. The hunt is on!
It occurs to me that I'm very much in the wrong game as I re-read the article. Why am I giving Guy grief about my frustrations at not being valued, when the job doesn't call for any cackling?? While I lack in several essential skills such as whistling and eyebrow raising, I am well renowned for my lack of any sort of allergies to feline creatures, and have been crossly shushed for inappropriate cackling often enough (although if I'm honest, I'd just be a sorry second to Priyé's natural talent). Still, a recession calls for some hard choices.
This could be a key career move - apparently according to the staff at Wookey Hole in Somerset, it's a straight forward role. Live in the cave, be a witch and do things witches do. "We are witch less at the moment so need to get the role filled as soon as possible". Apparently, ambitious witch varieties seeking a key career move are encouraged to show up dressed for work armed with an "essential with accoutrements". Perhaps the FDG, FGT and I should show up as a trio??
Naturally, political correctness gone mad cannot demand a woman for the job. That would be sexual discrimination unless documentary proof showing that the original witch was female can be procured. Most shortsighted of those people who insisted on using stakes. Nevertheless, interviews involving 'on-site' assessment of a range of 'standard tasks' will happen on 28th July at 1100.
Broomstick, check. Pointed hat, check. Wicked heels, check. Cackle, check. Black cat, check. Beaten cauldron, check. Gnarly fingers with shocking pink nails, check. Witch expression, check. Hissing invective, check. Funky spells, check. Proclivity towards the weird, check. That leaves me about a dozen days to work on my nose....... time to rustle up some newt tongues and bat blood. The hunt is on!
Return of the Lily
I beam like the parent, whose toddler has just spouted some gibberish that some sap gushingly interpreted as a declaration of Independence, as my eyes rest on the profusion of green on the dining table. A smug smile takes up permanent residence. 15 days and 12 hours, and the Calla's look positively prosperous. I have poked, prodded, watered, snipped, plucked and tweaked with the natural, nervous trepidation of she who kills plants. And yet, it lives....
My sense of awe starts to give way to a serene smugness, and the best part is, unlike my children, I don't have to worry about forgetting them somewhere!
My sense of awe starts to give way to a serene smugness, and the best part is, unlike my children, I don't have to worry about forgetting them somewhere!
Eureka!
While regretfully I can lay no claim to coming up with as ground breaking a principle as Archimedes'.... I do purport to lay claim on the very sound conclusion that water (both running and stagnant) heated to the correct temperature, against a human body has the unique effect of positively chamkoing the brain. Perhaps it's the gently wafting steam that subliminally stimulates the intellect to a degree of insight that is very conducive to a deeply satisfying 'aaaah' moment, otherwise known as the Eureka principle.
The truth isn't out there.... it's in the bathroom.
The truth isn't out there.... it's in the bathroom.
The scent...
...fills my nostrils as I breath, and steals my breath away. If I could bottle it, I'd be a Bond villain who would actually rule the world.
Given that we're only 2% off the 'animal' kingdom, it's astonishing that we forget how strong a stimulator scent is. Even more so, given how crap human eyesight is, in the whole scheme of things. I had this debate with the Dutchman about losing ones senses, and everyone seems so loath to let go of sight. While the fact that I'm as blind as the proverbial bat minus my spectacles does very strongly influence my decision, to me, it seems to be the easiest of my senses to give up. Shock, horror! Give up sight? And keep smell? Well, he doesn't have any to begin with, so point made. But I do. And I can't imagine not being able to sniff at things around me... the first rains, the scent of innocence on Avtu, clean sheets, freshly baked bread, the lingering scent of a lover, crab in ginger and spring onion, the sea....
I'd die if I couldn't listen to music. So, that's non negotiable. But the rest? Touch? Oh my. It would certainly be of great relief to the guards at all museums if that were true. But it would be like taking away a dimension. Contours, textures, temperatures, character. Hmmmmm. That's exactly it. Sight, just gives you a single dimension, but it's the sounds, smells, touch and taste that give it life. To talk of taste? A redundant activity on this blog, methinks.
But scent...... nothing poignantly brings back a memory like an unexpected aroma tantalisingly wafting itself around you, stirring forgotten memories, painting pictures in your head, contracting your heart. Yes, I will control the memories of humanity and the world will be mine!!! Bwaahahahahahaaaaaaa..............
Given that we're only 2% off the 'animal' kingdom, it's astonishing that we forget how strong a stimulator scent is. Even more so, given how crap human eyesight is, in the whole scheme of things. I had this debate with the Dutchman about losing ones senses, and everyone seems so loath to let go of sight. While the fact that I'm as blind as the proverbial bat minus my spectacles does very strongly influence my decision, to me, it seems to be the easiest of my senses to give up. Shock, horror! Give up sight? And keep smell? Well, he doesn't have any to begin with, so point made. But I do. And I can't imagine not being able to sniff at things around me... the first rains, the scent of innocence on Avtu, clean sheets, freshly baked bread, the lingering scent of a lover, crab in ginger and spring onion, the sea....
I'd die if I couldn't listen to music. So, that's non negotiable. But the rest? Touch? Oh my. It would certainly be of great relief to the guards at all museums if that were true. But it would be like taking away a dimension. Contours, textures, temperatures, character. Hmmmmm. That's exactly it. Sight, just gives you a single dimension, but it's the sounds, smells, touch and taste that give it life. To talk of taste? A redundant activity on this blog, methinks.
But scent...... nothing poignantly brings back a memory like an unexpected aroma tantalisingly wafting itself around you, stirring forgotten memories, painting pictures in your head, contracting your heart. Yes, I will control the memories of humanity and the world will be mine!!! Bwaahahahahahaaaaaaa..............
If it's Wednesday, it must be Dubrovnik
I find myself in an usual quandary..... my long held belief that the Indian High Commission in London was the epitome of visa hell has been rendered queasy by a visit to the Croats. To begin with, my first mission is aborted because Central European wisdom demands a later start to the day..... 11 am, and not the usual crack of dawn popular in non consonant dominated lands. But I will say, they are lovely people. Most gracious.
My second attempt looks dubious as I take my finger off the label marked Croatian Embassy for the third time. Is it a public holiday? I should have worn a hat. Should I throw stones at the window?? The creak of the opening door jolts my musings and I dash past the door opener into a hoard of Spanish (well, purveyors of the tongue and if you've ever heard 4 together, you will know that they ARE a horde!), apparently queuing for some event. We are re-directed inside where half a dozen people have settled. I feel disappointed that no token numbers are being passed around, but the apparent lack of any direction restores my faith and I start to wonder if they actually issue the visa while you wait at the window. We take turns keeping the chirpy, blond brat amused while Nanny gets her visa.
Some more people are let in after some stressed voices, and we aggressively defend our pole position as one of the newbies blithely walks up to the window, only to beat a deeply apologetic retreat. Blondie in front of me illustrates she doesn't dye by asking if they needed to see health insurance...!!! Finally I arrive at the window. The smile is still genuine and she even helpfully glues on my photo for me. Her charmingness allays any potential impatience her pace at scanning through the documents might have otherwise ignited, and I smile back. We even haggle on the price of a single entry visa but apparently their website lied, and they're rather literal on the multiple visa front (apparently one needs to have proof of all the multiple entries to aspire to such a visa). 'Now you have to go to the bank...', she smiles. My heart thuds - could she be right? My certainty at being able to cobble together the last £5 wavers... I'm wondering if I can negotiate a deferred payment of 64p, but she continues, '....and pay there'.
I beg your pardon??? 'I'm sorry, GO to the bank?' 'Yes, it's not far'. My usually strong comprehensive skills abandon me and I utilise a few moments just to gawk at her. She's saying something, but my brain is too busy trying to put syllables together. 'Are you saying I can't pay here?' Bravo Einstein. That's what I would have said, but she really is charming. 'No, you have to go to the bank. It's not far....'. She hands me a pay-in slip and a printed map. 'This is where we are and here is the bank. It's HSBC. You must pay there and then come back and give us the slip.' You have got to be fucking kidding me. Lack of vowels in the vocabulary obviously tweaks one's sense of humour in an unexpected fashion.
I capitulate, gather my loose change and depart for 'the bank', nearly falling over the picnic that has gathered outside the door. The sweltering heat makes the bank further than convivial, and the unhelpfully suited tosser just aggravates my already delicate equilibrium. 12 minutes of Britain's favourite pastime before the thumpa, thumpa, thumpa and I'm left with copy duplicate and triplicate. My stomach growls warningly at the little kid that ventures too close and I slither my way back clinging to the ribbons of shade. I return, and the picnic turns out to be other visa seekers..... the sweat scenically rolls down the side of my breast as I jab the buzzer for the third time, unimpressed at my celebrity status of being someone who's had the privilege of eyeballing the haloed interiors. I try not to let the class difference show as I make an attempt to amiably answer questions about the 'crowd' inside.
Someone else exits, and like before, this fool rushes in.... but the window is occupied. Blonde and equally charming boss lady smilingly offers to take the duplicate copy off me, with instructions to come back next Wednesday with the triplicate version. Same place, same time. Next week. I bet she says that to everybody....
My second attempt looks dubious as I take my finger off the label marked Croatian Embassy for the third time. Is it a public holiday? I should have worn a hat. Should I throw stones at the window?? The creak of the opening door jolts my musings and I dash past the door opener into a hoard of Spanish (well, purveyors of the tongue and if you've ever heard 4 together, you will know that they ARE a horde!), apparently queuing for some event. We are re-directed inside where half a dozen people have settled. I feel disappointed that no token numbers are being passed around, but the apparent lack of any direction restores my faith and I start to wonder if they actually issue the visa while you wait at the window. We take turns keeping the chirpy, blond brat amused while Nanny gets her visa.
Some more people are let in after some stressed voices, and we aggressively defend our pole position as one of the newbies blithely walks up to the window, only to beat a deeply apologetic retreat. Blondie in front of me illustrates she doesn't dye by asking if they needed to see health insurance...!!! Finally I arrive at the window. The smile is still genuine and she even helpfully glues on my photo for me. Her charmingness allays any potential impatience her pace at scanning through the documents might have otherwise ignited, and I smile back. We even haggle on the price of a single entry visa but apparently their website lied, and they're rather literal on the multiple visa front (apparently one needs to have proof of all the multiple entries to aspire to such a visa). 'Now you have to go to the bank...', she smiles. My heart thuds - could she be right? My certainty at being able to cobble together the last £5 wavers... I'm wondering if I can negotiate a deferred payment of 64p, but she continues, '....and pay there'.
I beg your pardon??? 'I'm sorry, GO to the bank?' 'Yes, it's not far'. My usually strong comprehensive skills abandon me and I utilise a few moments just to gawk at her. She's saying something, but my brain is too busy trying to put syllables together. 'Are you saying I can't pay here?' Bravo Einstein. That's what I would have said, but she really is charming. 'No, you have to go to the bank. It's not far....'. She hands me a pay-in slip and a printed map. 'This is where we are and here is the bank. It's HSBC. You must pay there and then come back and give us the slip.' You have got to be fucking kidding me. Lack of vowels in the vocabulary obviously tweaks one's sense of humour in an unexpected fashion.
I capitulate, gather my loose change and depart for 'the bank', nearly falling over the picnic that has gathered outside the door. The sweltering heat makes the bank further than convivial, and the unhelpfully suited tosser just aggravates my already delicate equilibrium. 12 minutes of Britain's favourite pastime before the thumpa, thumpa, thumpa and I'm left with copy duplicate and triplicate. My stomach growls warningly at the little kid that ventures too close and I slither my way back clinging to the ribbons of shade. I return, and the picnic turns out to be other visa seekers..... the sweat scenically rolls down the side of my breast as I jab the buzzer for the third time, unimpressed at my celebrity status of being someone who's had the privilege of eyeballing the haloed interiors. I try not to let the class difference show as I make an attempt to amiably answer questions about the 'crowd' inside.
Someone else exits, and like before, this fool rushes in.... but the window is occupied. Blonde and equally charming boss lady smilingly offers to take the duplicate copy off me, with instructions to come back next Wednesday with the triplicate version. Same place, same time. Next week. I bet she says that to everybody....
Come dine with me....
Joanne asked me today when I find the time for the blog.... or to put it another way, what else is it that I should be doing at ten past two this morning?? Hmmmm... let's ponder that awhile.
I find myself frowning over curiously splintered bhindi at my bhaji mandi, but don't let it deter me... this cannot bode well, but oddly, I'm in the mood to cook. I can even honestly say (well, mostly honestly) that the 15 page document in my backpack has nothing to do with this welling desire. I shop some more, and then am overwhelmed with the desire to unwind. Hard work this acquiring of cauliflower and whatnot. Eleven seems like a good round number to start a production.... Or two.
The kitchen is now spotless, the sink empty, the trash put out, the fridge bulging, the chef's fresh lemongrass and ginger scent vying with the garam masala that clings to the air.....
The strategy report. My body wants to reach for it, but my mind wavers (so not a bungee jumping phenomenon). I think the oxygen supply to my brain has diminished. Yes, that is it... I feel weak. Sustenance.... fetch food....
I find myself frowning over curiously splintered bhindi at my bhaji mandi, but don't let it deter me... this cannot bode well, but oddly, I'm in the mood to cook. I can even honestly say (well, mostly honestly) that the 15 page document in my backpack has nothing to do with this welling desire. I shop some more, and then am overwhelmed with the desire to unwind. Hard work this acquiring of cauliflower and whatnot. Eleven seems like a good round number to start a production.... Or two.
The kitchen is now spotless, the sink empty, the trash put out, the fridge bulging, the chef's fresh lemongrass and ginger scent vying with the garam masala that clings to the air.....
The strategy report. My body wants to reach for it, but my mind wavers (so not a bungee jumping phenomenon). I think the oxygen supply to my brain has diminished. Yes, that is it... I feel weak. Sustenance.... fetch food....
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