My delicate sensibilities are overwhelmed, appalled at the depravity of human nature. It's as though crime within the peaceful community of Melton/Welton was mere antipasti to the dark morass of prima patti to follow, shards of shocking behaviour cutting through the fringes of my civilised existence as a drama queen par excellence.
My parents are harbouring a fugitive, with a degree of unconcern to render those this side of the Suez wide eyed with horror. The renegade in question; Amit. Pint sized, deeply aggressive, with a cannibalistic edge to his small man syndrome. Their chauffeur. The Managing Committee of Iris co-operative housing society has decreed that they 'except you to release this troublemaker or we will be constrained to ban his entry'. Undaunted, Minu the Brave haggles as is her mettle, and cowers them into a months' suspension.
I demand details, putting aside my primness and am rewarded with the elucidation that apparently, Amit bit the alleged victim. Twice. Riiiight! The letter from the society is even more revealing. The offender, showed up on his day off, drunk, and proceeded without any mercy or provocation to attack the driver of flat 46 (Central Bank of India). Mr. Lallan, the lift man, foolishly intervened and was duly bitten on the calves (?!!?) and fingers for his peacekeeping efforts. Amit the Small, remained unimpressed by the presence of two committee members, and continued on his drunken rampage, showing a marked lack of respect for the fine gentlemen. Lallan, who by now was rumoured to be bleeding profusely, needed medical attention. My parents have been asked in no uncertain terms to compensate for the medical expenses incurred with the strong admonishment, "We are hopeful that you will comply gracefully".
My mother is not a graceful woman. The indefatigable one is not one to rest on her laurels, and ensnares Mimi as a willing cohort to try and further circumvent the society's directives. The rascal can report to Persepolis for the missing month. But wait, the car is still at Iris, and given his persona non grata status for 30 days, my mother would then have to manhandle the car outside the hallowed precincts before Amit the Small could take cover. Unsound. Perhaps they could swap cars, and then she'd only have to walk as far as the building gate and have him pick her up? Uh oh.... I feel myself drawn into this criminal quagmire, the dark side calls to me... Maaaa! Wait for me....
P.S. - penned notes on the complaint letter; Your driver has got a very bad background, he has no family.....
Pity we don't have that as a fallback excuse :p
The devil is in the dementia
Despite a rousing first breakfast at 1 am, the blackberry reads 08:54. Not too shabby for a Friday morning, and I feel rather pleased as I hit delete with abandon. Hmmmm, BA seems overly keen to remind me of my impending holiday...then my brain does a double take, and my eyes focus on a pre-flight check email for a potential adventure to Dubrovnik. All my vital signs screech to a halt for a split second.
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
Die Another Day
8 weeks tomorrow. That's how old Cala will be when her life is snuffed out forever.... I just can't take it anymore. Another yellow leaf, the constant checking for dampness, the pruning, the watering. Surely 8 weeks is a long and happy life? Euthanasia. The word rattles around in my head like a wayward marble. Another marble with horns makes an appearance and hisses, Murder. You say potato, I say potato! I'll bet Cala is begging to go to a better place. I know I'm ready to say goodbye....
I'm looking at her as I type this, and she looks back at me thirstily, bright, green leaves outnumber fading, yellow ones 7:1. Dammit! I pour. One for her, one for me. Guess we'll just have to go the shaken not stirred route....
I'm looking at her as I type this, and she looks back at me thirstily, bright, green leaves outnumber fading, yellow ones 7:1. Dammit! I pour. One for her, one for me. Guess we'll just have to go the shaken not stirred route....
Just words
Etymology. Different from Entomology. Precise, wavering, tentative, strange.... words were all I had. Bold, vivid and so alive. Like a touch, a whisper, the feel of a smile. A hazy watercolour shimmering in front of you, taking you there. Like a toasty blanket wrapped around you, as you listen to them again in your head, making you smile, filling you.
Then, on the flutter of a butterfly's wings, it turns into a mirage. The beautiful words, just so much dust in your mouth. Uni-dimensional marks on a page, like an empty gesture. Looking without seeing. Soulless. Empty. Just words.
Then, on the flutter of a butterfly's wings, it turns into a mirage. The beautiful words, just so much dust in your mouth. Uni-dimensional marks on a page, like an empty gesture. Looking without seeing. Soulless. Empty. Just words.
Just you wait 'enry 'iggins...!
My mirth at having to leap across rivulets, completely abandoning my elegant ensemble in a balance umbrella, hitch up expensive trousers and don't land in the middle of that humongous water body, dance (10 min of monsoon is all it takes to create mayhem in central London), gives way to gross indignation at the realisation that my boots have sprung a leak! Indignation is quickly replaced by good karma as the absurd queue ahead of us dissolves and we're led to a table, with seats on the edge. My relief at not being wedged between other damp diners is short lived, as the woman next to us opens her mouth.....
If Henry Higgins were to have stepped up to the plate to attempt to shepard that pitch into something close to human resonance, he would be a better man than I. My heart thumps in tandem with baseline of the house rhythm pumping through the restaurant, yet all I hear is that shrill voice, piercing through my head, bringing all coherent thought to a grinding halt. The Dutchman grins at the look on my face. I try and re-arrange it into a semblance of less than a horrified gape. Unsuccessfully. Like a train wreck, my eyes are drawn in the direction of that inhuman sound, and I see her lips move to form what I presume are words, but all I hear is that noise. A stabbing tone sans pitch or modulation, stridently enthusiastic, and utterly mind numbing. I feel my brain shut down, and despite my best intentions, continue to wince at the unexpectedly brutal auditory assault.
As my mind grapples with the weighty issue of whether I'd be subject to this or nails down a blackboard, my body finds it's own defense. Sealing off the ear closest to her, makes my own voice echo inside my head in rather a pleasing manner, an eccentric counterpoint to the nightclub sound that reverberates through the room. It is however, gastronomically challenging to consume scallops (stunted, mingy and overcooked - if that's what the queen looks like, I'd hate to see her subjects! Seafood in this country is best given a wide berth!! Oh - Randall & Aubin in case you were wondering), and I gulp my wine instead. I'm dumbfounded that her companion fails to hear anything amiss and actually seems to encourage the use of those vocal cords. I wonder if he wakes up to that tone in the morning. Moot point. Any more than a handful of sentences, and I'd be shouting justifiable homicide as they came to take me away.... I wonder if I can file an Asbo,., but my synapses have already gone on strike.
I manage to catch the, 'You're unusually quiet' and aim for a Mona Lisa smile. Little does he know,
In your heeeaaaaad... in your heeeeeaaaaaad.... zombie, zombie... eh ehe eh...
in you HEAAAAD....
If Henry Higgins were to have stepped up to the plate to attempt to shepard that pitch into something close to human resonance, he would be a better man than I. My heart thumps in tandem with baseline of the house rhythm pumping through the restaurant, yet all I hear is that shrill voice, piercing through my head, bringing all coherent thought to a grinding halt. The Dutchman grins at the look on my face. I try and re-arrange it into a semblance of less than a horrified gape. Unsuccessfully. Like a train wreck, my eyes are drawn in the direction of that inhuman sound, and I see her lips move to form what I presume are words, but all I hear is that noise. A stabbing tone sans pitch or modulation, stridently enthusiastic, and utterly mind numbing. I feel my brain shut down, and despite my best intentions, continue to wince at the unexpectedly brutal auditory assault.
As my mind grapples with the weighty issue of whether I'd be subject to this or nails down a blackboard, my body finds it's own defense. Sealing off the ear closest to her, makes my own voice echo inside my head in rather a pleasing manner, an eccentric counterpoint to the nightclub sound that reverberates through the room. It is however, gastronomically challenging to consume scallops (stunted, mingy and overcooked - if that's what the queen looks like, I'd hate to see her subjects! Seafood in this country is best given a wide berth!! Oh - Randall & Aubin in case you were wondering), and I gulp my wine instead. I'm dumbfounded that her companion fails to hear anything amiss and actually seems to encourage the use of those vocal cords. I wonder if he wakes up to that tone in the morning. Moot point. Any more than a handful of sentences, and I'd be shouting justifiable homicide as they came to take me away.... I wonder if I can file an Asbo,., but my synapses have already gone on strike.
I manage to catch the, 'You're unusually quiet' and aim for a Mona Lisa smile. Little does he know,
In your heeeaaaaad... in your heeeeeaaaaaad.... zombie, zombie... eh ehe eh...
in you HEAAAAD....
Farewell my FGT
Misty eyed, we hug each other ferociously, the crowd milling around us at the entrance to Bond Street station, doubtlessly annoyed by the detour caused by our sentimentality. The Feckless German Traitor en route to her last hair cut in London for a couple of years, puffs on her third cigarette in as many minutes. I still can't believe that come Monday, she won't be in at work, depleting my Brazil nuts with impunity. The Friggin' Domestic Goddess had better bring in cake when she's back from holiday... but then again, it won't be nearly as much not to be able to bitch about the psycho FDG without the FGT.
This is the best and worst of this city. Those you meet. Unlikely cultures, shared laughter, strange cohorts; a fondness that grows like an insidious fungus. Those that you will miss most are the ones you will have to say goodbye to soonest....
I'm going to miss her.
This is the best and worst of this city. Those you meet. Unlikely cultures, shared laughter, strange cohorts; a fondness that grows like an insidious fungus. Those that you will miss most are the ones you will have to say goodbye to soonest....
I'm going to miss her.
Credit crunch lunch
It is fairly apparent that the markets are now well on their way to recovery. The deeply conservative basement that serves as Le Gavroche's dining room is packed on a Tuesday lunch time, and Taks and I manage to bring the average age down to 50.
His calamari risotto is a lie worthy of Michael Caine in Alfie... charming, disarming and begging to be believed.... the most deliciously roasted calamari sat atop a bed of squid ink drenched orzo. Sumptuous. My hot foie gras with duck pancake flavoured with a cinnamon touched reduction is perfectly offset by an unexpected sweet red wine, which is now a distant memory...... Michel Roux comes around to ask how the meal was, and my erstwhile ever pompous companion goes on about the sugar he can taste in the souffle.....!
The conversation takes a turn for the S&M, and I am prepared to swear the white haired lady directly in my line of sight is a dominatrix of the extreme kind, with the basement in her manor strewn with wicked implements of torture. Taks refuses to admit that the octogenarian might actually look fetching in leather, but does accept she probably knows how to wield a riding crop like few others.... but I have to concur with his assessment that this really isn't a very good place to pick up chicks.
Two and a half hours later, I am replete, bordering on the very 'I feel sick', and Nana and her friends are looking more and more appealing to my companion....Check please!
His calamari risotto is a lie worthy of Michael Caine in Alfie... charming, disarming and begging to be believed.... the most deliciously roasted calamari sat atop a bed of squid ink drenched orzo. Sumptuous. My hot foie gras with duck pancake flavoured with a cinnamon touched reduction is perfectly offset by an unexpected sweet red wine, which is now a distant memory...... Michel Roux comes around to ask how the meal was, and my erstwhile ever pompous companion goes on about the sugar he can taste in the souffle.....!
The conversation takes a turn for the S&M, and I am prepared to swear the white haired lady directly in my line of sight is a dominatrix of the extreme kind, with the basement in her manor strewn with wicked implements of torture. Taks refuses to admit that the octogenarian might actually look fetching in leather, but does accept she probably knows how to wield a riding crop like few others.... but I have to concur with his assessment that this really isn't a very good place to pick up chicks.
Two and a half hours later, I am replete, bordering on the very 'I feel sick', and Nana and her friends are looking more and more appealing to my companion....Check please!
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