BtB
The phone call seals my fate. Singapore it shall be. The nervous knot in the pit of my stomach roils uneasily. A new start. Alone. The chance to fix something excites me. Leaving Aashish behind scares me. Then there’s a part of me that just wants to go home. Siiigh. The fundamental flaw of having a motto that goes, "Be Bold. Be Brave." Gah! Me and my big mouth.
Letting go
It's like watching a stricken hand, gnarled with rheumatism being prised open. One finger at a time, slow, painful, resisting. Forcefully holding it open, digits claw like, shaking in denial. The lines on the palms now reluctantly visible. The thumping heartbeat helplessly acknowledges the futility of fighting, the body surrendering to the inevitable.
Under the Sun
The Dutchman is one of those rarities. Someone with who time has no meaning. For nothing that you say is out of bounds, nor do you ever run out of things to talk about. The subject is irrelevant. We will have an opinion and a spirited debate, even if we are in agreement. Nuclear fission, rain forests, S&M, handmade chocolate, sustainability, REM sleep, F1, pancakes, unemployment, theology, defence budget, Schrödinger’s cat, Galapagos islands, children, risk management, cycling, red wine, Opera…. and now, knitting. One of the few things about this city that I will miss.
Basic instinct
I’ve always acknowledged with ease, that it’s but a fine veneer of civilisation separating man from his fellow animals. I’ve been comfortable with my own feral disposition that breaks its way through now and again. Yet, the recognition of a dormant primal instinct in oneself is still horribly startling. I’m not shocked at the violence of its manifestation, violence is part of who I am, but rather the undeniably primordial nature of the call. Insanity. Reality.
Scarf of Stress
While a blossoming blue toe is not convivial to a tramp across Hampstead Heath, it does poetically blend in curled up on Somya's grey sofa, as we recover from a day of shopping, drinking and eating. I eye the mildly antiseptic disposition of the pale green wool that tickles my feet. A scarf. For Nikki. The knitting needles bring back memories of Didi and her incredible handiwork, Aunty L's fabulous sweaters, and my fingers reach out to caress the strands that have been woven together. Somya urges me to have a go.... and curiosity drives me to pick up the needles. It's been too long to even remember, but my hands hesitantly draw them against each other, finger twirling the strand around. My movements are timid and slow. Too tight, is Somya's stern pronouncement as she unravels my efforts. I abandon the effort, focusing on one of my most favourite women instead, wishing I could steal some of her serenity and grace. Somya nudges me towards another attempt, but I tell her I failed a home science class because I couldn't find anyone to crochet for me (my mother being the worst seamstress/cook on the planet, and Ba, while skilled at chefness, threading needles and doing buttons, ignored when it came to art of stupid lace type things) make her watch a silly French film instead. It's gone 2 am, and the scarf of stress is progressing prodigiously. We're both tired, but reluctant to go to bed.
Morning brings with it the heavenly scent of Makaibari, and I cave into Somya's suggestion of another go. I feel more relaxed than the night before, and the memory flows more fluidly through my fingers, in, loop, out, under, over.... the needles clack repetitively, and a spot check declares it loose enough to pass muster. My hands pick up their pace, more confident now, and my mind is lulled into a sense of security, surrounded by the comforting sounds of domesticity from Somya in the kitchen, Nina banging around in the bathroom as the needles clack on. The scarf of stress takes on a life of its own, fingers flying faster, mind wandering as random thoughts flit through. Didi's mastery with the costumes for Wonder Girl, secrets shared with P, Sammy's skinny arms wrapping around my neck in a goodnight hug, sitting in a jeep in the pelting rain with Sachin, Amit, Chetan and Aashish, crying ourselves silly, bhutta in the rain after school, a deeply embarrassing oversight of a blatantly obvious TV in a room, the excruciating burning of an allegedly healing spray on broken skin, a leg broken in 11 places, friends, family, laughter, tears. Incidents replay them in my mind randomly, heart surging frighteningly, calming, hands never still and it crosses my mind, that this is what the cliché means.... the tapestry of life, being woven into fabric. Maybe this is how they feel, what their shawls, kelims and other handiwork represent.. flashes from their lives, running through to their fingers as they weave.
Somya inspects my contribution to the scarf of stress. Hmmm... loose, tight, loose, perfect, tight.... my state of mind, moments of my life, now part of a flowing piece of knitwear. What we say, what we hide, what we feel....
Morning brings with it the heavenly scent of Makaibari, and I cave into Somya's suggestion of another go. I feel more relaxed than the night before, and the memory flows more fluidly through my fingers, in, loop, out, under, over.... the needles clack repetitively, and a spot check declares it loose enough to pass muster. My hands pick up their pace, more confident now, and my mind is lulled into a sense of security, surrounded by the comforting sounds of domesticity from Somya in the kitchen, Nina banging around in the bathroom as the needles clack on. The scarf of stress takes on a life of its own, fingers flying faster, mind wandering as random thoughts flit through. Didi's mastery with the costumes for Wonder Girl, secrets shared with P, Sammy's skinny arms wrapping around my neck in a goodnight hug, sitting in a jeep in the pelting rain with Sachin, Amit, Chetan and Aashish, crying ourselves silly, bhutta in the rain after school, a deeply embarrassing oversight of a blatantly obvious TV in a room, the excruciating burning of an allegedly healing spray on broken skin, a leg broken in 11 places, friends, family, laughter, tears. Incidents replay them in my mind randomly, heart surging frighteningly, calming, hands never still and it crosses my mind, that this is what the cliché means.... the tapestry of life, being woven into fabric. Maybe this is how they feel, what their shawls, kelims and other handiwork represent.. flashes from their lives, running through to their fingers as they weave.
Somya inspects my contribution to the scarf of stress. Hmmm... loose, tight, loose, perfect, tight.... my state of mind, moments of my life, now part of a flowing piece of knitwear. What we say, what we hide, what we feel....
Battle of the Sexes
I have no idea where it began, but soon enough, my inbox was littered with challenges, bravado, threats, sneers.... the gauntlet thrown, and smacked handily back. A girls vs. boys Netball challenge very loosely disguised as a team bonding event. Apparently something to distract us from the sorry year the recession has brought on. Riiiight. Or in other words as überboss declares, it's to inflict total humiliation upon Kim for having the effrontery to even suggest the men would do anything other than annihilate the fairer lot.
Statistically, we didn't stand a chance. But clearly, no one had assessed the stats before the challenge was issued. The men outnumber the women more than 2:1 in not just numbers but height! For some peculiar reason, the vast number of females in client solutions seem to be vertically terminated at under 5 feet! Not exactly the qualification one would seek when banding together a team for a game that involves shooting at a hoop some distance above the extended arms of someone 6 feet tall. Apparently, Netball being a 'woman's' sport gives us the edge. Hmmmmm. I suppose that could be proffered as sound argument, had more than just 2 actually ever played it. I have yet to understand why we would have chosen to challenge the males to a game that none of the women know how to play! Suffice to say, by the time we boarded the tube bound for our destiny, we were au courant with the fact that each side fielded 7 players.
A few dubious 'are you sure we ought to be following Brakey and Tony - do they even know where they're going' later, we find the Netball court, and have a blink of an eye briefing. You can't hold the ball for more than 3 seconds. You can't run with the ball. You cannot come closer than 3 feet to your opponent. You can't leave your section of the court. You can't bounce the ball. So what the fuck can you do then? Oh, you can take one step with the other foot...! We are so gonna get creamed. I'm given a bib with GS on it. Think that was Goal Shooter (although why anyone would want to call a basket a goal is beyond my limited comprehension). Naturally, I'm stuck in my third with Guy. Like it isn't enough for us to spend all day together, we're shoving and treading all over each other in an attempt to bond more!
Needless to say, the girls got creamed. I cannot tell you what the score was, but suffice to say we had only 1 on our side, and Guy and I were mostly bored in our third as all the action happened at the other end. To be fair, we did enjoy our vantage position rather too much, the sight of 4 foot nothing Kelly ineffectually leaping with arms outstretched and missing Charlie's armpits, Vanessa being spun around before turning invisible behind a stolid G child... Mercifully, the hysterical giggles prevailed and we swapped to mixed teams and some more serious sweating. I haven't run around and panted at a game in more than 20 years I think, and I'm glad to report that my philosophy towards life is safe and sound (as a gentle reminder, that would be, I don't care about being fit because we're all going to die....). I am built for speed and I hassle Michael as much as I can amidst chuckles at my persistent flaunting of the you can't move with the ball rule, before tagging to get off court prior to my expiry (and no, I feel not the slightest shame at seeing how fit everyone else is!).
I returned on court with a flourish as the GD (Goal Defender, naturally) and with some superb athleticism from Matt, kept our score flawless, and I even refrained from knocking Lexi off her feet several times. Unfortunately, my last overenthusiastic defense knocked the goal off kilter, and ensured a swollen ankle that took me off play. Flushed, sweaty and exhilarated, I hobble along with the now very well bonded team to the pub. A gradual wind down, a toast to our gauntlet thrower, a promise of making this an annual event and some ardent beseeching to the organisers of the next bonding event for something a little less physically demanding (and it wasn't even me! My vote's for contact sport..) and some hideous Marmite covered snacks later, I leave the party.
It is karma that my shower decides to go on strike and tepid water soon turns to freezing, scuttling my plans of a relaxing bath, and I'm left to minister a bag of frozen chips to my bulbous ankle as I ply myself with spaghetti with quattro formaggi, before contemplating a splint for my throbbing big toe, now cleverly disguised as a smurf. This morning, I ignore Pascale's suggestion that I stick to pilates as she spies my blue toe perkily peeking from my chappals at work and throw dirty looks at Mr. half a leg in a plastic brace on his rather rude comments about my footwear. Next time, I'll remember to cut my nails and get better fitting sneakers... Bring it on boys!
Statistically, we didn't stand a chance. But clearly, no one had assessed the stats before the challenge was issued. The men outnumber the women more than 2:1 in not just numbers but height! For some peculiar reason, the vast number of females in client solutions seem to be vertically terminated at under 5 feet! Not exactly the qualification one would seek when banding together a team for a game that involves shooting at a hoop some distance above the extended arms of someone 6 feet tall. Apparently, Netball being a 'woman's' sport gives us the edge. Hmmmmm. I suppose that could be proffered as sound argument, had more than just 2 actually ever played it. I have yet to understand why we would have chosen to challenge the males to a game that none of the women know how to play! Suffice to say, by the time we boarded the tube bound for our destiny, we were au courant with the fact that each side fielded 7 players.
A few dubious 'are you sure we ought to be following Brakey and Tony - do they even know where they're going' later, we find the Netball court, and have a blink of an eye briefing. You can't hold the ball for more than 3 seconds. You can't run with the ball. You cannot come closer than 3 feet to your opponent. You can't leave your section of the court. You can't bounce the ball. So what the fuck can you do then? Oh, you can take one step with the other foot...! We are so gonna get creamed. I'm given a bib with GS on it. Think that was Goal Shooter (although why anyone would want to call a basket a goal is beyond my limited comprehension). Naturally, I'm stuck in my third with Guy. Like it isn't enough for us to spend all day together, we're shoving and treading all over each other in an attempt to bond more!
Needless to say, the girls got creamed. I cannot tell you what the score was, but suffice to say we had only 1 on our side, and Guy and I were mostly bored in our third as all the action happened at the other end. To be fair, we did enjoy our vantage position rather too much, the sight of 4 foot nothing Kelly ineffectually leaping with arms outstretched and missing Charlie's armpits, Vanessa being spun around before turning invisible behind a stolid G child... Mercifully, the hysterical giggles prevailed and we swapped to mixed teams and some more serious sweating. I haven't run around and panted at a game in more than 20 years I think, and I'm glad to report that my philosophy towards life is safe and sound (as a gentle reminder, that would be, I don't care about being fit because we're all going to die....). I am built for speed and I hassle Michael as much as I can amidst chuckles at my persistent flaunting of the you can't move with the ball rule, before tagging to get off court prior to my expiry (and no, I feel not the slightest shame at seeing how fit everyone else is!).
I returned on court with a flourish as the GD (Goal Defender, naturally) and with some superb athleticism from Matt, kept our score flawless, and I even refrained from knocking Lexi off her feet several times. Unfortunately, my last overenthusiastic defense knocked the goal off kilter, and ensured a swollen ankle that took me off play. Flushed, sweaty and exhilarated, I hobble along with the now very well bonded team to the pub. A gradual wind down, a toast to our gauntlet thrower, a promise of making this an annual event and some ardent beseeching to the organisers of the next bonding event for something a little less physically demanding (and it wasn't even me! My vote's for contact sport..) and some hideous Marmite covered snacks later, I leave the party.
It is karma that my shower decides to go on strike and tepid water soon turns to freezing, scuttling my plans of a relaxing bath, and I'm left to minister a bag of frozen chips to my bulbous ankle as I ply myself with spaghetti with quattro formaggi, before contemplating a splint for my throbbing big toe, now cleverly disguised as a smurf. This morning, I ignore Pascale's suggestion that I stick to pilates as she spies my blue toe perkily peeking from my chappals at work and throw dirty looks at Mr. half a leg in a plastic brace on his rather rude comments about my footwear. Next time, I'll remember to cut my nails and get better fitting sneakers... Bring it on boys!
The baptism of Barbara Benedetta Borgese
An impressive introduction to a grouchy little git, with a permafrown - What a perfect child! The full implication of the FDG's pretty pink invite only sinks in later.... not only do I break out in panic at the thought of having to mingle with strangers, and do it with some modicum of having acquired the appropriate social skills, I have never actually been to a christening before, despite my smattering of godchildren, fake and otherwise. Frantic questions as to what would be considered appropriate attire for such a momentous occasion, why a silver spoon would be an uplifting gift elicit entirely unhelpful responses from the likes of Jimmy C and slightly better ones from the mother of my first fake goddaughter. My plans to import exotica from India is scuppered by my couriers negligent approach to going to Bangalore for a business meeting and I'm left to fend for myself.
Sunday dawns with the promise of continued sunshine and a healthy debate ensues over the appropriateness of a halter neck at church, footwear and the most fetching colour. I astound myself with ensemble that includes hot pink high heels, pashmina and clutch bag and sally forth for my first encounter of a spiritual kind (I was deemed 'unsuitable' to offer any sort of spiritual guidance to my first fake godchild, and given the bent of my life of late, my resentment at that slight has abated considerably). The tinny announcement as we pull into Baker Street turns my insouciance into scowling annoyance as I anxiously assess alternate routes to get me to the church on time. A 20 minute journey turns into an hour long one, not intended for pretty pink shoes, via the scenic route of the taxi stand at St. Pancreas. But, I am in time!
I wonder just how sweaty and windswept I look as I ignore the suspiciously wary glances of the buxom, high heeled ladies outside the church, and head inside. Thankfully, I barely have time to take in the vastness of the interior when I hear my FDG bearing down on me. Hallelujah! An introduction to Marushka bolsters my confidence and the day begins to look less fraught. I look around in appreciation somewhat confused at the sheer numbers filling the pews, and wonder why so many people have brought their babies all dressed ready to be dunked. The penny makes nary a move when the FDG urges us to move behind so we’re sat with the family. It is a bit odd that her mom and sister are so far behind… but once again, I’m distracted by the sight of bare shoulders, backs and chests.
I struggle to keep my mouth shut at the sight of a pair of lactating breasts spilling out of a flimsy bit of jersey – the classic chav strapless, unsure whether Jesus would find the display offensive, but curious about gravity. Marushka agrees and we stare unabashedly as more of the same totter by, my mouth giving way at the sight of a 52DD display, long into menopause, most disturbingly thrust up as cleavage of the most frightening sort. I have never seen so many massively boobed women gathered in a single place anywhere, let alone a place of worship. Anna does have some eclectic friends…… The smiley priests take the floor and Cha Ching…! the penny finally does drop, as they proceed with roll call and I realise the big boobied clan belong to another baby. Who knew it was going to be an assembly line of tots waiting to be sprinkled?
5 babies, 2 priests, 10 parents, 16-18 godparents and a bevy of assorted family, friends and wailing children. All is revealed (no pun intended!). BB, Maria, Lucrezia, Daniel and an older boy dwarfed by the splendour of the beautiful interiors. The ceremony proceeds, the choir and organ resounding through the cavernous hall and you can’t help but beam at the sight of the scowling little face. Corrine reads beautifully, prayers are said and the children are dunked in the holy water. The little boy forgoes his tears at having an impromptu hair wash when he’s lifted high to applause from the rest of us. There is something so fundamental about the gesture, like Musfasa with that whiny Simba, as the babies are held aloft for the world to acknowledge, with pride, love and joy. Naturally, BB and her momma get the catcalls and loudest applause. The entourage then form a cavalcade and finally come down the aisle, and there is something in that, which touches something inside me and the sight of a radiant FDG holding BB in chuck away mode, flanked by Giuseppe and Corrine moves me to tears. Her billion watt smile as she bat her lashes furiously makes the lump in my throat grow and I find myself wishing I wasn't there alone, that there was a hand to tangle with mine, sharing this beautiful moment, wishing I had what they did.
Duly baptised, the rest of the day is now devoted to much alcohol, loads of laughter and vast quantities of food! Certainly a 4th of July celebration I will remember for a long time! All Hail....... Barabara Benedetta Borgese!
Sunday dawns with the promise of continued sunshine and a healthy debate ensues over the appropriateness of a halter neck at church, footwear and the most fetching colour. I astound myself with ensemble that includes hot pink high heels, pashmina and clutch bag and sally forth for my first encounter of a spiritual kind (I was deemed 'unsuitable' to offer any sort of spiritual guidance to my first fake godchild, and given the bent of my life of late, my resentment at that slight has abated considerably). The tinny announcement as we pull into Baker Street turns my insouciance into scowling annoyance as I anxiously assess alternate routes to get me to the church on time. A 20 minute journey turns into an hour long one, not intended for pretty pink shoes, via the scenic route of the taxi stand at St. Pancreas. But, I am in time!
I wonder just how sweaty and windswept I look as I ignore the suspiciously wary glances of the buxom, high heeled ladies outside the church, and head inside. Thankfully, I barely have time to take in the vastness of the interior when I hear my FDG bearing down on me. Hallelujah! An introduction to Marushka bolsters my confidence and the day begins to look less fraught. I look around in appreciation somewhat confused at the sheer numbers filling the pews, and wonder why so many people have brought their babies all dressed ready to be dunked. The penny makes nary a move when the FDG urges us to move behind so we’re sat with the family. It is a bit odd that her mom and sister are so far behind… but once again, I’m distracted by the sight of bare shoulders, backs and chests.
I struggle to keep my mouth shut at the sight of a pair of lactating breasts spilling out of a flimsy bit of jersey – the classic chav strapless, unsure whether Jesus would find the display offensive, but curious about gravity. Marushka agrees and we stare unabashedly as more of the same totter by, my mouth giving way at the sight of a 52DD display, long into menopause, most disturbingly thrust up as cleavage of the most frightening sort. I have never seen so many massively boobed women gathered in a single place anywhere, let alone a place of worship. Anna does have some eclectic friends…… The smiley priests take the floor and Cha Ching…! the penny finally does drop, as they proceed with roll call and I realise the big boobied clan belong to another baby. Who knew it was going to be an assembly line of tots waiting to be sprinkled?
5 babies, 2 priests, 10 parents, 16-18 godparents and a bevy of assorted family, friends and wailing children. All is revealed (no pun intended!). BB, Maria, Lucrezia, Daniel and an older boy dwarfed by the splendour of the beautiful interiors. The ceremony proceeds, the choir and organ resounding through the cavernous hall and you can’t help but beam at the sight of the scowling little face. Corrine reads beautifully, prayers are said and the children are dunked in the holy water. The little boy forgoes his tears at having an impromptu hair wash when he’s lifted high to applause from the rest of us. There is something so fundamental about the gesture, like Musfasa with that whiny Simba, as the babies are held aloft for the world to acknowledge, with pride, love and joy. Naturally, BB and her momma get the catcalls and loudest applause. The entourage then form a cavalcade and finally come down the aisle, and there is something in that, which touches something inside me and the sight of a radiant FDG holding BB in chuck away mode, flanked by Giuseppe and Corrine moves me to tears. Her billion watt smile as she bat her lashes furiously makes the lump in my throat grow and I find myself wishing I wasn't there alone, that there was a hand to tangle with mine, sharing this beautiful moment, wishing I had what they did.
Duly baptised, the rest of the day is now devoted to much alcohol, loads of laughter and vast quantities of food! Certainly a 4th of July celebration I will remember for a long time! All Hail....... Barabara Benedetta Borgese!
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