Is it a bird..... is it a plane...
no, it's the ruddy generation gap again...... as I feel my pet straight white hair curling with embarrassement. I desparately try to re-organise the horrified cast of my face to something more amenable, while Liz gushes on about how great her Dad looks in his Phantom costume. It's the description of the red silk lined cape that finally allows me to shut my gaping mouth, banishing totally unncessary images of a parent prancing about in purple tights with his underwear on the outside, throwing 'biff' and 'pow' punches, branding the milkman with his trademark skull and crossbones. The mournful lament of the Opera a far cry from the jungles of Denkali that occupy my mind....and mine alone.
The Sabbath
Derived from the Hebrew 'Shabbat'; to cease.
An appropriate conclusion to a seemingly endless week of utter debauchery. Cessation of all excess. A deliciously overcast day that keeps me burrowed under my duvet till the Aveda boys swing by. Tea, chocolates (them, not me!) and hugs as they leave to return whence the sprang forth, and my eyes light up at the blatant lure DIY involving paintbrushes and hammers, if I were to venture up North. Hmmmm... this could have serious potential.
I meet DDM & J for dinner in lieu, not really penitent of ditching them this morning (already in lieu of yesterday's breakfast!), and am surprised yet again....!! A mysterious bag, procured from Chelsea at the behest of Mimu, the Git. Artisan du Chocolat. I can only giggle helplessly.... Oh Alice, if you only had my life! I peek into the bag and am met by the sight of some titillating organza, that does precious little to hide the box within. "Happy Birthday, Sweet Poltu! Enjoy these truffles! Muah! Ma, Ba, Mimi & Rahul". I forget that it's not next Thursday, yet. Fortuituously, It's just too pretty to ravish, and both DDM & J shake away my offer. LOL!! Hedonisim gone mad. I'm going to look at this gorgeously decadent wrapping as I let the other truffles melt in my mouth.... and wonder what the surprise dinner will turn out to be like :). Poor DDM & Bebous! I should really give my Thursday massage to the executrix of Mim's elaborate plans. But then again, it would be in appalling taste to give back what you got, wouldn't it?
I do believe I will enjoy it on their behalf.....seriously....
P.P.S. - I'm not dying. I'm being cunningly disposed off through anaphylatic shock.
An appropriate conclusion to a seemingly endless week of utter debauchery. Cessation of all excess. A deliciously overcast day that keeps me burrowed under my duvet till the Aveda boys swing by. Tea, chocolates (them, not me!) and hugs as they leave to return whence the sprang forth, and my eyes light up at the blatant lure DIY involving paintbrushes and hammers, if I were to venture up North. Hmmmm... this could have serious potential.
I meet DDM & J for dinner in lieu, not really penitent of ditching them this morning (already in lieu of yesterday's breakfast!), and am surprised yet again....!! A mysterious bag, procured from Chelsea at the behest of Mimu, the Git. Artisan du Chocolat. I can only giggle helplessly.... Oh Alice, if you only had my life! I peek into the bag and am met by the sight of some titillating organza, that does precious little to hide the box within. "Happy Birthday, Sweet Poltu! Enjoy these truffles! Muah! Ma, Ba, Mimi & Rahul". I forget that it's not next Thursday, yet. Fortuituously, It's just too pretty to ravish, and both DDM & J shake away my offer. LOL!! Hedonisim gone mad. I'm going to look at this gorgeously decadent wrapping as I let the other truffles melt in my mouth.... and wonder what the surprise dinner will turn out to be like :). Poor DDM & Bebous! I should really give my Thursday massage to the executrix of Mim's elaborate plans. But then again, it would be in appalling taste to give back what you got, wouldn't it?
I do believe I will enjoy it on their behalf.....seriously....
P.P.S. - I'm not dying. I'm being cunningly disposed off through anaphylatic shock.
2009. Annus Mirabilis
The Aveda boys and I meander our through towards Piccadilly Circus and more cake (Profiteroles are NOT cake!!), and gape at the price tags in the National Geographic store. Still, they do have some really cool furniture and Klum's superb photos...
Full price tickets for the matinee, and I'm so glad we're here. The production is remarkable, light hearted, and very, verrry good. 4 actors playing all 136 or whatever number of parts there, unsubtle references to pretty much all of Hitchcock's works, obviously deliberate gaffes, and moments of utter nonsense, somehow woven into the telling, staying true even as it takes on a life of it's own. Brilliant!!
I duly impress my harem (now expanded to one minus the benefit of Aveda's rosemary and mint, but then he's American) with Quaglino's before flooring them with Souk Medina's sultry, yet rowdy ambiance and promises of live belly dancing.... yet more red wine ensues (which regretfully has nothing to do with our {Vinod et moi} nautaki spells around the table), as do multitudes of platters, jangling of hips bells, undulating abs, and some sort of thingy in the far corner.... Vinod's casual reportage of "Oh, it's a male stripper" has Jan and me hustling. More some one's gamely buff boyfriend rather than Chippendale is my professional assessment as I leave Jan with the bevy of waitresses getting an eyeful. Our laughter gets more hysterical, the innuendo more regional, and I expand my vocabulary with some choice Hindi insults, even as Vinod and I trade heaving bosom a la Sridevi, and dhichkao Amitabh dance moves, while Aashish assures Dimple that he and I are divorced :p
Sunday to Saturday. An entire week of celebrating almost 39, 39 and gone 39. Surreal. Never has 39 looked better.....
Full price tickets for the matinee, and I'm so glad we're here. The production is remarkable, light hearted, and very, verrry good. 4 actors playing all 136 or whatever number of parts there, unsubtle references to pretty much all of Hitchcock's works, obviously deliberate gaffes, and moments of utter nonsense, somehow woven into the telling, staying true even as it takes on a life of it's own. Brilliant!!
I duly impress my harem (now expanded to one minus the benefit of Aveda's rosemary and mint, but then he's American) with Quaglino's before flooring them with Souk Medina's sultry, yet rowdy ambiance and promises of live belly dancing.... yet more red wine ensues (which regretfully has nothing to do with our {Vinod et moi} nautaki spells around the table), as do multitudes of platters, jangling of hips bells, undulating abs, and some sort of thingy in the far corner.... Vinod's casual reportage of "Oh, it's a male stripper" has Jan and me hustling. More some one's gamely buff boyfriend rather than Chippendale is my professional assessment as I leave Jan with the bevy of waitresses getting an eyeful. Our laughter gets more hysterical, the innuendo more regional, and I expand my vocabulary with some choice Hindi insults, even as Vinod and I trade heaving bosom a la Sridevi, and dhichkao Amitabh dance moves, while Aashish assures Dimple that he and I are divorced :p
Sunday to Saturday. An entire week of celebrating almost 39, 39 and gone 39. Surreal. Never has 39 looked better.....
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.....
Err, actually, it's Rosemary and Mint.
Picture this. Brick lined cavernous ceiling, French kitchen tables and chairs, cute waiters, the smell of freshly baked bread, sharing platters... Yours truly, surrounded by three good looking men. Siigh. I bask in the envious looks of the womenfolk. My boys. Aashish, Vinod and Jan. Metrosexuals all.
A rumour of Aveda hand wash in the loo results in a veritable pilgrimage, as the boys visit the loo (one at a time, I hasten to add!) to pay homage, and return triumphant, hands spanking clean (please, don't be so obvious) with Aveda's rosemary and mint hand wash. Yep, that's what my boys are wearing.... the herb garden.
Saturday afternoon at the South Bank, and I'm surrounded by three men swapping stories about rosemary and mint, lavender and elderflower, lemongrass and ginger - no wait, that was me (admittedly a feeble attempt to fit in, swiftly tutted away). I really need to get a life.....
Picture this. Brick lined cavernous ceiling, French kitchen tables and chairs, cute waiters, the smell of freshly baked bread, sharing platters... Yours truly, surrounded by three good looking men. Siigh. I bask in the envious looks of the womenfolk. My boys. Aashish, Vinod and Jan. Metrosexuals all.
A rumour of Aveda hand wash in the loo results in a veritable pilgrimage, as the boys visit the loo (one at a time, I hasten to add!) to pay homage, and return triumphant, hands spanking clean (please, don't be so obvious) with Aveda's rosemary and mint hand wash. Yep, that's what my boys are wearing.... the herb garden.
Saturday afternoon at the South Bank, and I'm surrounded by three men swapping stories about rosemary and mint, lavender and elderflower, lemongrass and ginger - no wait, that was me (admittedly a feeble attempt to fit in, swiftly tutted away). I really need to get a life.....
and the beat goes on.....
Apparently, 39 is the new 40. A Star in my inbox preceedes my not so quiet night at home. The little Bob-the-Builders in my head have now deemed it appropriate to recede to a faint, but constant reminder, in the background of my cranium, and my piteous threats of, "I don't ever to see any chocolate again!!" has undergone a suitable amendment. "Well, not till next Thursday" (although the aroma of anything chocolate still makes me faintly nauseous).
Liz has organised work drinks to celebrate this ludicrously momentous day of my life, and even my enthusiastic impression of Rahul down at the pub (ahem, a half glass of wine, a pint of water all over her bag {the resultant flooding had us moving to higher ground} and another glass of wine....) which, does precious little to deter the ongoing celebrations. My metabolism is just happy to be surrounded by all things sugar free. 4 bottles of wine later, I'm enjoying a rather incoherent explanation of 'fabulocity' and being declared utterly so, by Helen who swears she absolutely loves me. Really :). I leave the 26 year olds to celebrate my 39.
A text message asking if I've recovered. I blush back, 'Erm, I'm not done yet.....'. Dinner; Galvin at Windows (no, not your local window cleaning voyeur). Taks and I discover the reason for the throngs in front of the elevator. An undoubtedly overpaid consulting firm has deemed it cool for the Hilton to install a lift calling programmer (alright, so I should know what this is called.. I don't). The theory; you punch in the desired floor, and the console directs you to your nearest lift. You step in and voila. Mission accomplished. All very well, as long as the computer doesn't keep changing its mind. 4 futile minutes, another query, and hain!, we're directed to a different lift. This goes on for about 12 minutes, and we strike up conversation with a charming gentleman who never made the lift an decided to go for a smoke instead. Finally doors open, and we make a dash for it, uncaring of what floor it's headed for. The car is full of camaraderie as we applaud the carrying of a book, exchange hostage stories, deliberate over the fate of those that might have been when the lifts persistently open to empty corridors and wonder what happens if the lift decides to head back to the lobby without opening its doors on the 28th floor.....
Thankfully, it does, and like starved wildebeest, we exit, tormented by the thought of being sent back to the lobby. Shrouded by Gotham like mists, the petit bourgeoisie and I indulge in a mélange of flavours and textures, that is the Credit Crunch dinner special, emboldened by some excellent choices by the sommelier, and spend the rest of the evening trashing the appalling dressed women in our line of sight, before making tentative plans to do some research for Taks' essay on shoes (in Nigeria, they assume a significance unknown in Europe, and well, I'd seen rather a fetching pair of dominatrix type heels at Zara that I didn't have the stamina to visit on my own). Thank God it's Friday...
Liz has organised work drinks to celebrate this ludicrously momentous day of my life, and even my enthusiastic impression of Rahul down at the pub (ahem, a half glass of wine, a pint of water all over her bag {the resultant flooding had us moving to higher ground} and another glass of wine....) which, does precious little to deter the ongoing celebrations. My metabolism is just happy to be surrounded by all things sugar free. 4 bottles of wine later, I'm enjoying a rather incoherent explanation of 'fabulocity' and being declared utterly so, by Helen who swears she absolutely loves me. Really :). I leave the 26 year olds to celebrate my 39.
A text message asking if I've recovered. I blush back, 'Erm, I'm not done yet.....'. Dinner; Galvin at Windows (no, not your local window cleaning voyeur). Taks and I discover the reason for the throngs in front of the elevator. An undoubtedly overpaid consulting firm has deemed it cool for the Hilton to install a lift calling programmer (alright, so I should know what this is called.. I don't). The theory; you punch in the desired floor, and the console directs you to your nearest lift. You step in and voila. Mission accomplished. All very well, as long as the computer doesn't keep changing its mind. 4 futile minutes, another query, and hain!, we're directed to a different lift. This goes on for about 12 minutes, and we strike up conversation with a charming gentleman who never made the lift an decided to go for a smoke instead. Finally doors open, and we make a dash for it, uncaring of what floor it's headed for. The car is full of camaraderie as we applaud the carrying of a book, exchange hostage stories, deliberate over the fate of those that might have been when the lifts persistently open to empty corridors and wonder what happens if the lift decides to head back to the lobby without opening its doors on the 28th floor.....
Thankfully, it does, and like starved wildebeest, we exit, tormented by the thought of being sent back to the lobby. Shrouded by Gotham like mists, the petit bourgeoisie and I indulge in a mélange of flavours and textures, that is the Credit Crunch dinner special, emboldened by some excellent choices by the sommelier, and spend the rest of the evening trashing the appalling dressed women in our line of sight, before making tentative plans to do some research for Taks' essay on shoes (in Nigeria, they assume a significance unknown in Europe, and well, I'd seen rather a fetching pair of dominatrix type heels at Zara that I didn't have the stamina to visit on my own). Thank God it's Friday...
13th May, 2009
It is not often that I'm at a loss for words. But the familiar polka dot tin, plonked on my desk by the Feckless German Traitor leaves me gawping like an adolescent goldfish. That tin belongs to the Friggin' Domestic Goddess who is at home nursing her sick 9 year old. I make futile gestures as my puny mind tries to comprehend the facts, while absently attempting to lift the tin. Fuck. It weighs about 4.5 kilos. Taa da! A lid nudge reveals a layer of rainbow colour lemon slices boldly disguising a hesitant layer of marble cake, even as the chocolate brownies shy away demurely at the bottom of the tin. Unfrigginbelievable! That woman has not only managed to bake 3; 3 friggin' cakes, she's got into the office before I have, and poof... disappeared in a puff of cigarette smoke. My heart is so full, it could burst, spewing blood, tissue, muscle, valves and general gore all over the 4th floor. The imagery pleases me, and I lug the tin around, grinning like the village idiot.
It feels fabulous to be 21 again, and the silliness knows no bounds as people start feeling sick even as the mountain of cake is gradually reduced to a rubble. A surprise package! Ta da! Gasp! More chocolates. Mountains and mountains of chocolates.... the 4th floor loves me and my 'Yaan'. The giggles won't abate, and the afternoon sees me bouncing off the walls like a cat on coke. 4 o'clock. and I'm holding my head in my hands, flanked by a forlorn polka dotted tin littered with the debris of what once was cake(s) and a ravaged box of truffles. What used to be my desk, resembles a successful car bombing, more poignant for the occasional moans begging for mercy that punctuate the air.
39 years, and I am finally able to commiserate with migraine sufferers (hitherto eyed with unadorned scorn) as the aspirin does little to ease the dull, yet steady thrum of power tools wielded by vicious miniature Bob-the-Builders who have annexed my head. My delirious mind tells me that I've just found a perfect crime. Kiss a diabetic into renal failure. I feel sick. The FGT pops a paracetamol, and Liz is looking green around the gills. The alcohol in the truffles is making the Scot go 'Oh Apara' and the Kiwi is rooting around the debris for a non existent brownie. This is what anarchy in the workplace looks like....
An unsuspecting visitor to the 4th floor backs of warily as four pairs of jaundiced eyes telegraph, 'fuck off', in response to a chirpy, "So, what are you doing tonight?"
Recover. I hope.
It feels fabulous to be 21 again, and the silliness knows no bounds as people start feeling sick even as the mountain of cake is gradually reduced to a rubble. A surprise package! Ta da! Gasp! More chocolates. Mountains and mountains of chocolates.... the 4th floor loves me and my 'Yaan'. The giggles won't abate, and the afternoon sees me bouncing off the walls like a cat on coke. 4 o'clock. and I'm holding my head in my hands, flanked by a forlorn polka dotted tin littered with the debris of what once was cake(s) and a ravaged box of truffles. What used to be my desk, resembles a successful car bombing, more poignant for the occasional moans begging for mercy that punctuate the air.
39 years, and I am finally able to commiserate with migraine sufferers (hitherto eyed with unadorned scorn) as the aspirin does little to ease the dull, yet steady thrum of power tools wielded by vicious miniature Bob-the-Builders who have annexed my head. My delirious mind tells me that I've just found a perfect crime. Kiss a diabetic into renal failure. I feel sick. The FGT pops a paracetamol, and Liz is looking green around the gills. The alcohol in the truffles is making the Scot go 'Oh Apara' and the Kiwi is rooting around the debris for a non existent brownie. This is what anarchy in the workplace looks like....
An unsuspecting visitor to the 4th floor backs of warily as four pairs of jaundiced eyes telegraph, 'fuck off', in response to a chirpy, "So, what are you doing tonight?"
Recover. I hope.
That's it!
No more red wine!! Dementia or no dementia, clearly my lack of skills goes beyond the mere physical - despite years of practice, not only can I NOT do the following:-
1. Raise an eyebrow
2. Wiggle my ears
3. Touch my nose with the tip of my tongue
4. Snarl with one side of my mouth
5. Roll my tongue (5 out of 5 people around me obligingly did just today!)
but, I also cannot drink red wine without getting utterly maudlin and weepy. There. I feel better now. Marginally. Now I'm just ticked off by my physical shortcomings.
1. Raise an eyebrow
2. Wiggle my ears
3. Touch my nose with the tip of my tongue
4. Snarl with one side of my mouth
5. Roll my tongue (5 out of 5 people around me obligingly did just today!)
but, I also cannot drink red wine without getting utterly maudlin and weepy. There. I feel better now. Marginally. Now I'm just ticked off by my physical shortcomings.
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