With a snap to take your head off! Last night I fluttered about, feeling great empathy for the whirling leaves as a freak typhoon wind swept clean all the trees on Oxford Street. 'Oho! It's very fresh', says the 6'4" Aryan blond. 'Fucking freezing', splutters the 5'7" Dravidian brunette. This morning dawned bright and blue skied.... the cold snap a practised squatter, stabbing through a coat and two layers of t-shirt. Enough messing around with the autumnal haze, methinks, and tonight I crank up the ante. Heat layer, sweater, coat and gloves, prepared to swelter in the cavernous bowels of the underground. Public travel has its rewards, and the compartment smiles as the doors open again to the cheery voice of the driver, "Could you remove any clothing, baggage or limbs that are blocking the doors please... thank you" The closest seats any of us have ever had court side, thrills us, even more than the sight of Rafa's tight butt (why the boy won't get comfy undies, I will not comprehend! It really is most unbecoming to keep yanking at your rear end like a 4 year old {although I hasten to add... that butt, is definitely all adult}). I feel very pleased with myself watching two of the top 10 players slug it out (Nadal vs. Davydenko), and feel my heart head towards arrhythmia in the second set as Nadal finally ups his game, and the court erupts into some splendiforous rallies, interrupted by brilliant shots! I'm definitely not going to be able to watch Roger play live without medical attention close at hand :S. Oh well... as they say, death is the only certainty, and it certainly was a well deserved win for Nikolay tonight!
Is what I feel like. Kept out too long, dry and crumbly... and it's not even 4 o'clock. The only thing that's worse than feeling jet lagged without having gone anywhere, is a hangover before you get into bed... The desire to moan piteously while grabbing my head is intense, but in the interest of health and safety in the workplace (theirs, not mine), I curb my baser instincts and settle for death through tedium as I hurl myself into the world of Intra Company Agreements, more disagreeably known as ICA's... death to the drone!
Nothing says rise and shine better on a Monday morning than a pounding headache and throbbing eyeballs. I balefully eye the Pinot Gris that has nothing to do with my delicate condition and contemplate remedial action to curb overwrought emotional manifestations. Given that not very much surprises me usually, why am I so taken aback when it’s me? Its like my brain disengages from the proceedings, leaving my emotions fraught with instant, unbearable hurt. The confusion magnified as the howling wind rattles the window and I crawl under the duvet and curl up, unable to get warm. The desire to call for back up, overwhelming.
Morning brings light, and the little men with hammers…..
A finely tuned instrument, at one with its musician. Joyous, free and uncaring of anything else. A perfect melody, replete in a world of it's own. Each note, each vibration, each movement in perfect sync, flowing from one to the other, invisible threads spun around them till they are as one. One false note. That's all it takes to throw the duet off kilter. Harmonies clash with one another and confusion reigns. You stop, then pick up where you left off... except now there are two different threads. Occasionally entwining before breaking apart, the rhythm lost, out of step. Faltering. Discordant. It plagues me. For I neither now why, or how to fix it....
My eyes blink open under protest, as the raucous whine of the hair dryer reminds me why men think women are from outter space. I feel overcome by XY choromosomes as my attempt at sophisitcated indiffernce is struck a severe blow as I gape (as covertly as possible) as the stylist does a weird back brush turning poker straight hair into the tufty end of a 4 month old lion cub! Dementia strikes, or perhaps the hairspray finally got to her? I give up any pretension at sophistication as I now openly stare as she rolls the hair tail tuff end in, into a bun, and spends the next 14 minutes, teasing, spraying, tweaking and stabbing it into a fake chignon. The ozone layer doesn't stand a chance, as tongs, pins and other instruments of torture appear in response to blondie's, 'I have to leave in 5 min'. Regretfully, my study into the mystique of the perfectly coiffed woman is cut short as my masseuse herds me away...Rose from Brazil assures me that my bum will be all perky and lifted within ten sessions. I valiantly contain the snort that threatens to erupt at her earnest conviction and gurgle out a 'Really?'. She nods at me beaming...and even tells me she'll talk to the manager to see if they can offer package deals for 6 or 10 sessions to make it even more attractive to the gluteusly challenged amongst us. Her hands have left me like putty, unable to take offence at her candid appraisal of my cellulite situation and I smile back benignly and promise to call for an appointment soon.....
...is still a rose. The most over hyped flora known to mankind, and a guarantee of unadulterated boredom if a woman gushes on about how much she loooves roses...My mouth makes a moué at the absence of Tulips and Irises, but the crushed orange petals make me waver, and my hand reflexively reaches for a bunch. The unusual colour nestles like a sunset in the dark green foliage, a perfect foil for the chintzy mosaic vase that came with the flat. They please me inordinately, and bring to mind the whole dilemma of a rose by any other name as I curl up in one corner of the couch.... Rudra. God of storms (and other less inspiring sounding things), the Wild One. A strong name. A good name. A name I want (and not for the rottweiler!). A purely masculine name? Or could I bandy it on both sexes? I can just hear myself turning it into a Rudrarakshasa when miffed.... last night throws up some more interesting possibilities, and I wonder - would I choose sound over substance? Perhaps the double barrel route - Aharya Sattvika....
There is no better way to spend a hideously dark, wet and depressing day than to gape at the sheer mastery of Aditi Mangaldas and Priyadarshini Govind. Armed for the filthy weather, Somya and I were taken aback as we clomped our way into the lobby at Saddler's Wells to the sight of jhumkas, bejewelled dupattas and a severe la di dah factor. Damn! Another lost opportunity to ruin another sari......A stunning launch into a virtuoso Kathak piece, Aditi leaves you stunned with her fluidity of movement, beauty of line, and tautness of form. Her chakkars leave you gawping, and she demands adulation from the audience. Superb. Even her lack of abhinaya doesn't mar from the breathless feeling she engenders. Her second piece is a contemporary one, and brings how tiny she actually is, and her roped body is unlike any Indian classical dancers I've seen. Her powerful control of her body slams home as the incessant flit of her fingers, like hungry flagella mesmerise you as the other dancers fade into incoherent movement in the background. An interesting piece, with some stunning lightning and synchronisation, melding the classical with the modern, but would have been better served with some serious editing (not to mention a complete eradication of the Ishq bit with the disco footwork!). I feel conservative, but her classical Kathak rendition did it for me.Next on, the doyenne of Bharatnatyam, Priyadarshini Govind. Aditi may have mastered the body, but Priyadarshini rules the heart and soul. Unlike Aditi, she starts off without a whump, but with each step, each look, each note, draws you in tighter and tighter. Eyes that ensnare, a smile that enchants, gestures that tease and charm. A beautiful woman, gifted with abhinaya that renders beauty obsolete. As you watch her weave her stories, your feel sympathy for the Gods... the distraction afforded by an Apsara, apparent. Her piece depicting the tussle between a devotees faith in Shiva, while being led astray by Krishna is spellbinding in it's innocence, coyness and honesty, while her courtesan telling off her lover for his lack of attentiveness turns your smiles into peels of laughter. She is all that is warm, sensual and deeply emotive.Two women bound together by classical dance, yet the antithesis of each other in many ways. While the evening was theirs, it was made by some exquisite vocals and bols, and superlative musicians who elevated the performances and stole some of the thunder with an inspired jugalbandi between pieces.An evening that leaves you with a warm, satisfied glow, and feeling very pleased with yourself indeed, the lingering memory begging for an encore. Waah!
