I'm dubious about the Chinese look coupled with the bandage high heels. It's just as well that I'm not toting a gun today. That would have just been the height of tacky. Perhaps I've just been too strongly influenced by Singapura. The ensemble will have to do, and I meander to my destination. All very well till I ease myself down. Clearly sitting down in a short dress is a mistake, and my resemblance to a badly beaten hooker takes on infamous proportions as the bluish purple weals across my thighs gleam darkly against the cream of the dress. No amount of tugging from any angle is going to make me look like a nice girl, so I resign myself to artistically draping the table linen over me and think instead of the hapless, beaten up coke can (which ought to have been decimated (ok, so perhaps I exaggerate a tad) but for a bunch of rabidly appalling pellets that preferred to reside impotently in the barrel. Yup. Good thing the imagery was over two days.....
Happiness is....
.... sharing laughter over an exquisite meal. Just thinking about last night makes me feel all dewy eyed and satiated (a copious lunch involving potol bhaja and Ba's chicken might have something to do with it as well), ready to grant the world's every wish.
A perfect evening at Indigo, where there were just enough people to make it not creepily empty, but not too many to annoy (and not a single E for effort sighting!), attentive and thoughtful service (my shiverings were put to rest by a proffered shawl {it may have been a table cloth, but it's the thought that counts!}), and a repast fit for the gods.
The creamy opulence of the buffalo mozzarella dipped in a fascinatingly good coriander pesto (asking for it on the side was sheer redundancy) is foreplay by itself, but add plump, juicy tomatoes to that combination and it's like an orgasm in your mouth as the tomato explodes, leaving your senses lushly satisfied. The souffle which ought to have been Camembert but wasn't, was beautifully puffed, but a cheddar can only be what a cheddar is destined to be, so we shall move rapidly along to the succulent cow that wound its way to our table, all pretty and pink with the sultriest of mashed potatoes and drained the rest of my lovely Cherin Blanc. And for those weaklings that assume that is where the fantasy ended... tsk, tsk - for shame. Have these pages not taught you better?? The oft indulged in duck breast reached it's sublime potential last night. I have never in all my years been accosted by a breast so perfect that a mere mouthful make me want to bestow camels, knighthoods and my kingdom. It's velvet silkiness drapes around your mouth in the most luscious manner and the mere thought of the next morsel makes you moan. The crisp skin clings protectively to the layer of duck fat as it lovingly embraces the juicy pink flesh. Conversation ceases as tiny, inarticulate sounds accompany each bite. The wine, beans and puree unnecessary, yet taking it to another level of je ne sais quoi. I struggle with my devil/angel - wolf it down in one go, lick your chops and look around for more vs. curling your tongue around, feeling it fill your mouth before a bite releases the magic, indulging in the flavour as you masticate slowly to lengthen the pleasure. I settle for a hybrid and lay back replete, eyes fluttering shut with supreme satisfaction, pleasure and utter happiness.
Their menu claimed "The best of 10 years". Last night certainly was...
A perfect evening at Indigo, where there were just enough people to make it not creepily empty, but not too many to annoy (and not a single E for effort sighting!), attentive and thoughtful service (my shiverings were put to rest by a proffered shawl {it may have been a table cloth, but it's the thought that counts!}), and a repast fit for the gods.
The creamy opulence of the buffalo mozzarella dipped in a fascinatingly good coriander pesto (asking for it on the side was sheer redundancy) is foreplay by itself, but add plump, juicy tomatoes to that combination and it's like an orgasm in your mouth as the tomato explodes, leaving your senses lushly satisfied. The souffle which ought to have been Camembert but wasn't, was beautifully puffed, but a cheddar can only be what a cheddar is destined to be, so we shall move rapidly along to the succulent cow that wound its way to our table, all pretty and pink with the sultriest of mashed potatoes and drained the rest of my lovely Cherin Blanc. And for those weaklings that assume that is where the fantasy ended... tsk, tsk - for shame. Have these pages not taught you better?? The oft indulged in duck breast reached it's sublime potential last night. I have never in all my years been accosted by a breast so perfect that a mere mouthful make me want to bestow camels, knighthoods and my kingdom. It's velvet silkiness drapes around your mouth in the most luscious manner and the mere thought of the next morsel makes you moan. The crisp skin clings protectively to the layer of duck fat as it lovingly embraces the juicy pink flesh. Conversation ceases as tiny, inarticulate sounds accompany each bite. The wine, beans and puree unnecessary, yet taking it to another level of je ne sais quoi. I struggle with my devil/angel - wolf it down in one go, lick your chops and look around for more vs. curling your tongue around, feeling it fill your mouth before a bite releases the magic, indulging in the flavour as you masticate slowly to lengthen the pleasure. I settle for a hybrid and lay back replete, eyes fluttering shut with supreme satisfaction, pleasure and utter happiness.
Their menu claimed "The best of 10 years". Last night certainly was...
Grilled Artichokes Kaffir Lime Tomatoes Buffalo Mozzarella
Coriander Pesto
*
Cheddar Cheese Souffle
Cheddar Cheese Souffle
Sun Dried Tomato Kalamata Olive Crostini
*
Seared Prime Filet Mignon
Seared Prime Filet Mignon
Grilled Asparagus, Anchovy mashed potatoes, Three Peppercorn Sauce
*
*
Pan Roasted Breast of Duck
Coriander Orange Glaze Baked Turnip Puree Green Beans
Death becomes her
I’ve always been quite clear about how I want to die – spectacularly, succinctly and suddenly. A smush down to earth during a sky dive would pretty much cover it. Another fantasy did have a eaten by a pack of sharks, but while it does meet my fundamental requirements, it also necessities a greater level of pain than I anticipate during my point of departure. Driving back to Pune late on Saturday night, I realize the young man who is ferrying me with such reckless abandon, could well by positioned to deliver my requisites. I’m seriously impressed with the confidence with which the car weaves about, a mere centimeters away from other body work, like a deft seamstress wielding a needle over an intricate piece of embroidery. My hand surreptitiously sneaks to the side in search of a seat belt, and encounters some slack and draws it discreetly across my chest, left hand fumbling for the buckle. My negotiations end abruptly as the belt sags impotently in copious quantities around me. Well, given my definition, we would need to explode in a fireball, so a seat belt would really be moot. That thought comforts me considerably, and I snuggle back to enjoy the skills that would put Schumacher to shame. What impresses me even more, is that despite the raucous belting of the horn, flashing of lights and veering to the edge of intimidation as we shoot past, on the wrong side, hugging the rim of the road, sandwiched between two trucks close enough to feel their breath, he smoothly transitions out of the way of oncoming speedier traffic when on the right lane, not needing more than approaching headlights in the rear view (it might be a stretch to assume he occasionally glances at the rear view, but his actions would certainly imply it). His sheer effrontery at the toll nakas takes my breath away, and my mental cursing of his aggressive approach to the left which leaves us mired in the midst of vehicular confusion as realization sets in that the booth is closed, turns into unbridled admiration for his chutzpah as he brazenly snouts the car in front of a long suffering in queue beleaguered truckkie and we zip off to freedom. The same lad fetches me for my return journey and despite a sedate (and deeply frustrating) 80/kmph on the expressway, his artfully dodging on the ghats and in traffic and miraculous gate crashing at the toll naka, ensures that even an unnecessary detour via Worli makes it a three hour door to door journey. And I’m still pondering the coolest way to die…
Urban Legends... rock on!
Just when I thought there was no more, I discover I’m wrong. The stubby tailed cats that one sees roaming the streets of Singapore are not an indigenous species of short tailed cats, but rather, the Governments ‘humane’ way to lessening the nuisance strays might cause to local neighbourhoods. In all its wisdom, Uncle has decided that it will allocate funds for a section of its employees to round up the stray cuts in the city and chop off their tails. Pray tell why? I hear you murmur with some degree of horrified fascination. Well, allegedly this robs them of the ability to balance themselves as they leap up walls, trees, balconies, trash cans and whatnot’s potentially causing untold damage to impressionable young Singaporean minds so it is deemed prudent to rob them of that facility and leave them to loiter in a far neater manner.
My look of horror propels a young Singaporean to launch into an explanation of how this is benevolent as no cats are killed and then can live a regular life. Really? What self respecting cat would want a life where it couldn't swish it's tail in satisfaction, lash it in anger, stiffen it in trepidation and waft it as it poised to strike?! I do not have the heart to rip into the young man's pride at his government's benevolence, and privately mourn for all the cats in this fucking insane city of artifice.
P.S. - he was very proud of the crow killing arm of the govt as if his recounting the traumatic experience of having a sandwich stolen by an avaricious crow in his canteen . i will admit to shock and horror at having my first ever toasted sandwich usurped from its delicately posed position between my hand and lip by a rather large and aggressive Bengali crow, but to kill them for it? Isn't training in appropriate self defence or eating indoors a more logical response? I am aware that as a woman with murder in her heart at the mention of the word pigeon that does seem rather a lily livered stance to take, not to mention hypocritical, but yes, while crows are raucous and ravenous, they really do have much more character and less shit and shedding feathers than the vermin on wings!
My look of horror propels a young Singaporean to launch into an explanation of how this is benevolent as no cats are killed and then can live a regular life. Really? What self respecting cat would want a life where it couldn't swish it's tail in satisfaction, lash it in anger, stiffen it in trepidation and waft it as it poised to strike?! I do not have the heart to rip into the young man's pride at his government's benevolence, and privately mourn for all the cats in this fucking insane city of artifice.
P.S. - he was very proud of the crow killing arm of the govt as if his recounting the traumatic experience of having a sandwich stolen by an avaricious crow in his canteen . i will admit to shock and horror at having my first ever toasted sandwich usurped from its delicately posed position between my hand and lip by a rather large and aggressive Bengali crow, but to kill them for it? Isn't training in appropriate self defence or eating indoors a more logical response? I am aware that as a woman with murder in her heart at the mention of the word pigeon that does seem rather a lily livered stance to take, not to mention hypocritical, but yes, while crows are raucous and ravenous, they really do have much more character and less shit and shedding feathers than the vermin on wings!
Woman vs. White goods - Round 23
Apparently I am destined to have a deeply troubled and mostly tenuous relationship with all the white goods in my domain. The past few days have been a frenzy of washing as I try and catch up with the mountain of laundry that has taken up residence at my abode. This time, I seem to have snaked in on beginners luck and the machine starts up without too much drama, but then keeps me up all night with it's incessant whining.
I know better now so after a hard nights partying, merely strip naked and chuck all sodden clothes in the machine and wisely wait for the dawn. Needless to say, it is not the dawn that gets me up, but a persistent need to pee well past the witching hour and in a fit of misplaced efficiency, I hit the start button (yes, I have figured out which one that now is) and rather smugly head back to bed, ready for a drift in and out of consciousness as the beast does it's best to devour my clothing and keep me more out than in. A day (yes, I do use the term rather loosely)at the beach beckons and I haul myself out of bed and bleary eyed survey the result of turquoise Thai pants and deeply crumpled chocolate top that has the unfortunate habit of slipping off shoulders and is too deep in the back to sustain a bra. The clanking emanating from the machine does make me pause and wonder what on earth has now come lose and whether or not I should be worried or look for the manual. Instead I settle for the iron and am rather pleased with the fetching outcome of my wardrobe, complete with matching footwear and ring.
The white good has subsided and given my last rather tasty experience of pulling out an armload dry but still hot towels, I'm rather looking forward to having these out in the open before I head for the beach. Hmmmm. Perhaps I ought to have waited a tad as the rush of steam accompanies the first armload. Shit! Did I accidentally change the drying setting? My momentary alarm is assauged as I realise it's the steam and the clothes just need to be laid out for a bit before they can be put away. As I head back for my second armful, I'm struck by the painful knowledge of what caused the clanking towards the end of the wash. It's a pitiful sight, to see poor Poddy II laying there like an abused child, headphones mangled with last nights top. I reach for it only to let go in a yelp as the metal scorches my fingers. This does not bode well. I disengage the headphones and gingerly (and yes, guiltily) eye the damage caused. Hello. The white good has managed to do to Poddy II what it does to fabric. Shrink it!! How is this possible?? Most of Poddy II looks respectable enough for a prospective bride's photo, but the bottom bit housing the controls has definitely shrunk! I'm befuddled and concerned. Naturally, it was only last evening on my way to undefined revelry that the battery died, so now I have no way of knowing if Poddy II is really dead or just playing hard to get.
I get the charger from upstairs and hold my breath as I plunge it into Poddy II. Nothing. Blink. Blink. Blink. The orange light is there... could it be alive? I decide to leave it there and embark on my very late luncheon adventure at the Arts and Science museum (an entirely different matter deserving of it's own post) prelude to the beach. Late evening sees us munching on fries and a good 12 minutes trying to untangle wires that now resemble over zealously cooked Maggi noodles. It's more out of curiosity than expectation that I slot it in and stick the buds into my ears, as I grapple with the shrunken Poddy II part to start her off. The sound of the Dixie Chics in my ears makes me yelp with excitement... IT LEEEEVES!!!! I'll be damned! A full wash and dry cycle and the damn thing is still playing and not just Poddy II but those friggin' useless earphones as well. I feel the urge to bow to Apple, but restrain myself as I realise the shrunken bit of plastic really should've been heat resistant like the rest of Poddy II for me to do that, as my attempt to switch it on and off meant prising one edge off which resulted in the whole thing coming loose and the switch for the on and off falling off! Hmmmm....
Determination and a finger sticking on it works and I'm rewarded with the sounds of warbling women but clearly, any ambition Poddy II might have had of being mobile is now a distant dream. I contemplate cello tape but while that may keep the body parts of the rotating drum survivor in one piece, it doesn't let me switch it on or off, and engaging with Poddy II to execute that piece of skulduggery is liable to have a situation where the button itself falls off. Catch 22. I could either then just leave it on all the time and cello tape it into place and then just recharge like it was going out of style. Or, Poddy II is now under curfew for life... decisions, decisions... I shall leave this one for another day.
Woman - 0.62743 vs. White goods - 0.72363
I know better now so after a hard nights partying, merely strip naked and chuck all sodden clothes in the machine and wisely wait for the dawn. Needless to say, it is not the dawn that gets me up, but a persistent need to pee well past the witching hour and in a fit of misplaced efficiency, I hit the start button (yes, I have figured out which one that now is) and rather smugly head back to bed, ready for a drift in and out of consciousness as the beast does it's best to devour my clothing and keep me more out than in. A day (yes, I do use the term rather loosely)at the beach beckons and I haul myself out of bed and bleary eyed survey the result of turquoise Thai pants and deeply crumpled chocolate top that has the unfortunate habit of slipping off shoulders and is too deep in the back to sustain a bra. The clanking emanating from the machine does make me pause and wonder what on earth has now come lose and whether or not I should be worried or look for the manual. Instead I settle for the iron and am rather pleased with the fetching outcome of my wardrobe, complete with matching footwear and ring.
The white good has subsided and given my last rather tasty experience of pulling out an armload dry but still hot towels, I'm rather looking forward to having these out in the open before I head for the beach. Hmmmm. Perhaps I ought to have waited a tad as the rush of steam accompanies the first armload. Shit! Did I accidentally change the drying setting? My momentary alarm is assauged as I realise it's the steam and the clothes just need to be laid out for a bit before they can be put away. As I head back for my second armful, I'm struck by the painful knowledge of what caused the clanking towards the end of the wash. It's a pitiful sight, to see poor Poddy II laying there like an abused child, headphones mangled with last nights top. I reach for it only to let go in a yelp as the metal scorches my fingers. This does not bode well. I disengage the headphones and gingerly (and yes, guiltily) eye the damage caused. Hello. The white good has managed to do to Poddy II what it does to fabric. Shrink it!! How is this possible?? Most of Poddy II looks respectable enough for a prospective bride's photo, but the bottom bit housing the controls has definitely shrunk! I'm befuddled and concerned. Naturally, it was only last evening on my way to undefined revelry that the battery died, so now I have no way of knowing if Poddy II is really dead or just playing hard to get.
I get the charger from upstairs and hold my breath as I plunge it into Poddy II. Nothing. Blink. Blink. Blink. The orange light is there... could it be alive? I decide to leave it there and embark on my very late luncheon adventure at the Arts and Science museum (an entirely different matter deserving of it's own post) prelude to the beach. Late evening sees us munching on fries and a good 12 minutes trying to untangle wires that now resemble over zealously cooked Maggi noodles. It's more out of curiosity than expectation that I slot it in and stick the buds into my ears, as I grapple with the shrunken Poddy II part to start her off. The sound of the Dixie Chics in my ears makes me yelp with excitement... IT LEEEEVES!!!! I'll be damned! A full wash and dry cycle and the damn thing is still playing and not just Poddy II but those friggin' useless earphones as well. I feel the urge to bow to Apple, but restrain myself as I realise the shrunken bit of plastic really should've been heat resistant like the rest of Poddy II for me to do that, as my attempt to switch it on and off meant prising one edge off which resulted in the whole thing coming loose and the switch for the on and off falling off! Hmmmm....
Determination and a finger sticking on it works and I'm rewarded with the sounds of warbling women but clearly, any ambition Poddy II might have had of being mobile is now a distant dream. I contemplate cello tape but while that may keep the body parts of the rotating drum survivor in one piece, it doesn't let me switch it on or off, and engaging with Poddy II to execute that piece of skulduggery is liable to have a situation where the button itself falls off. Catch 22. I could either then just leave it on all the time and cello tape it into place and then just recharge like it was going out of style. Or, Poddy II is now under curfew for life... decisions, decisions... I shall leave this one for another day.
Woman - 0.62743 vs. White goods - 0.72363
The Firm
It's a very short week in the UK next week, what with Easter Monday and the Royal Wedding. A national holiday, I mean really??! Sanjeev Bhaskar was right, the Queen is Indian!! My abstract wondering about what such a lovely girl like Kate sees in Willie is met with a concerto of raised eyebrows against a 'oh c'mon' chorus. Um, no really. Why? Why would you choose to live your life in a fishbowl? They're groomed for it. Erm, it's still a choice. Everything you do, everything you say, nothing is sacred anymore when you're out in public. What kind of a life is that? Guess it must be true lou! Why else would you marry a young man with a receeding hairline and the personality of wet pasta and join a firm that seems spend the better part of its life as hamster cage lining??
Jealousy
The realisation sinks in and suddenly everything makes sense. All the other explanations I was cataloguing are irrelevant. It's the whole who's the coolest of them all that's doing this. It makes you smile, that sudden flash of insight. The word is so commonly used to define an uni dimensional emotion because it's probably the most common and definitely the most televised, but there are so many facets to it. Jealousy lives everywhere and sometimes makes the oddest appearance. Usually one hopes for a brief period before you find perspective again and you let go of it with a rueful smile. Who'd have thunk it.
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