The Sewing Machine

In a cupboard under a flight of non-descript stairs in a flat in the West country, there’s a sewing machine. An old model, no one knows quite how many years it has been in existence, some speculate thirty, others are less complimentary. Housed in a stiff plastic case, it speaks of patience long gone, with a fiddly bobbin case and stiff levers, which need oiling disproportionately to the amount of stitches sewn. Threading it is easy, when you know how. For almost an hour we didn’t know how, and frustration was creeping in until a relative fashioned the cotton to just the right route.

It belonged to a great-aunt, that much I do know. She’s long dead. I remember her name, the smell of coal in her back parlour, the stiff wooden sofa frame that dug into my back as a child. I used to like visiting, her husband would let us push endless twists of newspaper into the coal fireplace, our eyes widening as they returned to dust in the flames. ‘Pyromaniacs!’ he would exclaim, eyes dancing.

I had asked for the machine last year, on hearing that it was sitting unused in a loft. That didn’t seem right. A few months later it arrived on a ship from a different country, escorted under a Lieutenant’s bed. The journey took several days, rolling about on the frigid seas. It seemed fitting that it took such a journey. In my mind it had no place in the sky on a plane.

A few more months pass until I reach the West country, and I only remember the machine several days into my visit. We reach under the stairs and drag it out, a dead weight. Kneeling on the floor we blow dust from the case and flip open the clasps. It stares at us, stoically I decide later. The mechanism is threaded with pink cotton. A flap raised reveals needles, bobbins threaded with different colours, a small pair of gold scissors.

I wonder what she was thinking, that last time, as the pink thread looped its way into fabric long forgotten. I’m glad she didn’t know, wasn’t’ aware that the thread would only be replaced years later, by a distant relative – one younger than herself – in a far country, without tears. I try to find moisture in dry eyes, the occasion deserves it, but I can’t recall her face, or her voice, her smell. I’m starkly aware of the futility of time, the fleeting nature of life—thundering on unto death. The machine will sew again today. It will find new life, a purpose, until such a time as it ceases up with rust, or is forgotten, left at the back of a cupboard when removal men come.

-----

At 5am the following morning I wake to a buzzing sound, the soundtrack of postmodernity, a text from a friend saying someone in his family has died. A young man, with a hope and future, dead in less than 12 hours. Gone. I boil the kettle and call the friend back. I send love and useless words through space, feeling his grief for a few gradual seconds.

After breakfast I open an email. Friends from a far timezone are expecting their first child. Small grey-white images on a black screen have confirmed it. A warmth spreads over my chest, then a coolness. I’m starkly aware of the futility of time, the fleeting nature of life—thundering on unto death.

This Year's Christmas Tree

I must admit that I do like a nice Christmas tree. Not one of those thin artificial ones mind you, my tree of choice has to be real, preferably Norwegian and very fat around the middle (I’m not too bothered about the height). For several very reasonable, but boring reasons, we didn’t get a tree this year. To begin with I was indifferent, my head full of India and a sore arm, but once mid-December rolled around tree-envy began to manifest itself in not-so-subtle ways. I found myself standing in close proximity to the tree in the reception area at work just so I could get some of that authentic pine smell into my nostrils. Mrs B, the receptionist, was on a call at the time, but she did look strangely after a few minutes and I had to pretend I was admiring the tasteful plastic baubles. On Saturday I went to a friend’s for roast chestnuts, ginger wine and a baked ham (imagine my luck!), and I spent most of the evening staring at her beautiful, almost-perfect tree hung carefully with glass ornaments.

I couldn’t take it any longer. At Portobello market this weekend I went on a tree hunt – just for a little one mind you – but I couldn’t find one that was ‘right’ and small enough to carry home on the tube. Eventually I compromised and walked home with this… a berry-filled twig (not a ‘stick’ as my flatmate called it!) It’s infinitely beautiful and cleverly matches the print on the kitchen wall, but it’s not a tree is it.

*Sigh*

Grateful No. 3

This week, amidst jet lag and hunger, procrastination and late nights, I'm grateful for:

1. Four seats to myself on the flight back from Dubai... just bliss.

2. Cool air: not so much a biting wind as a nibbling breeze, but whatever it is winter is coming and I love it. Something about a warm scarf hiding a cold neck.

3. Time with friends this weekend: stealing time for myself to share with others, mulled wine, lunch, coffee.

4. One week to go 'til Christmas! This year has been choc-full of chaos, and peace lies on a Clifton curve, mince pie in hand.

A Christmas Morsel

This winter-season seems to have been sadly devoid of all Christmasy feeling. Maybe going to a hot country for two weeks at the start of December had something to do with the lack of fuzzy cinnamon-spiced feeling. But fear not, today I had a gentle introduction to Christmas with mulled wine and high-priced festive cheer in South Ken.

Words

I read to remind myself that I'm not alone.

Kolkata Last Week

Kolkata Last Week

O Calcutta!

The title of this post is taken from the name of a restaurant in Calcutta, where I spent nine long, rich, noisy days this December.

Picture the scene -- a grey street buildings leaning in from each side... a mosque... a small boy with walnut skin hugging a monkey... the rasping sound from a wooden clarinet... a ragged old man with pain in his eyes ringing a bell, over and over. A small girl, the height of my waist, asks for money for milk for her baby brother... the smell of hot, dirty oil frying in a wok at the side of the road.

Words can't describe this city, but if I had to try I'd start with one word: chaos. This is a city where life and death converge on the street. People live, eat, wash, sleep, love, marry, bear children, work, play and die on the edge of roads thick with years of grime. Every day a cahophony of activity - rickshaws, onions frying, children dancing, women crying, life unfolding - yet the activity affects little change in the situation of these broken ones. The darkness shrouds the collective sense of shame I feel -- shame that I live in luxury unimaginable to these beautiful souls, whose sole possession may be a blanket or a small piece of cloth. It's easy to become overwhelmed, to be paralysed by emotion, but the question remains: how then should I live?

flying by the seat of my pants

I don't particularly like that expression, but sometimes life twists and turns and I feel like that's how I'm careering through this strange life of mine.

You may have read of the planes grounded by BA because traces of radiation have been found on them. I was half listening to Radio 4 whilst drying my hair when I heard them say the planes had been used on routes to Frankfurt...

I went to Frankfurt by BA at the start of November, but thankfully the flights I was on were the day after the contaminate planes were used. When did life get so scary?

A small slice of humanity

Something unusual happened today. I was in Sainsbury's after work, idlely picking up a few groceries, lost in my own thoughts... I waited for the queue to twist and turn its way along, until I heaved my basket up onto the counter. The guy at the checkout was Indian, small with a killer smile, and he didn't waste any time kicking off a conversation. It wasn't even one of those polite three-second 'how are you today's either. We were laughing! Imagine.

That small interaction had me smiling all the way to the tube, heavy bag in hand.

It makes you think, doesn't it.

Party reminder!

For those of you who read this, come over our place tomorrow (Saturday 26th) from 7.30pm for cocktails and sushi. Yep we're going all out for a classy bash! No peanuts allowed.

India again

This time next week I'll be on a plane to Calcutta, via Dubai. I'm hoping that I can avoid spending the entire flight to Dubai throwing up in the toilet, as I did on my last trip! I was thinking today how I've become more than a tiny bit blase about travelling. I've done so much of this year that I am numb at the thought of another plane journey. Don't get me wrong, I love visiting new places and I've seen some incredible things, but the buzz has been taken out of it somewhat. It feels like the Christmas I finally realised that Father Christmas didn't exist, the magic has gone. I'm sure it'll be a good trip though, my third to India this year! I'll let you know how we get on.

Parlez-vous francais?

Oui, bien sur!

Those three words were the stupidest thing I uttered all week. Having decided that dragging up nine years of French lessons would be no problem at all, I was suddenly out of my depth. I could pretty much understand most of what the bespectacled Frenchman in a blue polo neck was saying, but I think I scared him by my lack of response, punctuated largely by the odd 'Oui' or 'Donc'.

Man I need some lessons.

Grateful No. 2

This damp, grey week I am grateful for:

1. Sleeping In. As one of my favourite tracks by The Postal Service goes, 'Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in.' Ahhhhh.... A warm duvet and ten o'clock.

2. Butternut Squash: I'm sure we didn't eat these when I was a child, they seem to be a C21 invention. I'm loving the squash, especially in a soup with smoked garlic. Yum.

3. Alice Munro, namely 'dance of the happy shades', a collection of short stories that seem to me to be not unlike sugared almonds. I never quite fancy one until it gets into my mouth.

4. A week off. Almost over. *Sigh* But much loved. Christmas cards made, shopping done, mince pies in the freezer. Love it. Feel v. smug.

5. The Nice Lady in A&E who examined my sore arm after I feel over spectacularly like an old lady, shopping in hand. A. laughed. I cried. The bruies came... they're here to stay.

More wedding photos

Osam

Of honest men there are few
So gracious
As he who seeks to
Make others shine.

4 in 48

I want to tell you about a friend of mine. She's about my age, thin, shy, unassuming. She wears sensible shoes, a duffel coat and she mostly eats brown rice. Her face is rubbery, almond-shaped - not pretty - but what you might call engaging. At weekends she walks along the South Bank with a sketchbook, stopping occasionally to draw, pulling a thick piece of black charcoal from a plastic bag in her coat pocket.

People stop and stare at her
Sometimes
She doesn't mind
Small children smile, inquisitively.

She might sketch the flat river, a metal and glass construction, or a fleeting seagull, before squeezing the hardback sketchbook into her bag and walking on towards Tower. Just after one she stops for lunch: a brown bread tuna sandwich and a cardboard cup of mint tea. The crumbs scatter on her dress; she doesn't notice.

This weekend she counts four... the man in the cafe, a small flaxen haired boy who asks to look at her sketch, a Big Issue seller beneath Waterloo Bridge. And me.

Four conversations, exchanges of warmth, humanity.

Four.

In 48 hours.

And I almost didn't call her.

Fragility

"No matter how tough we may look on the outside, how many 'I'm fine's we can muster, we're all jelly underneath. I don't mean if the surface is scratched, I mean deep down, right inside. No matter what people say, we're slaves to the opinion of others, or worse, the disdain of the self."

Self-ish

Self-less

The latter the lesser of two evils.

Grateful

In search of a self who is infinitely more grateful for the everyday than the current one whose hands type these letters, I've set myself the task of writing the things/people/events I am grateful for at least once a week. Feel free to join me...

Here goes with tentative debut list:

1. Soy milk latte from Pret. The thought of creamy coffee in a red cardboard cup calls me out of my warm, lazy bed. The morning air grows steadily colder, and my quilt is increasing in comfort in direct proportion to the drop in temperature!

2. The thought of a whole week's holiday. I realised with horror that I haven't had a 'proper' break this year. By proper I mean one where I haven't been called on my mobile by work at least three times a day, or woken up in the night worrying about how to reply to an email. On Saturday I'm taking a train to Bristol to stay with my sister and brother-in-law for a week. I can't wait. I'm a domesticated feminist and will put that thought to use by baking an obscene quantity of mince pies in readiness for Christmas.

3. Books, namely Moon Palace by Paul Auster. I live my life in books, each day I think about characters from books I've read, sometimes years previously, and if I'm tired I confuse them with my friends. I'm convinced that most of what I know has been accumulated through a subltle osmosis through the thin pages of countless novels.

That's it for now! More next week.

Birthday drinks

The view was gorgeous,
The company even better.

Autumn in the City

Neutral

I write this sitting in a bare hotel room. Four walls, lino floor, curtains and bedcover all in an indiscriminate shade of nothing at all. A vague attempt at cheeriness has resulted in a faded Kandinsky print, hanging slant on the wall above the single bed. A table with a lamp, a chair, a black plastic phone... the sum of everything composed in those dull items. I've just been to a dinner of pretzels, hot smoked mackarel, pickled cauliflower and cheese, followed by six dancing South Africans in Brazil football shirts, and a dish of cold, wobbly tiramasu. I wonder how I arrived here. The night is black, looking outside is like dipping my head into an inkwell.

This time tomorrow I'll be home, and this nothingness will cease to exist, for me.

Sadness and memory

Like all preliterate beings, the boy's memory is astonishing. The capacity for detailed observation, for seeing an object in its singularity, is almost boundless. Written language absolves one of the need to remember much of the world, for the memories are stored in the words. The child, however, standing in a place before the advent of the written word, remembers in the same way Cicero would recommend, in the same way devised by any number of classical writers on the subject: image wed to place.

Paul Auster, The Invention of Solitude, p.165.

Lazy Sunday

When I was at University in Leeds, all those years ago, the days were short, the nights long, and coffee consumption prolific. Between stints in the library a group of pretentious-theory-obsessed-lit-freak-English students would gather on the steps of the Parkinson Building, a white wedding cake affair of a building, reminiscent of a Post Office from Colonial days. We'd chat, a few people would smoke, and we'd drink coffee from Bakery 164 across the street. They did the best coffee - had there been a Starbucks they would certainly have given them a run for their money. The cups were plain white, and the caffeine hidden inside two espressos certainly made the afternoon go faster.

Memory is subjective. I must have spent hours sitting on those steps, but the memory has been reduced to a small package of thought... this morning I'm sitting on our new L-shaped couch thinking of how I'd love a coffee but am too lazy to get up and boil the kettle. That thought reminded me of those cold steps, and there I am.

Winter soup

If you, like me, have started craving warm, comforting winter food, then I can heartily recommend this Tomato & Red Lentil Soup. It's really easy:

Ingredients
1 large onion, chopped
6 tomatoes, chopped
1 fat clove of garlic, crushed
2 cups red lentils
1/2 glass red wine (optional)
1 pint bouillon (veg stock)
3/4 pint tomato juice
Fresh basil
Black pepper

Fry onion, tomatoes and garlic for 10 mins til soft.
Add red wine and simmer for 3 mins.
Add remaining ingredients.
Simmer for 15-20 mins until lentils are soft.
Blend and serve with creme fraiche and black pepper.

Yum!

A Very Happy Birthday

Today I turned 27, which is an odd age, and an odd number. I've never had much of a fondness for odd numbers, but at least this one is divisible by three, fulfilling a childhood liking for the number! Someone asked me what it feels like to be a year older, and to be honest I feel exactly the same, not one iota older or wiser.

I had a lovely day... sushi with T., The Alchemist at the National with S., and drinks on Friday to look forward to. We're going to my favourite place in London, I'll be the one with the big smile!

Seasons in the City

I have a deep, inset love for two distinct concepts this month -- autumn, and the East Coast of the USA. I label them 'concepts', ever aware of the disconnection between the romantic musings between my cold ears, and the reality 3,000 miles across the pond. I've always loved North America, from that first glance of the jagged East Coast from an aeroplane window in 1999, and every year, around this time, an ache develops for New York, large and painful enough to send me to thoughts of emigrating. Cool crisp air, enough to numb noses and fingers under woollen gloves; bright, distant sunlight; dusty, grey pavements thick with evidence of life... these things inspire something creative inside. It's probably a case of the grass being greener, of unreality, romanticism to the extreme... but today as I lounge on a cream sofa listening to The Postal Service, I'd rather be there than here...

Visited Countries

create your own visited countries map

It was about time the 'visited countries' map got updated. Here it is, as of October 2006. I'll be adding a few more next year.

My travel still only comes out at 10% of the world though... Sigh. A long way to go.

The Kooks

The Forum, Kentish Town, Tuesday. Gorgeously hip, if a little predictable.

Winter

This year, I'm more than a bit excited about winter... (now, don't get me wrong, I'll probably be the first to complain when an entire week ticks by, second-by-painful-second without a hint of sunshine). This anticipation has a lot, in fact, maybe everything to do with the fact I've spent the last ten or so months sweltering in 32C heat and 90% humidity. The more I think about it, I'm only made for a temperate climate. My curly dark hair, blue eyes and pale, somewhat blue-ish skin do not go well with bright sunshine and steam of Turkish-bath proportions.

On Sunday I wore tights for the first time this year, and proudly donned a new dark grey woollen cardigan, which I've customised with a green ribbon tie. Walking by the Thames the air felt crisp... not cold, but it held enough presence to draw attention to itself – the kind of chill that only gets noticing on leaving for a warm building. Something about the coolness in my hands as I wrapped my sweater closer around my chest was so familiar and graceful, that I smiled inside. Winter brings forth imagination… mince pies with orange zest in the pastry, dark afternoons spent on the couch under a blanket, the view from under an umbrella in the damp twilight, jam, waxy paper tied with ribbon at Christmas… I can’t wait.

A Perfect Sunday

Fluffy Pancakes

Having already blogged about how hungry I am this week (something to do with being ill last week and jet lag), I woke up this morning dreaming of pancakes... not just those thin, pathetic, floppy things we pull out on Shrove Tuesday, but thick American-style ones with maple syrup. Yum. There were two options: go to Giraffe on High St Ken and pay just less than ten quid, or make my own. As the former involved getting dressed on a cold morning, I went for the homemade variety!

They were awesome. I promise, though they didn't really look that like the photo...

If you want to make your own, here's the recipe:

1 cup plain flour
2 tbsp sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 large egg, beaten
2 tbsps melted butter
Milk - enough to make batter that pours (but is still thick)

Combine dry ingredients, stir in egg and butter and enough milk to make it just pourable (think thick wallpaper paste). Cook on a hot griddle* with lots of butter. Serve with maple syrup and a bit of bacon if you're feeling really American!

* I actually own a griddle thanks to a dead great-aunt, but I hear a frying pan works just as well.

Jet lag

Having got back from Singapore on Monday afternoon, I'm suffering horribly with jet lag... I think it's the worst ever! I normally just wake up hungry at funny times, but this time I'm falling asleep at lunchtime and am overcome with a ravenous hunger for the first half of the day. Today I ate three lunches... no joke. The first one at 10am, the second at midday, and then I popped out for some beef noodles at 2.30pm! Imagine being that hungry. It's kinda fun but I hope it stops soon... I'm getting bored chewing.

Bookmooch

I recently found out about an idea that is so amazingly, incredibly awesome, that I was seriously cross with myself for not thinking of it before. You all know how much I love books… my room is kinda coming down with them and my new bookshelves are already overflowing. So what better than swapping the ones I no longer want to keep, for ones that I want to read! There’s a website called Bookmooch that allows you to do just that. By listing books that you want to give away and then giving them to people who want them, you acquire points, which you can then use to ‘buy’ books from other people’s lists. Imagine the thrill when I swapped an old copy of Alien 3 (don’t ask, from uni days), for a brand-spanking-new copy of Levithian by Paul Auster. Check it out, it will change your life.*

* Ok, it might not actually change your life, just improve it, and you’ll get more post.

Tiny planet

If I had to pick one word to describe this year, it would be 'travel', eleven countries, some more than once, have filled up the space between January and now and I'm so grateful for the experiences I've had and the grace and generosity of the people I met along the way. This last week in Singapore was a reminder of that, a little taste of somewhere I called 'home' for a short time, and I felt so privileged to be able to come back and see old friends. The world has decreased in size this year... a seven hour flight is now considered a short hop, and saying goodbye to my friends here didn't have the sting I thought it would, because I know I'll see them again soon. The miles between us are a barrier, but only in thought.

If I'm honest, going back to London has been tough, harder than I would ever have imagined. I feel unsettled, itchy to go away again, especially now that I know I can do it, I won't fall apart, and the fear is decreased. I lie in bed at night and dream of moving to Hong Kong, Tokyo, New York, Melbourne, somewhere far from dark winter nights and expensive tube fares. But the grass is always greener! I know that I need to be at home for a time to rest and rethink what the future holds. I wonder if I'll ever feel settled again... friends who have travelled often say that going away gives you a perpetual feeling of restlessness and disatisfaction with your own culture, yet there are things that I love about my homeland... walking on the Southbank, the light at 4pm in winter, tea with friends after work. For now I'll be content with London, like an old jersey, soft thin wool stroking a tired wrist, an old friend.

Mooncakes & The Mid-Autumn Festival

Yesterday was the last day of the 'Mid-Autumn Festival', a Chinese celebration involving beautiful lanterns hung in the trees and the giving and receiving of 'mooncakes'. If you've never heard of a mooncake then you are missing out! These small cakes containing lotus, yam or a plethora of other fillings, sometimes contain a whole egg yolk to represent the moon.




The story of the Mid-Autumn festival is gorgeous... A pair of beautiful young lovers are separated and have difficulty meeting up. They arrange hundreds of meetings but their plans are always thwarted and they pine for each other alone... Until, they manage to find a way to meet up - on the moon! On arrival there are lots of rabbits running around on the surface of the moon, so as part of the festival children carry around lanterns shaped like rabbits with bright candles inside, just gorgeous.

We headed down to Chinatown after work last night to enjoy some of the sights... a grea way to end an intense weeek of meetings!

Ok Lah!

I'm trying to reorientate myself with the joys of 'Singlish', ie Singaporean English, which at times can sound like a foreign language... The propensity to add 'lah' to the end of most phrases may seem cute at first, but believe me, it can become annoying after a while! Having said that, I love the Singaporeans for their take on an imported language from a country a 13 hour flight away, that most will never visit. There's a unique vocabulary. I've loved hearing people say, "Call me on my handphone"

It's funny how your use of language changes to adapt to those around you. I'm now more comfortable saying 'SMS' instead of 'text', which sounds a bit quaint now! The joys of a travelling life.

Back in Singapore lah

Well, I'm here in Singapore again, less than three months after I left for good! This time it's only for nine days, but there's something odd about returning to an old life so soon after leaving it.

The journey here, via Dubai, was horredous, the worst ever, due to getting some kind of stomach upset and spending the entire journey in the toilet throwing up. I think I even passed out at some point... lovely. I arrived in Dubai looking quite worse for wear I'm sure, and managed to cry at the Emirates guy at the gate. He must have been so shocked to see this pasty-white girl with tears running down her cheeks that he gave me an extra seat so I could lie down for the next stretch.

Today I got out of bed for the first time since arriving really, and went to some meetings feeling ropey.

The only crazy thing was that three people told me I was looking thin!! In the land where I got called 'fat' at least once a week that's no mean feat.

More (more interesting news) to come soon I hope!

"I'm sorry, but your shirt is absolutely hideous..."

What on earth made me utter such a rude and insulting comment to a complete stranger at a drinks party, glass in one hand, canape in the other? Well, that's a good question! My mate Sarah and I were invited to a rather 'odd' drinks party in a converted chandelier factory in Covent Garden on Saturday afternoon. The party was unusually, not what it seemed... we were actually taking part in a piece of 'performance art' called CLUB CLASS, the brainchild of FrenchMotteshead, two artists.

Two groups of people attended the party: participants, who had attended a workshop beforehand (focusing on clothing, surveillance, body language or clothing) which encouraged them to experiement with new ways of behaviour; and guests, who came along for a drink (and a laugh I reckon!) They describe Club Class as, "a performance experience that invites particpants to explore the unwritten rules that govern social conduct." Having attended a "micro-class" with 12 arty-types we were encouraged to subvert our regular body language by tranforming the way we behaved.

The day sought to "challenge each participant to experience the possibilities of what it's like to be different", and we certainly did that! Our workshop on body language saw us practising gestures (think Touretts on a good day), changing the volume of your voice, playing with distance between you and another person... there was also the odd cartwheel and someone pretending to be a dog, (stay with me!)

The drinks party was surreal. Walking in, we didn't know who were guests and who were participants like us. I knew that some people had been at a "bad behaviour" workshop, and this was slightly worrying. I went straight for a drink and got chatting to a lady from the V&A, who at first glance was quite normal. We made small talk, until I plucked up the courage to try out something new... I decided to edge closer to her to see what her reaction would be... she didn't like it!

By this stage, Sarah was talking to a man whose drink had just been spat in! At that moment a girl pushed past a guy, spilling his drink and leaving him, apology-less, with a bewildered look on his face. It was crazy. I can't really explain it any better than that...

I guess the best part of the day was that it gave us permission to act, perform (read misbehave!) in a safe environment. Knowing there was a penchant for bad behaviour, I strangely enjoyed tapping a grown man on the shoulder, and boldly proclaiming "I'm sorry but your shirt is ABSOLUTELY hideous!" To which he replied, "Thank you very much for the advice."

I felt empowered, free to subvert my normal polite behaviour, and perform for a stranger. The day made me understand quite how self-conscious I am in my behaviour. We all bow to social convention, sub-consciously I'm sure, and to step outside of that was as freeing as walking down Oxford Street naked... don't get any ideas, I'm not that crazy!

Club Class is open to the public at the Tate Modern on 7 October, and ICA on 24 February 2007. For more info see www.frenchmottershead.com. If you fancy a change from the old 9-5, why not give it a go...

Spoilt for the ordinary

Loren Cunningham writes in one of his books about how travelling overseas and seeing what God is doing in different places can leave you feeling 'spoilt for the ordinary'. I've been pondering this phrase as I try to find my feet and settle back into my 'old life' in London. The thing is, it's not my old life anymore... things move on and I've changed, my perspective has shifted, ever-so-slightly. My mind is full of people I met when I was away, women mainly who as I type this are living lives so far removed from a soya latte and a pret sandwich for lunch.

Today I had a meeting in a park over lunch. My colleague and I sat under an enormous tree, shading us through dappled leaves from the intense heat. We talked and ate... my friend's lunch was blown away by a gust of wind leaving her to chase after it as I laughed and rescued my own.

How can I reconcile my day with a woman in Chennai whose bed is a pile of sand... A young girl in North Korea who is forced to marry a man twice her age... A woman in a remote area of rural China whose sole possession is a tin pot to cook rice in.

Tough questions, and I don't pretend to have the answers. I just hope I never forget them.

The Good Women of China

Brought up by the red guards during the cultural revolution in China, Xinran was taught to disregard her parents as her 'true family' and pledge alligance first and foremost to the Chinese government. Years later, working as a journalist, she is given the opportunity to present a groundbreaking radio programme for women. For eight years she gave a voice to hundreds of women in China, for whom an outlet for their stories was previously unavailable.

"The Good Women of China" is Xinran's account of these eight years interviewing and speaking openly with Chinese women about their lives, and what it meant to be female in modern China. Speaking honestly about their roles as daughters, wives, mothers, secretaries, escorts, the book gently and heartbreakingly paints a colourful and ocassionally dark grey portrait of what it means to be a women in China.

Xinran opens up a world of stories that are at once painful and fascinating... a girl whose father sexually abuses her sees no release other than making herself ill, until she slowly dies of blood poisoning in hospital. University students from poor backgrounds act as 'escorts' to businessmen, receiving money and attention, but tragically not the love they require.
Early in the book Xinran tells of a conversation with a friend...

--
'Xinran', he said, 'have you ever been inside a sponge cake factory?'
'No' I replied, confused.
'Well, I have, so I never eat sponge cake.' He suggested that I try visitng a bakery to see what he meant.
--

On seeing the less-than-hygenic way the cakes were baked, Xinran could never look at a sponge cake ever again.

If you read this book, you will never think of Chinese women in the same way again.

More pix from the wedding!