Please

If you have a spare tenner and a free evening before 15th December, do go to see Rhinoceros at the Royal Court. Please, you won't be disappointed.

Sight

It's through others that we see ourselves, our true selves, goodness, truth, banality, ordinariness. All our faults and gorgeousness reflected in the gaze of another. In knowing others we can know ourselves.

We lose ourselves in loneliness
In loneliness we lose ourselves
The truth of the self, ever present
A lie. It is only through others that
We see ourselves
We see ourselves through others.

Mrs Lyser [After Mrs Krikorian]

That first time, when I saw her
I was transfixed -
as six-year-olds are prone to be -
In the same way that on seeing
a doll that time in Beatties, unable to get out
a squeal, I kissed it, so Daddy could see.
She stood in assembly, to the left. Upright, her body
taut against the climbing frame wall, her silver
hair a soft halo. She was old -
I knew that, old, yet progressive...
sometimes she wore trousers,
trousers, in 1985!
Once, I bought some awful made-in-Korea ornament
with my holiday money, and presented it to her,
sticking out my chest and standing up straight,
the way I thought one was supposed to
on these occasions.
And she took my soft child's body into
her arms and hugged me. The embrace
of a mother, as yet unfelt since.
And I knew, that first time, I knew,
I was transfixed. Over the shepherd's pie
that night announcing:
'I can't take my eyes off her.'
'I just can't take my eyes off her.'

First day at school

Today I went to the office. "Good for you," you're probably thinking, more than a hint of sarcasm in your tone. Let me clarify: today I went to the office for the first time in four months! That's sixteen weeks people! I've been gainfully self-employed for that time, discovering the art of freelance, getting up when I like and playing facebook scrabble without fear of dismissal. But all good things come to an end, and I find myself on a short contract with an old colleague at her new office. It felt odd, but strangely comforting... the busy tube journey, a signal failure at Kings Cross, a soy latte in a paper cup, a desk and a squeaky chair, girly-office-chat... I liked it. The time passed quickly and I was still the same person. Believe me, that was a relief.

Library-bound

Working at home has its distinct advantages - getting up late, lounging around in my pyjamas 'til noon and the undeniable luxury of being able to make 'important' 'phone calls whilst clutching a cup of tea and reclining on the sofa. Unfortunately, this state hasn't been all that conducive to actually getting much real work done. So, in an attempt to be organised and efficient, Jules + laptop + heavy bag full of paper have made the University library their home of late. All good, all good. It's toasty warm, fairly quiet and I seem to take on motivation by osmosis from all the hard-working language students, burying their sweet unwashed heads into fusty books. My desk of choice is on the fourth floor, the window is floor to ceiling and overlooks crunchy orange and yellow trees. All good, all good.

- untitled -

Sometimes, when you call
and your voice is gently
desperate, and I see your eyes,
dull grey and empty.

Sometimes, if we sit
and don't talk - not in silence,
just a sea of thoughts - and
I feel your mind drift slowly away.

Sometimes when I'm sad,
and you intonate your hands to
say you're with me...

And especially today,
especially today.

Before

He used to love her, he knew that, but over time his love eroded with each misdemeanor until all that remained was a hazy recollection of affection and comfort. Like finding a childhood toy in the attic and on turning it over, seeing that it has been eaten by mice, no stuffing, no flesh remaining.

The light at 4pm, in winter

On the concrete blankness of the riverbank, they walk or wheel like dust floats in a shaft of sunlight. Crisp enough for coats, the air eats fingers and toes through merciless merino wool and polyester. A man in a yellow waterproof jacket swigs brandy from a hip flask, unseen by mothers with overprotected children. A mine artist, absolving reality with silver lycra fights off an increasing shiver, and the light... the light at 4pm in winter makes all ok with the world.w

Sloaney Maloney

The Kings Road is one of those institutions. It conjures up feelings of glamour and slightly-pretentious fun ... the roaring success of a new play at the Royal Court, a good steak eaten slowly at a pavement table at Oriel, a naughty trip to The General Trading Company. Yes, there are a good deal of the Chelsea twin-set brigade there on an average afternon, but there's normality too, a coffee in Pret and a t-shirt purchase at Zara. That's the Chelsea I know and love.

Today I just-so-happened to have some errands to do, a couple of gifts, a birthday and an American-esque baby-shower, so I put in my ipod and got the tube to Sloane Square. Within half an hour, I had amassed a not-insubstantial mass of gaily-wrapped packages dangling precariously from each arm. Not unusual, I thought. It's a road with shops on and people go there to, er..., shop. Yet as I wandered through a few stores en route to Waitrose for some eggs, I began to notice, well, sense, that something strange was happening when I walked in the door of these emporiums. Shop assistants said hello. I was addressed as 'Madam'. People asked if I was looking for 'anything in particular'. If I'd had a free wrist, it would have been drenched in Chanel at the perfume counter in Peter Jones. To top it all, a very camp ginger guy in the White Company asked me to feel a cushion, 'Go on,' he enthused, 'they're soft as cashmere!' I declined and left, my packages cutting into my forearm with each indignant step. Money shouldn't buy favour, but it seems that in Chelsea at 4pm in Winter, it's exactly what it does.

Au Revoir Parapluie

He dances as freely and gently as reeds stirring in the early-morning breeze. His frame supple, his skeleton, it seems, is without edges. There’s no shape these legs and arms cannot mirror, cannot claim for their own. I sit entranced for an undefined amount of time. However long it is isn’t enough. On leaving I remark to a friend that I could go right back in and watch the show again. Rarely am I transfixed so wholly, so intimately… grace and strength and beauty and delicacy and love and fear and ugliness combine to create a surreal exposition. Dance, magic, comedy, mine, drama, acrobatics… just gorgeous.

‘Au Revoir Parapluie’ with James Thiérrée is playing at Sadler’s Wells until 10 November.

Romeo & Juliet at the Royal Opera House

Highly recommended, if a little clompy in places.

Birthday

Well here I am again, one year older and wondering wistfully what the 29th year of my life will feel like. Someone asked me the other day, 'If you could be any age again, what age would you want to be?' Without hesitation I replied, 'The age I am now.' I'm glad. I have some regrets, but I wouldn't want to go back, no way. The future is where we're heading and I want to be living now.

A new kind of life

A new kind of life, no more 9 to 5, no more endless checking of email, plane journeys across skies and time zones, my life flat-packed into a suitcase on wheels. Just me, in England, with a laptop and some words to play with each week. I eat better, sleep better. I think I am better, company I mean. The stress has gone and though I lie awake wondering where it's all heading, in the here and now I'm happy, the happiest I've been in years.

Ni hao

Every week I sit in a small hot room with an ever-decreasing group of other students. We make an eclectic mix, yet there's a subtle affinity, a tied-togetherness. A sixty-something woman helps a young girl, whispering encouragement through the cloud of fear. We're learning Mandarin, each new sound an assault to our eyes and ears. We stare through pages of twisted black strokes, unfamiliar grammar, logical nonsense. My mouth turns and spits shh zuuu faaa sheng, with little idea what it's saying.... The room gets hotter. I'm uncomfortable and check the clock. An hour left. Sigh. Then out of the blue, there's a sentence on the board that I can read... each little drawing - the lady with the crane, the house with the jade inside, the one that looks like a lily, and I understand. It's like gold dust falling abundantly from the sky, unannounced and gorgeous. I want to jump up and shout 'I get it! I get it!' But, fortunately for everyone else, I restrain.

My eureka moment doesn't last, next week I'll be back to incomprehension and frantic checking of vocabulary behind lao shu's back.

Grateful Friday

On a crisp autumn Friday with a nip in the cooling air, I pull my collar around my neck and am grateful for:

1. Crunchy leaves of yellow and orange and a pink-ish colour en route to the tube.

2. The thought of Christmas. I love Christmas! Darkness with twinkly lights and a stiff breeze... a gingerbread latte in a red cup from Starbucks, mince pies, and maybe, just maybe, some homemade chutney.

3. The age I am now. Someone asked me which age I would be if I could go back to any age so far. I answered straight away, 'The age I am now'. That can only be a good thing.

4. Ni jiao shen ma ming zi? Or in other words, 'What's your name?' in Mandarin. I've started learning and while it's insanely difficult and tedious and I can't say half the sounds, there's the occasional triumph when I actually learn something.

5. Lots of theatre and art to look forward to. Au Revoir Parapluie at Saddler's Wells, Jewels at the Royal Opera House and hopefully, if I pray really hard, The Masque of the Red Death in a warehouse in Wapping. Just lush.

Damp Soup

We sit, side by side on pale wooden benches facing a window. Soft rain is pouring down the glass, loosening grey dust and forming it into ugly streaks. My eye fixes on a grey droplet and I watch as it falls slowly, blown by a sporadic wind, to the ground. You have your arm around me, and the dampness from your coat is seeping into my jumper. I ask you to take it off. You acquiesce. A waiter brings two steaming bowls of ramen noodles to the table, and we start to eat. You begin with the soup, I with the noodles. You would never agree with me on that one.

We’re silent, damp and silent. I think of my mother, how she dislikes noodles, forcing us to cook rice for her in a separate pan. I’m alone with my thoughts when you begin to speak. I don’t catch the first few words, so faint is your voice through the clatter of the noodle shop. Turning to face you I see you are agitated. Your cheeks are red and your won’t make eye contact. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Nothing, don’t worry. I mean, it’s nothing major, but I’ve decided to take the scholarship. I know we’d agreed but I can’t deny what a good opportunity it is for me. I might never be able to do this again in my whole life…’ You trail off. I look down into my bowl and the greasy film on top of the soup turns my stomach. Something in your tone tells me that this is non-negotiable, your mind is made up. I pick up my bag from under the table, hurriedly throw my coat on my shoulder and leave. Stepping out onto the street I walk decisively without destination, aiming to lose myself in the mess of umbrellas and rain coats. I walk four blocks before I allow myself to cry. In a doorway, without restraint, the tears fall, soft rain.

Barcelona in the autumn half-light

Poached

Gingerly I step into a deep white bath while an eager-faced woman looks on. I'm not prudish, and by the looks of things neither is she. In broken Spanish I agree with her questions and, she carefully adds a cup of yellowy oil to the warm water. A few seconds later she's gone, replaced by a ferocious noise as a tumult of bubbles crack the surface of the bath. I lie there, trying to aclimatize myself to the strangeness of being poached, like a big pink salmon in a fish kettle. I'd like to say I enjoyed it, but I didn't. I tried to, really, but all I could muster was a resigned indifference and some very pink skin. Man was I glad when my Spanish friend returned.

'Te gusta?'
'Claro que si!'

I'm such a good liar in a foreign language.

Cherries

As I stood next to the bin
eating cherries and spitting
the stones in, some missed
staining the floor with a
streak of crimson.

As I first met you that time
in the theatre bar and clasping
the cast list the ink
stained my fingers with a
stubborn blackness.

still

Sometimes I live through these times of heightened reality, no other way to explain it. I'll smell or see or feel something and it doesn't just remind me of the past, but actually take me there. Today I saw a guy carrying a hockey stick and I was 12 again chasing a ball around a wet field. I could feel myself trying so hard to be quick, skilled, running hard and then the disappointment that I wasn't ever going to compete with the sporty girls. Then I ate sausages and mash for lunch (it's winter already here, all grey and cold and wispy), and the mash was heavy and thick like the one my granny makes, and I was back in her kitchen with the red and blue striped tea towels and the upside down fish screwed the wrong-way-up on the wall, and her soft tone droning over the washing up as I ate silently. Then I take the tube from Oxford Circus to South Ken, and on the way I decide to stand still on the escalator instead of walking, just to watch the kind of people who stand. To my surprise they aren't all old or fat, or carrying heavy shopping. They're just not bothered about rushing like me. I'm humbled. Then a line from The End of the Affair pops into my head... the scene where Bendrix and Sarah meet after several years, in the restaurant on Piccadilly. Sarah's late and Bendrix asks her why... 'The tube would have been quicker' he says. 'I didn't want to be quick.'

So much emotion, so much more said in those six words than in their whole stilted conversation that follows.

(dis)Affection

I think we missed each other, years back now I come to think of it. Distracted, life got busy and time threw distance between us. Moments of incomprehension, misunderstanding, let go for politeness now clogging up the space our life used to inhabit. It's like you can't see me... I think of waving, like a window cleaner, sure the face I'd see would be vacant, looking over my shoulder. We could be anyone to each other, save a few shared memories thrown into a heap at the back of a wardrobe, we could be anyone to each other.

--

In the half-light, stretched out on an apple green coverlet, I think of you. Far away, miles our enemy, your memory like a ghost. I imagine your thick toes poking out from an unfamiliar blanket and the way your right hand twitches in those precious moments before waking. I wonder what time it is for you, and where you'll lay your twitching hand tonight. The light is snapped off and I throw my life upon these thoughts of you, hope in the darkness and a vision of you coming on the winds of sleep.

--

"There are always perfect times with the people we love, moments of joy and equality that sustain us later on."

Ann Pratchet, Run, (Bloomsbury, 2007).

Reflection

That night her reflection taunted her in the gilt-framed mirror. Far from home, a case of unfamiliarity breeding contempt. Her thoughts patchy, unsettled as the night. The face staring back was enrobed not in beauty, but indifference - the worst kind of ugliness.

ants

Sometimes, when she's stressed, she has this dream in which she's being eaten alive slowly by a myriad of ants, black and shiny with small teeth. They devour her feet and their way up hot calves, chomping muscle, cartilage and sinew until the bones remain, grey and smooth. She almost always wakes up once they get to her thighs, some things are too awful to imagine, even in dreams.

Last night was an ant night. She woke, some time before dawn when the first light pokes itself gingerly through the slats on the blind. Scratching her hot legs, eczema devouring those first precious moments before waking. At once, she's distracted, the day creeps in and the night is gone, and he ants with it.

Nine Dragons (again)

Though mountains surround me,
Clear lakes and skies of azure,
Stillness, stasis in darkness,
My favourite sight - tress, black
Against the sky, I can't feel
At home here. It's my homeland,
My country, that I know, but
My heart looks East and no
Matter how hard I try I can't
Help but search for nine dragons
Siloutted, black against the sky.

Po-faced cheeks

Inside the hushed darkness of the gingerbread shop, there were two po-faced ladies, trussed up in blue ticking, white lace bonnets crowning their scorn. It got me thinking... if you're grumpy, why work in a gingerbread shop? Surely happiness and tea and thoughts of houses enrobed in icing and dolly mixture should prevail therein?

Leaving

I pulled a familiar dress over my head, and waited for the rushing in my ears to subside. I sat on the edge of my bed and thought for a moment. My head hurt. Two clamps around my ears, a dagger through the back of my cranium. I can do it, I said to myself. Go in, you have to. It's the end, and the end is always important. I did a Myers Briggs once and I'm a completer-finisher. I like to tie gifts in grosgrain ribbon. So, I slowly and diligently clasped my oyster card in one hand and walked decidedly to the tube, each step accentuating the swoosh of blood through my head. I made it, opened the door to the office, and sat at my desk for the last time. Inanimate objects took on a sentimental touch, I found myself putting old mugs, a greasy mouse mat and a badly-written book into a bag. At 2pm I tried to leave, laughter had left the building and I was alone. In the ladies touching up faded blusher I felt a sadness, a low kind of regret, and I returned to sit at the desk for another few minutes. Just me and some memories, now fading, now not mine, and I cried. I'm ashamed to say, I cried, with no one watching but God.

Untitled

Each week I pay a not-insignificant-sum to a man in a white shirt, who sits perpetually in a white room. A small low chair, a blue screen and a bed with two pillows. I stand with my back to him and his eyes stroke my neck, looking for change - am I crooked? Still? Stiff? For an hour I let him touch me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, squeezing gently, pushing below each shoulder blade, holding my head in both hands firmly. Each time I leave and I try to work out if I feel better. I do! is the usual conclusion... But today, as I wake with a stiffness in my neck and a feeling of strangeness I wonder why I keep on keeping on with him... I don't like the reason, it doesn't seem right... I go because I like being touched. I feel safe there, I feel free, valued.

Sick

I reckon I've spent more time being ill this year than the last three years put together. Bronchitis, migraines, stomach bugs... most were exotic, picked up alongside souvenirs and unfamiliar food in countries far from home. Germs blowing decidedly through aircraft air flow. All this sickness has been a disability. I've fought it, ignored a cough for weeks until the stuff coming up is red and thick and I drag my aching lungs down to the hospital, where a guy my age guffaws in shock and doles out high-strength drugs. Surely this can't go on? The rest of the year will surely stretch out like a white sheet of health... vitamin-enriched, mineral-full, health-surrounded?

Untitled

Once I saw a girl fall clean off her bicycle. It would have been more tragic than amusing had she been riding it at the time. She had stopped at the traffic lights on Exhibition Road, her head facing up towards the lights, waiting patiently for them to change, when she fell sideways - perfectly at 90degrees into the tarmac. No one saw, except me. Visibly shaken she dusted herself off and heaved the solid red bicycle up onto its wheels. Cautiously she got back on, and limped slowly along the pavement towards Hyde Park.

Marionettes

I have a friend who, when he's stressed, has this horrible recurring nightmare that he's being eaten alive slowly by a milliard of small ants, black, with shiny teeth. My mother shouts at anything, usually my father. My father sulks and speaks to no one, save the motorcycle magazine, which is afforded all interest and deemed worthy enough to receive the occasional grunt. Stress is elusive. It creeps up, unknowingly until you're slap bang in the symptom and it's too late to work out what it is that was so hard to deal with in the first place. Take me, an averagely stressed out 20-something. I was a chubby teenager, so you'd expect that my innate reaction would be to reach for a Kit Kat - the four-fingered-wonder, of course - at the first sign of anything untoward. Hmmm... No. What do I do instead? Dance? Come out in a faint rash? Shiver? Go red? Nothing so common! No, I vomit. Predictably and grossly, approximately 45 seconds after getting out of bed. Three solid wretches and usually it's over. I'll rub my tender stomach soflty, just for a bit, and tumble from the bathroom. Five minutes later, I'm fine. This routine has been like clockwork since I was small. Exams? Jules is in the bathroom chucking up. Ballet recital? Oh, yep, she's there again, at least she'll fit into her leotard. The irony in all of this is that I only recently found out that my sister does exactly the same thing! Imagine! Two marionettes, joined not by string but by genes, 150 miles apart, simultaneously emptying the contents of their stomachs at the side of the road each stress-filled morning! We're ok though. Don't get concerned. Peace is on the horizon and the Shreddies and toast and tea will soon be worth their nutritional value.

Change

When I somewhat younger, I would always cry when we went on holiday. Not for long, a day or so, until I was used to the new surroundings, food, heat, whatever was different from home. My parents didn't know what to do so they'd ignore it, buy me an ice cream and watch me acclimatise, after which I'd undoubtedly be happy as larry and cry when we left. Strange child. That fear of newness has never left me, though I'm aware of it now and know to ignore the gulping emotion that gathers at the back of my throat. Last year there was so much newness that I think I became numb to some of it, or maybe I pushed it down far below the surface. This year change is coming in the guise of excitement, but the familiar lump is at the back of my throat and my head is hurting. I'll try to smile and forget about it, until I emerge, content, swishing my way through autumn leaves on an unfamiliar pavement.

Untitled

When you don’t call or sms
I imagine all kinds of horrors…
You’ve fallen into a canal,
Into the section with no life buoy.
Pesky vandals! Don’t get me started!
Think they have a right to ruin our fun,
Law-abiders that we are. I mean…
Oh yes, when you don’t call or sms
I imagine your train has been
DE-RAILED, and your left leg
(it’s always the left)
Is lying cold, clammy and alone
On a grey track, far from your
Other one, and then…
I wonder what you’ll do for trousers
And if the alteration lady
Will take pity and do a bulk
Discount on sewing up all 17 pairs
Into one-legged pants… and
What she’ll do with the spare legs?
A mystery. Oh, when you don’t call or sms
I do my best thinking.
And then,
I don’t miss you
so much.

The upside down boyfriend

You’re more like a mushroom than a boyfriend… alive in the darkness while I’m asleep. Time zones our enemy, fertilizer your friend. I set my alarm to speak to you. 5am, unearthly by anyone’s standards, lest mine. Groggy, I dial. You answer, cheerful and bright, out playing Frisbee in a park far from my imagination. I’m thoughtful, waking delicately from a cold bed and pressure on my bladder. You tell of beaches and a warm sea, you may as well be talking of unicorns. I’m indignant. Lifting the curtain I see white dust through darkness, cold moisture kissing the early crocii. I tell you, but you’re laughing at a girl in a green swimsuit whose name you pretend not to know by heart, and I know not to set my alarm again for you, my upside down boyfriend, my exotic wanderer, my illusionary.

MTV

The aeroplane has a lot to answer for. It took you from me for a start! Cruel wings, miniature pots of marmite - your breakfast favourite - numb your pain at leaving. The airport, so grey, so dull, so cold, and why oh why is there always a lost Italian, pathetic and dim asking directions when you're trying to kiss me and pretend it's ok, we'll be fine, whatever. I can't do it again. Another day coated in watery film, snot clogging up a stripey sleeve full of tissues, while you watch MTV in economy.

Grateful #5

Ok, so continuing the theme of gratitude, this week I'm grateful for:

1. My lovely mummy who still thinks I'm a student with no spare tenners to buy meat. She arrived on Sunday with a whole cool box full of goodies, and for one small second I felt sad at time passing.

2. The return of the lycra, in other words my ankle is almost better, well, holding up, which means I can dance again. Two hours in a white studio on Friday evening is the cheapest therapy in this city.

3. Bakewell tart, vastly underated in my humble opinion. Flaky pastry, hmmmm, pastry.

4. A surprise luncheon visit from my best friend. She brought a tide of gladness and chocolate ganache into my boring Monday. Lol.

hee hee

This was the only thing that made me laugh today.

The 'Second Sleep'

A recent article in the New York Times (my web news of choice), considered how sleeping habits have changed over the last few hundred years. Even though we're sleeping less now (an average of six hours a night), the article suggested that we're actually getting better quality Zzzzzzs. Apparently sleeping in the middle ages was another matter entirely, tempestuous weather, vermin, noise... (sounds like my weekend camping in Derbyshire). It went on to say:

Until the modern age, most households had two distinct intervals of slumber, known as "first" and "second" sleep, bridged by an hour or more of quiet wakefulness. Usually, people would retire between 9 and 10 o'clock only to stir past midnight to smoke a pipe, brew a tub of ale or even converse with a neighbor.

Imagine having two sleeps, waking up in the wee hours to chat, drink tea or make love, I kinda like the idea. Like having two dinners. Sleep is lush, one of my best things to do, so any chance of getting more if it sounds like a great idea to me.

Camping: An underated passtime

There are some things in life that I love way out of proportion to their surface merits. Tea, for example, Thomas Pynchon, San Pelligrino. Camping is one of such pursuits that has me grinning from ear to ear. When I think about it, this love for putting on damp jeans in a small space and trekking half a mile to the loo in the dark doesn't make any logical sense. I like luxury, who doesn't? A feather duvet and a soft, high bed, sharply cut sushi with wasabi in a flower shape, ahhh. Yet something in my psyche is chuffed as anything at the chance to sleep with a rock sticking into my back and the prospect of a stale hot cross bun and lukewarm weak tea for breakfast.

On a train on Monday morning, sleepy and too-warm, I pondered why I love it so much. I realised it's because it's everything ordinary life is not...

Dans Paris

Imagine the most depressing film ever..... go on. No really.... Not one where people die, or children scream, but a horribly poignant take on everyday family life. A father despairing at his grown son sleeping for the fourth day in a role, on voluntary hunger strike. Add bad lines, terrible costume and grey, a lot of grey, and you're half way to imagining 'Dans Paris', a crap French film out this weekend. (Excuse me for the patronisation, but it means 'Inside Paris', not Dan's Paris as a friend joked today.) Please don't go to see it. I'll pay for you to see something else instead, really. A poor friend and I only lasted 45 minutes and it took a glass of Shiraz and two hours of conveyor sushi to make up for it.

I'm back!

The past few weeks have been a bit busy. Instead of playing catch-up I'm gonna write off the last month and just carry on as normal... yay!

Visited Countries

create your own visited countries map

The visited countries map got a little update last month.

If you want one, click here

FYI

Clamping your earlobe in your hair straighteners hurts.

A lot.

Yummy Sunday

I do think part of my psyche is firmly stuck in the 1950s, when women stayed at home to bake perfectly iced cakes for their clean children, and got up early to waddle about in a housecoat whilst making eggs and bacon and toast and coffee, before falling into bed exhausted. Hmmm. Not quite, but hey I still love a good Sunday afternoon bake off. Yesterday I was hunting through the usual round of blogs, when I happened upon a link to this beauty. Just take a look... go on. Those cakes! Green tea and lavender! Chai spice and chocolate! Vanilla and honey pecan cream! Lush. My feable attempt at a Chocolate peppermint cupcake is above. They tasted extremely yummy.

Ciao Bella

On an almost-deserted weekday street between Russell Square and Holborn, there's an old-fashioned English-as-they-come pub called The Lamb. The bar is encased in a complex carved wood and glass structure with flaps like windows that spin around so you can see the barperson. It's ace, a real 'find', somewhere to take wide-eyed American visitors to drink warm ale and choke in the cigar smoke, (until July anyway). Just next door the pavement is flanked with tiny outdoor tables with blue cloths. A white-haired man eats a plate of parma ham, he's holding a wide glass of Chianti in his liver-spotted hand. A tall girl with a Russian hat and extremely long legs kisses a guy in a trilby as they fall, laughing, through the door. A fat family with two shiny-faced children sit in a circle devouring garlic bread and olives. This is Ciao Bella, probably the best Italian restaurant in England. I'm not a hugely sentimental person, but this place gives me a warm feeling, somewhere under my chest, and for a moment, I can pretend I'm on holiday in Italy... the waiters are from my parents' generation, they're professionals, nothing is too much trouble, limoncello is cold and sharp in my throat. I'll take you there one day, and you'll feel what I'm saying.

My mac is back

After a tense week without my beloved white macbook, it has finally returned to me from the nice man at the Apple store. Turns out they had to replace four parts and the battery, but everything's a-ok now. They've also replaced all the top-casing and the keyboard due to discoloration. It looks amazing! So soft and white, and there are no crumbs in the keys. Ha. I really missed it, I mean it kinda made me worry that I'm a little too attached to a slab of white plastic. A PC just doesn't do it for me anymore. Welcome back little one!

A monkey and a cat

Cecil was no ordinary monkey. He thought it best to explain this to strangers when he first met them.
"Can't you dance, or sing, or bang a drum?" they would ask.
He would shake his head resolvedly and try not to notic e the look of disappointment in their pudgey faces. Some days he wanted to be ordinary. He wished he had nothing better to do than jump and skip and hop, like the other monkeys in New York. But even if he tried, they would laugh at his stripey dungarees and point at his short tail. No. Cecil was an intellectual monkey, whilst his cousins ate bananas and stole chips from daytrippers to the park, he read Focault in the library.

Mr Jeffrey was Cecil's only friend. Friends are important, but Mr Jeffrey was especially important because he was Cecil's only friend in the whole city.
"I wish I was a monkey so I could read Foucault like you" Mr Jeffrey said. But he was only a cat, and everyone knew that cats couldn't read Foucault.
"Hello magazine is much more interesting" Cecil said encouragingly. But Mr Jeffrey never believed him.

One day they were walking together through Central Park and Cecil was trying to explain Queer Theory for the four-thousandth time, but Mr Jeffrey didn't get it, again.
"Ok," he said, trying to think of another analogy that didn't involved slavery or Jewishness or the nature of red hair, all of which are like Greek to a cat with white fur who can talk.
"Imagine I'm a monkey. But I'm no ordinary monkey."
"Which you're not..."
"Yes, exactly. Now imagine you're a cat."
"Which I am..."
"Exactly. Imagine we get together and you learn to read Foucault in the library and I read Hello instead."
"Yes. I'd like that."
"Well, Mr Jeffery," he said, with a smug twinkle in his eye.
"That is Queer Theory."

Mr Jeffrey beamed. "Take me for sushi to celebrate! You know how much I love fish."
"Ok. Cool, we'll put it on my Amex."

Cecil was no ordinary monkey.

For John, with love

Mango tea, and darkness

We drank mango tea
In almost-darkness
Your face an illusion
Conjured away by lack
Of light.
Outside: chaos
Snowflakes, bodies rushing
In from icy-cold-ness.
We hide in your sanctuary
Smiling. Safe.
Few naked words
Float on air
And sink to be pondered.

We feel fine, or do we?
A cat and a monkey.
A love and yours truly.

Grateful Friday

Well peeps on this glorious Friday in March, I'm grateful for:

1. Lush weather: everything seems beautifully simple and real in the sunshine. It's been gorgeous ALL week and I've been enjoying cycling in a slow breeze.

2. The maintenance guys at work: who kindly pointed out that there was like no air at all in my bike tyres, and instead of just laughing at an inept girl, one of them ran off to get a pump and rectified the problem there and then! What good service, and I didn't even have to flirt like I usually do at 'Mend a Bike' in Fulham.

3. Canapes: generally underated small snacks. If they're done well, as they were last night at a book launch in the city they are just yummy. Think warm mozarella and fig wrapped in parma ham and drenched in lemon juice... lush.

4. My ridiculously overpriveleged life: this week I managed to go to Paris for the day, attend a private view of the Renoir landscapes at the National Gallery, eat aforementioned canapes and free wine at a book launch (at which I shook hands with a famous politician). I woke up this morning and realised that perhaps this is what it feels like to be grown up at last.

5. Gertrude Stein: she's one of my heroines, seriously, even though she's well and truly dead as a dodo I love love love reading her candid and affectionate portraits of the modernist art scene in Paris. The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas is a beautiful autobiography of her own life as an American in Paris in the 1920s. Friends with Mattisse, Picasso, Renoir, Braque and countless others, she brings to life a Paris that belongs in books.

Installation at Reed College, Portland

More Photos from Paris

For more photos of our trip to Paris this weekend click here.

Il fait du soleil a Paris!

Paris in the sunshine this weekend...

Cecil

Some of you asked to see him... here he is. I'll post some more pix when the light is better for photos... winter evenings aren't the best.

Geography

"The world must have got smaller for you Jules."

A friend said that to me when I got back from Asia last summer. I nodded and agreed with every ounce of my being. Despite the carbon footprint, you can get pretty far in a day above the clouds. Distance had become my friend, I'd overcome it if you like... with a bit of will, some money and a passport people seem closer, places aren't so exotic any more.

Recently that view has changed a little. People are still far away... time zones are man's foe. It's all very well having friends around the world, but the ache for them is stronger when I realise they're asleep when they enter my thoughts. They start their days when I'm bidding adieu to their yesterday. They eat dinner as my stomach rumbles for lunch. At four o'clock the light outside the window beckons me, not them, they're well in the dark. Sigh.

For all our advances in technology, high-speed air travel, free skype calls, we're still far away. I can't share the pensive hours before bed with you, for time is our enemy, friendship clipped short.

WIP

The aforementioned hare... she's coming along, floppy ears and everything.*

* Yes I have developed rather an obsession with sewing. My fads tend to last though, so watch this space for more handmade goodies.

Beauty from the land of the rising sun

I recently discovered the most gorgeous Japanese fabric supplier.... there's something unique and unassuming about small Japanese prints that really appeals. Just imagine my glee when these arrived today in the mail... all wrapped up and squeeling to be made into something lovely...


I'm thinking of a few rabbits... or perhaps a hare. Any ideas for names? Agnes is my current favourite, after a Great Aunt, though she's still very much alive and kicking, so maybe Mabel?

This Week

= happy jules

A warm bed in the country

I spent this last weekend in the country with friends. When I say 'the country', I mean it in most quintessentially English way possible -- chintz curtains, geese squawking at 6am and many references to Jane Austen. There are few places I'd rather wake up than in a warm bed in the country, sun streaming through flowery curtains, the smell of bacon and toast and coffee wafting up steep stairs... wish you could have been there.

Waiting

How much time do I spend waiting. I don't mean literally waiting for a bus, or a train, or a friend who's late for coffee. I mean mentally waiting for things/events/people to show up in my life... It struck me today that sometimes I'm so focused on where I want to be, what I want to change that I forget about now, this moment. A tired me propped up on cushions under a stripey blanket, typing away for prosperity and practice into a white laptop. I've given up a few things for Lent, vices mostly - coffee, alcohol - but I've also given up waiting. We live here, now, not five years down the line, and I hope I can make the most of it.

Black Against the Sky

There's a song by Beth Orton with the lyrics

See the trees, black against the sky

Maybe you know it. Ms Orton is poetic beyond words and I love her graceful tone. One of my favourite visual images is of the trees in winter, black against the sky in the fading half-light, English tea-time. Something magical happens in that slice of time that's not-quite-day, not-quite -evening. It's not even 'dusk', that comes later, rather the beginning of the fading of the day. It's my favourite time of day. Some get tired then, the afternoon almost over, home beckoning, the thought of small hands grabbing onto a skirt... But as the light fades and the trees draw their black lines gracefully across a fading grey canvas I smile.

Black against the sky.
There they are.

Blogiversary #2

I started this blog two years ago, almost to the day. Was I different then? Probably. Can I remember? Vaguely.

Grateful #4

Great-full for these gorgeous things this week:

1. Bright as Yellow by Innocent Mission: discovered on a gift cd from a friend across the pond. Includes the classic line, 'I don't wanna be rose, I don't wanna be pale pink, I want to be bright as yellow.' Don't we all!

2. Jaffa Cakes: recently rediscovered and highly underated... lush. This list would of course be incomplete without the inclusion of something edible.

3. Cecil: He's a stuffed monkey, around 60cm tall, with ridiculously skinny arms and legs. He's made from brown/blue suiting and has a felt, hand-embroidered face. I made him myself and if that makes me odd then I don't care. Next up: Agnes, a pale grey rabbit with Liberty ears.

4. Friends from far away: who still make me laugh, challenge me and speak into my life from far away. Love you guys.

Tony Takitani

Imagine....

Heavy rainfall - peas in a collander... heavy piano chords, minor key, grey, tungsten light... a beautiful tree, black against the sky... the click of a slender heel, loneliness you can grasp in your hands.

Tony Takitani is a beautifully crafted adaptation of the short story by Haruki Murakami. The emotion is so beautiful it very nearly killed me.

Affection

Affection is an underated emotion. We talk a great deal about love, (often when we mean lust), too much about hate, and not enough about the raw depth of affection. There are a smattering of people who grace this life who I have a deep-seated affection for. I can't explain it. They may be good friend, they may not. Often I don't know much about their everyday lives, I don't see them at work, at home, I don't understand their jokes... but I have an affection for them that is as deep as love but more simple. Like Victoria sponge cake, sponge and jam with no pretence...

Weekend in the country

Tea, and I love you very much

Peace

All the misfortunes of men come from one thing only: their not knowing how to remain at peace in a room at home. -- Pascal, Pensées

LoveSong

I saw this play tonight, Love Song, at the New Ambassador's Theatre. Four tv-actors and an averagely clever script combine to create a poignant romantic comedy. I'd give it four stars, if you have a spare 90 minutes and a few buttons in your pocket, give it a go.

Untitled

What if

What if I
Left you behind,
Like a discarded
Kleenex.
Walked off
Indifferent to your
Cry for attention,
Would you
Call out in pained
Anguish? Or
Begrudgingly
Accept your
New state?

Ache

Why is it that some people make me feel more alone?
Their presence evokes an ache in my chest.
I'm five again and my mom has left me with a neighbour.

Checkov and the cold feeling

Last night sleep came slowly, an illusion. The hours ticked darkly away, unaware of her too-warm body twisting itself to near-suffocation in the striped quilt. It had been a present from her sister, well-meant, but too warm for the temperate climate there. If anything, she was practical beyond compare, and couldn't bring herself to throw out the pinks and purples and beiges gracing the brushed cotton.

Today tiredness has settled like a blanket of snow upon her pasty face. An espresso and croissant eaten hastily on the train serve as breakfast; food her only friend on this grey journey into work. The day passes; that's all there is to say. At 12.45 she eats a brown-bread sandwich with tuna, drinks a polystyrene cup of lukewarm tea, tries to find something of interest in the view outside the window. The same hunched over pavement-walkers drift towards identikit cubicles where they spend the afternoon saving the world (on their terms). She brushes crumbs off the brown wool skirt and puts her glasses back on, the small gesture signifying that lunchtime is over.

On the train back to her tiny flat she reads a short story chronicling Chekhov's last days before his death from TB. On the night of his death, the doctor treating him sent down for Champagne. Three cut-crystal glasses and a bottle of Moet grace his passing from one life to the next. Dignity. Love. Grace. Respect.

Winter is coming

Or so they say... on Friday last week there were people eating lunch outside in Knightsbridge, in January. This time last year I had left London for Asia, and was settling into life in 30C heat and humidity in Singapore. Much of November and December had been spent walking along the Southbank, getting progressively colder each week, so this came as a bit of a shock.


I must admit that I love winter. I don't like the sun all that much, I seldom sunbathe, and there's something comforting about wrapping up against a chilly biting wind on a crisp cool day in London. So here's to some of those... if they ever arrive.

Old Friends

Like me, perhaps you have friends all over the world, disparate, living lives you can't imagine or see. An image builds of their lives - what they may eat or drink, how they travel to work, what they do at weekends... all far from the truth of their reality. I'm insanely grateful for my friends overseas, for the glimpses they have given me of cultures far removed from my own - and yet I'm sad that I can't share more of their everyday... tea or a meal on an imaginary veranda...

Milano

Self-Portrait Challenge

Theme: Resolutions

- to do more ballet -

- to spend more time relaxing rather than rushing around London as if someone's life depended on it -

- to sew more -

- to expand my horizons -

- self portrait challenge -

encounter

um, excuse me, but why are you looking at me?

because you're beautiful.

well don't. i don't like you staring. it's not polite.

oh. (pause) i'm sorry. i didn't mean to offend you.

i'm not offended. i just find it creepy, that's all. i don't know you.

oh, ok. sorry. look, maybe if we got to know each other - you might not find me so creepy then... (he smiles)

look i don't know what you're suggesting, but i'm not interested. i don't want to go out with you.

who said anything about a date? i just meant coffee. but hey, ok, forget it.

ok. (pause). well, if it's just coffee... maybe that'd be ok.

oh, are you sure? that'd be awesome.

don't get excited ok. it's just coffee. i have coffee with my grandma ok, it's nothing special.

no of course not. we can just chill. when's good for you?

anytime. thursday?

thursday it is. 5.30? au bon pain on union square?

ok, i know it.

good. they do great bagels.

better make it 6 though, i have class beforehand and the subway's pretty packed. well, this is my stop.

oh. well take care.

yeah you too.

see you thursday.

yep, see you.

(pause) i like you, i mean, i find you interesting... something about the way you dress...

don't freak me out ok.

oh, sorry. see you soon.

yep.

---

untitled

i remembered you -
last night, the one with the
conker hair -
your image forced its way
through sleeping eyes,
to jolt a memory
long faded.

i liked you -
that night, the one with the
killer smile -
your eyes shining their way
across a crowded room,
to meet some girl
uniquely dressed.

i blanked you -
both nights, the one with such
promise -
I was scared of severity:
commitment in your stance,
trying to love someone with
nothing to give.

Aprons

A few months ago, my sis and I had the fabulous (and we thought 'unique') idea of making aprons for our relatives for Christmas. I like to think I'm pretty o-fay with all things in the haberdashery department, so we set off, determined to produce unique wow-inducing Christmas presents. After a few small disasters, we perfected the pattern. All in all I made 11 of these beauties and still have some left for future presents. I used Marimekko and Liberty fabric on some, and feel very pleased with the results.

Here's Ali modelling one of the early ones: