Jam Hot

The jam is made! H and I spent a morning in the kitchen last week and as I type this the jars are sitting looking at me all shiny and lovely. It was a bit stressful, I have to admit. I'm never quite sure when it has set or if we'll manage to get it finished without at least one limb or eyeball succumbing to a splash of molten sugar, but this time it was all good :)

WIP photos are here!




We decided that rather than giving the jam away, we'd sell it in aid of Care for Children's China Earthquake appeal. Care for Children is an amazing charity that facilitates fostering of orphaned Chinese children with other families, who either can't have their own children, or who are restricted by the one-child policy and would like to have a larger family (the one-child policy still allows for fostering and adoption). They have orphanages in the affected regions and will be helping in the aftermath of the earthquake. We're almost sold out but hope to make some more soon!

Hyde Park, 11am this morning

Coming Soon: Rhubarb & Ginger Jam

Do you like rhubarb? I for one think it's generally evil, though I am still traumatised from being force fed rhubarb fool at a convent in Whitby when I was nine. Apparently leaving it would have offended the nuns...

Anyhow, there is ONE way I like the pink celery, and that is when it's made into jam with a lot of ginger. I've been waiting for the price of rhubarb to come down so that I can jar some of this lush goodness. It seems that this weekend may well be the time, but to give you good people a head's up, here is the recipe, in case you feel so inclined:

1.1kg rhubarb (prepared weight)
1.1kg sugar (preserving sugar is best)
juice of 2 unwaxed lemons
25g root ginger, bruised and tied in a piece of muslin*
100g preserved or crystallised ginger

* If you don't have muslin you can use a pop sock or a foot from a pair of tights. Try to make it clean one!

• Wipe and trim the rhubarb and weigh it.

• Put into a large basin in alternate layers with the sugar and lemon juice. Cover and leave overnight.

• Next day, put the mixture into a pan with the root ginger, bring to the boil and boil rapidly for 15 minutes.

• Remove the bag, add the preserved or crystallised ginger and boil for a further five minutes, or until the rhubarb is clear and setting point reached (test for this by putting a spoonful onto a chilled saucer. If the jam wrinkles when you push it after a few seconds it's ready).

• Pot in sterlised jars and cover in the usual way.

Makes about 2kg.

I'll post photos of the finished result next week. Hopefully there won't be a repeat of the marmalade fiasco, which resulted in three times as much as expected, and no jars left in the house :-)

Thrifting

Our American friends across the pond are fond of the term 'thrifting', to describe buying anything second-hand for cheap... either from yard sales, charity shops, ebay or flea markets. Charity Shop Chic is having somewhat of a revival in London, but I wonder thrifting will be in fashion soon...

I love Vintage clothes and accessories, but generally resent paying what is charged at most shops, especially when I know the clothes have probably come from the local Oxfam anyway. I hadn't bought much for this reason for a while. But, a recent visit to a beautiful vintage shop in the Lake District made me get all excited about vintage again. The shop is called Ruby Blue and it's located in Carlisle, a little too far for most Londoners to travel to, but good inspiration nonetheless.

I scored two gorgeous dresses - a red and white printed wrap dress that is very me and just gorgeous. The only drawback is that I later realised it is made from 100% polyester. Oh so washable but oh so sweaty! Not such a summery find then.


The second is rather hilarious - a grey woolen pinafore that will take more than the usual tweaking to fit as it's a maternity dress. I just couldn't resist the beautiful neckline though. If I get round to altering it any time soon I'll post some photos.

Summer?!

Is it just me, or has it gone from winter to summer in about five minutes? Surely it was snowing four weeks ago, or was that my imagination? The weather is gorgeous, but I feel slightly 'in-shock' at its speedy arrival. Last night, I got home by the skin of my teeth on the last tube and strolled through the sultry air to my flat. It was too hot to sleep, so I made some tea and opened the cupboard to find two crumpets that I had my little heart set on... imagine my disappointment when I found they'd gone mouldy! Hmph. Turns out we live in a tropical climate now, I had no idea. We'll be putting bread in the fridge like the Aussies next.

Inspiration Number 2

A while back I posted a few links to people or sites I find inspiring, well here are a few more:

The Cupcake Bake Shop: For all you bakers out there, this is a fabulous site with heaps of recipe ideas for interesting, fusion-based fun cupcakes. I've made a few of the recipes in the past and can concur that they are wonderful.

The Sartorialist: I'm sure you all read this site already, but just in case anyone out there has been hiding under a rock and hasn't heard of it, hop over there right away! One of Time Magazine's top 100 most influential designers, the Sartorialist photographs ordinary people on the streets who have extraordinary fashion sense. I love seeing how people dress around the world, and if you're anything like me, a bit of inspiration when opening the wardrobe in the morning is always welcome.

3191: A year of evenings: This is a beautiful example of how a visual blog can be more than just collection of photographs. The follow-up to 'A year of mornings', two sisters who live 3191 miles apart each take a photograph of their evening. The results are juxtaposed and posted on the site for appraisal and comment. It's incredible how often the images tie together.

Enjoy!

Magic to Cry For: Bethnal Green PLEASE COME!

standnotamazed
Present
‘Magic to Cry for’
Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club
Thursday 7.30pm 24th April 2008

A delectable evening of sophisticated cabaret
from London’s most refined creators of Contemporary Magic

with…

- The Hat, The Rings, The Rope -
The Date & The Tango
Starring Maya Politaki, Lucy Cullingford
and Filippos Kanakaris

Plus special guest artists…

Richard McDougall
One of our truly favourite magicians and a world renowned performer, Richard has appeared in over 30 countries for clients including Cartier, Asprey, Rolls Royce and Her Majesty The Queen. He is a former World Open Champion for Close Up Magic, a Gold Star Member of the Inner Magic Circle, and has made primetime television appearances in the United Kingdom, Japan, Columbia and France, as well as co-writing Derren Brown’s television shows.

"The highlight of the evening...slick and genuinely funny"
London Evening Standard.

Ian Marchant
The Gentleman Juggler, Ian trained at The Circus Space in London. His hat routine has gone down a storm at the British Juggling Convention public show and The Circus Space Cabaret and has gone on to take him all over the world including the Chameleon and Krystallpalast Varieté's in Germany, the Circus Massimo Festival, Sweden to name but a few.

Piff the Magic Dragon
Last month he proposed live on stage…
…it’s going to be a tough act to follow!

Plus...

Dancing til late as the night continues with the coolest
sounds direct from London’s world famous Pigalle Club!

Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, 42 Pollard Row, London, E2 6NB

TICKETS: £8 or £5.00 for concessions / skilful dressing
DOORS: 7.30pm - SHOW: 8.30pm - Dancing til late
TICKETS AVAILABLE IN ADVANCE FROM:
www.standnotamazed.com/magictocryfor
OR ON THE DOOR
Call 07891 894 092 / 07802770966 for more info

www.standnotamazed.com
myspace.com/standnotamazed

www.workersplaytime.net

Almost here....

Mable arrives tomorrow! I really can't wait, the excitement is almost too much.

I promise pictures when I've calmed down.

A Preserving Adventure

Dear England, with love

Two years ago while living with a gorgeous Chinese family in Singapore, I would regularly be greeted with the phrase, "The English like their tea!" each time I boiled the smaller-than-average kettle. I would smile, and carefully pour out another cup of Earl Grey, sent lovingly from home by caring friends who didn't realise I could buy it at Cold Storage two roads away. That's one silly example, but the time spent in Asia taught me more than anything else that I am really English. No matter how cosmopolitan or international I claim, or even want, to be, I can't change who I am underneath: a tea-drinking, marmalade-on-toast eating, skirt-wearing English girl.

In my mind, I harbour a hugely romantic idea of England... perhaps it's nothing more concrete than the Shangri-La, or maybe it's a place I have in my head to retreat to when I'm overwhelmed, or stressed, or away from home. My England is a place where people are resilient, tough on the outside; soft and rubbery underneath. They get on with life, pull their socks up, make do and mend. No use complaining, keep going, do anything they put their minds to, with good results. They are healthy with rosy cheeks and they're kind to old people. When the central heating breaks down in winter and there's no hot water for the bath, they boil a saucepanful and make a game out of squatting in an icy bathtub with soap and a flannel. This evening, doing just that while drinking tea from a chintz-patterned mug, I looked at my scrubbed face in the mirror, and said to myself, "You're English." And as I did so, a grin spread across my face, and I laughed. I laughed.

Where are you?

m: I'm still here.
y: Where?
m: Here. The same place I've been in for five years.
y: What do you mean? You're not, you've done so much...
m: I am, I'm still in the same place. I have the same dreams, I'm just not there. It's depressing.
y: Don't be so hard on yourself, nothing is wasted, nothing. You'll see.
m: Yeah, but you can't say that. People live their whole lives and never achieve what they set out to do, and I don't want to be one of those people. I can't. It's killing me.
y: Ok, well what is it you want to do?
m: I don't know. That's the point.
y: *sigh* Let's go for coffee.
m: Ok. But it's your turn to pay.
y: Alright. Just smile will you? For me?

Where to dance in London

Where to dance in London is a very good question. It's one that is certainly worth asking at least once in your adult life, even if you have only the most minuscule interest. Perhaps the last time you wore a pair of tights and a leotard was when you stepped gingerly into a children's class when you were seven, but you never know when the desire to throw yourself around a white studio may grip you again! As Baden Powell once said, it's good to be prepared.

About four years ago, after a bad experience at the gym and a realisation that running was soooo mind-numbing I would rather eat my own vomit, I suddenly decided that maybe the noly exercise I had ever enjoyed was dancing. A few google searches later, I resolved to take ballet classes again. The rest is history, though I must point out that I am no Leanne Benjamin, and I am far from stick thin. But I enjoy it, and in two hours in a dance studio on a weekday evening is the cheapest therapy this city has to offer. I love it. I can't always explain why, but I do. Perhaps it's the freedom, the stretching, the comfort that comes from knowing I'll never be a dancer but I can be one in a white room for 90minutes once in a while.

The journey has been interesting and must have seen the best and worst of adult dance tuition London has to offer. In my humble opinion, out of the plethora of classes on offer (and believe me, I've been to most of them), the only real options are:

The Place, Euston: Home to London's School of Contemporary Dance, the Robin Hayward Dance Theatre, friendly staff and more than one vaguely amused teacher, among other great things. They run an extensive programme of classes for adults, mostly on weekday evenings and Saturday mornings (beginning at a leisurely 11.45am). Their classes are well-taught, varied and have the added bonus of an pianist at each one. Ballet here is suitable for complete beginners up to advanced level. Added bonuses: clean changing rooms and a cafe that sells restaurant-quality food at canteen prices.

Central School of Ballet: Home to the company of the same name. Perhaps not for the faint-hearted or those who are going to be nervous at the sight of a class full of professionals on pointe. However, the three open classes each week are a complete joy. You're as likely to find a novice there to keep fit as a professional dancer taking a breather, and you'll feel welcome and safe. The teaching is slow and precise; the perfect end to a hard day at work.

Should you need shoes, or any amount of lycra then Bloch on Drury Lane is your best bet. Better still, grab a pair of leggings and some tight-fitting socks and head to a class. Like me four years ago, you may find it's one of the best things you've ever done. Good luck.

Grateful Friday

Well, the sun hasn't got his hat on today, but I am still grateful for:

1. Seeing my grandparents today. They are old and a little frail, but my grandmother is still the wisest most pragmatic person I know. She sees life through a lens of hard work and teaches me so much by her positive attitude and gracious acceptance of this life. She also made the best bread and butter pudding I have ever tasted.

2. People. Last week I didn't see very many, and it may have made me go slightly mad. This week I rectified the situation and I'm much happier as a result.

3. Tea from Peyton & Byrne. Hard to find, but oh so worth it. I'm in love with a small cardboard box!

4. My new bicycle!! She has been ordered and she will be be shiny and heavy and much-loved when she arrives.

That's all for today!

Magic to Cry For

standnotamazed

Present
‘Magic to Cry for’
Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club
Thursday 8pm 28th February 2008

Following the sell-out success of their last evening at Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, and hot on the heels of their acclaimed show ‘Quitters’ at The Place, standnotamazed are happy to hop back on to the cabaret stage and present another serving of ‘Magic to Cry for’: a delectable evening of sophisticated cabaret from London’s most refined creators of contemporary magic.

Please come! Let me know if you'd like to come and we can go together.

Busyness

'So, how are you enjoying your life of leisure?' is a question I am asked at least once a week, and so far, I'm not sure how to reply. From the outside, I'm not gainfully employed in the conventional sense. I work, but it's increasingly hard to describe to people in one sentence (their general attention span for these things) what I actually do. Many seem to interpret 'freelance' as 'free to do whatever you like'. Hmmm. I wish. Living in my life this way has brought freedom of sorts, I don't have anyone watching over my shoulder, I've cut out endless pointless meetings, and I decide when and where to work. It sounds blissful, but the reality is a little removed! Working on my own has taught me a great deal about myself that I was unaware of, and some of the things I've learnt I don't much like. I like being busy, and I push myself, not just with work but with other things that I want to do ... my Chinese classes, seeing friends, writing, completing endless projects 'for me' that exist half-begun in my mind. These things sit like a team of workers constantly badgering all day and half of the night in the office that is my head. They make demands and I placate them with promises of time - I'll do that then, I'll get to you later, don't worry you haven't been forgotten. The thing is, I realised that there just isn't enough time to do all I want to do. And that makes me sad ... . Perhaps I shall learn to be content with what I do achieve and happy to experience this life in its fullness as it is, not stuffed full with extra things. I do hope that happens this year.

Inspiration

I don't know about you, but I find most inspiration from people who are nothing like me ... the more different they are, the more it seems I can find inspiration from their lives, the things they enjoy, the places they inhabit. I don't watch much tv, but I do read, a lot, and an increasingly high proportion of what I read is online. Just for you, I thought I'd share some of the blogs/sites I read regularly. I hope you find them as beautiful as I do.

The Black Apple aka Emily Martin, a self-made kitsch artist who has made a cult-following for herself from a cottage industry, largely from her home. She sews, paints, screenprints and creates to her heart's content and her blog is a colourful insight into her life.

Post Secret You may be familiar with the Post Secret project, which has been going for a few years. The project invites people to send in a 'secret' on a postcard. It can be about anything, but it must be something you have never told anyone. Some of the entries are published on this website, a mixture of hilarity and poignancy in one graceful glance.

John van der Put A hugely talented and funny magician, comedian, actor and writer. He is also a very good guy, and a great friend. Occasionally I laugh out loud.

That's perhaps enough for today, or perhaps I'm feeling too selfish to share any more. Either way, goodnight.

Remember

Remember that time we ate fish and talked
about nothing in your mother's kitchen?
It was last century, so far away from now,
it's frightening. We were young back then,
Photographic evidence proves it, your eyes
Aren't tired and my face is soft. There's
An innocence, a bashful hopefulness in a
Future without death.
We would change the world.

Grateful Friday

Grateful Friday has taken a wee rest recently, but here it is, (back for this week anyway!)

1. My new Suzanne Vega album, Beauty and Crime. I think it's her best ever, it's certainly a little more progressive than her older material.

2. The thought of dinner tomorrow with ten of my favourite people. Some are old friends, others are those I've met more recently. There will be tables and chairs and there will be snacks, there will!

3. Working in my warm kitchen while the rain pounded down outside yesterday.

4. A glorious blue sky cycle today even though the forecast is for snow.

5. Gladys Pashley. She's not even mine, but I love her dearly already.

6. Crumpets. Recently rediscovered and more than yummy.

Bicycling

I've had my bike for almost four years. It's a sad-looking thing, unloved and resented of late. I resent it because the brakes are shot and I can't be bothered to pay to get them fixed. Add that to the fact it's heavy and slow, I really am not enjoying cycling anywhere further than Ken High Street on it. The other day, my dear friend Hannah lamented the near-death of her beloved bicycle, who had not lived up to his name, Hercules. I sympathised and forgot about it, until one day she arrived at my door with a very shiny new bicycle that was soooo sooooo lovely I actually am ashamed to say I did a jig on the pavement!

The only problem is that I've now come down with an acute attack of 'bike-envy'. I can't help it, it just came up out of no where. All of a sudden I'm all over the internet for a new bike. It's addictive. I have convinced myself that I will easily save the money I spend on a new one by not buying a travelcard, and next week I'm off to see these lovely people to test ride a few of their angelic cycles (the one I am coveting is pictured below). I'll let you know how I get on! The excitement is almost too much, then again, I am a faddy person so we shall soon see if this phase lasts.

Anger management

I'm not an angry person. In fact, if anything, I'm a little smug about staying cool as a cucumber while others shout and scream. Even I know that's all rubbish though, we all get angry, it just comes out in different ways. I tend to shut down, withdraw and have a good old silent slanging match in my head with the person or persons I'm cross with. That's actually no better than hitting a wall, or screaming, but I'm trying to work on being somewhere healthy, somewhere in between.

A couple of days ago I woke to the wind howling outside. The virginia creeper that looks so pretty outside my window in summer has taken on a horror-movie persona... scratching and beating on the panes of glass without ceasing. It was one of those winter mornings when the urge to roll over and go back to sleep is as strong as death, but instead today I chose life and ungracefully tumbled out of bed. I should have known it wasn't going to be a good day. First of all, the trip to the Post Office with a bundle of red cards resulted in a getting wet on the journey. Later, I spent two hours on the Piccadilly line on a defective train, going slowly insane at the huffing and puffing of my fellow passengers, who clearly had better places to be than 200 metres underground with a random assortment of the general public, one of whom had not had a wash for several weeks. After five tubes and a bus I found myself walking through unfamiliar streets towards my destination, when quick as a flash, my ipod was stolen. Someone with fingers so nimble I barely had a chance to realise what was happening. At first I didn't know what to do - perhaps I'll just get an iphone instead I thought. But the anger came, directed at anything, anyone, most of all at myself. I feel guilty for caring about something so transient, so indulgent as a material possession, that, let's face it, I can replace tomorrow. I guess I should write it off, but part of me wants to be angry, wants to indulge myself in that self-pitying guise. That's the bit I need to work on, for all things in this life are not my own, and today a woman in Calcutta is struggling through another day of rain, trying desperately to bring up her children on a pile of sand at the side of the road. I want her to matter - life and death, and not my indulgences.

standnotamazed

Standnotamazed are a theatre company, run by a few lovely folk, including a great friend of mine. They use magic to blur the lines of the real and the imagined in theatre, and watching them is like the feeling you get in life sometimes when you're not sure how something happened, but you're very glad it did.

They're amazing, and lovely and they're performing at The Place as part of Resolution 2008 on Friday 25th January. Do come and see them if you can, you'll love it.

Art can change the world

"I started to sense that words not only convey something, but are something; that words have color, depth, texture of their own, and the power to evoke vastly more than they mean; that words can be used not merely to make things clear, make things vivid, make things interesting and whatever else, but to make things happen inside the one who reads or hears them."

Frederick Buechner.

I happened across this quotation the other day, and I agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment. Words have a power that is inherently greater than their surface value, and in the history of the world it's words that have stood the test of time, allowing us to get inside the minds of those otherwise lost generations who went before. I'm aware that in living this life, I'm only ever 75% there in the moment. The other quarter of my mind is writing inside, trying to put into words what is happening, the thoughts, feelings, textures and smells of whatever it is I'm doing at that moment. I can't tell you of the amount of times I want to go back to a conversation later in writing - to express my joy, or sadness, or floundering advice to someone through words on a page or screen, instead of those that tumble graciously from my lips. When I read something like what Frederick Buechner said above, I'm grateful because I know I'm not alone.

An Islamic Conscience: The Aga Khan and the Ishmailis

I wonder if you have heard of the Ismailis? Or the Aga Khan? If you are anything like me, perhaps the words evoke a vague recollection or something you feel you have heard of, or ought to have at least. My knowledge of Islam and certainly of the sects within, is hazy to say the least, but I was fascinated to learn more at the premiere of An Islamic Conscience: The Aga Khan and the Ismailis, a one-hour documentary film, the first of its kind, which showed in Leicester Square at the weekend.

The Aga Khan, a sixty-something, well-spoken white man, is the spiritual leader of the Ismailis, a small sect of Shia muslims, who number around 15 million worldwide. Historically they have been persecuted, and today they see their identity in the Islamic world as under threat. They are not fundamentalists but peacemakers, and their humanitarian work is to be admired. But if they're such an asset to the world why has no one heard of them? In the panel discussion following the film, one of the panel suggested his reasonings: good news doesn't sell newspapers.

Although I was left with many questions, the film was a great introduction into the delicate world of Islam and its relationship with the West. If you'd like to find out more, click on the link above or here to buy the DVD.

How then should we now live?

Travel is a huge privilege bestowed upon our generation like no other before. I think nothing of international flights in double-figures each year, soaking up cultures and people like the chamis leathers my dad used to dry the car with. From stiff and indifferent, my mind transforms, becoming supple and flexible. My mouth literally changes, wrapping itself around unfamiliar language and even more unfamiliar food. I can eat anything now, really, and this from the girl who used to almost vomit at the smell of fish.

Yet with great privilege, comes great responsibility, and the more I see of this world, the more I come to understand that all is not well. All is not well with the poor. All is not well with the environment. All is not well with the economy. All is not well with world politics. And after a time, it becomes hard to know what to do with that knowledge. I used to flit between guilt and indifference, until I realised that both were selfish in nature, and now I see that we all have our own choices to make, and our own paths to take. For some, their place is in living their life - bringing up children, seeing friends, loving their family, putting food on the table, and buying fairtrade, using the car less, buying green electricity. For others, their place is in politics. For others, in dialogue between communities, like a friend who volunteers in conflict resolution between different cultural groups in East London. All these actions are good and pure and right and will go a long way to starting us off on the journey towards all being well.

I don't know where it leaves you... it's not for me to tell you, or to say. But for me, on the journey past guilt and indifference, I hope to find a way I can make a difference, somehow, however small. Not to appease my conscience, but to live in a way that reflects what I have seen elsewhere. To know that my actions in some way take into account the misogyny I saw in Asia, the poverty in India, the indulgence in other cultures. I wish you well on your journey through to the place where you find some things, no matter how small, are well with the world.

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?