Leaving Words...

I'm about to leave my current job and have been thinking about what to say at my leaving drinks.

Then I saw this on the web:


Could be a very short speech....

The Time Travelers Wife

Should you go and see films of the books that you absolutely love? Probably not.

To this day I have not seen many films on the principle that there is no way that the film could do justice to the written word. There have been the few rare exceptions (Peter Jackson's Rings Trilogy for example) but these occurences are rare.

This week I found myself with a spare few hours to hand so I ducked into the nearest cinema to watch The Time Travelers Wife. I should have know better but curiosity got the better of me.


For those of you who have not read this brilliant book by Audrey Niffenegger, what I'm about to say will not have any relevance. To those of you that have and who loved it, I say, Do Not Bother.

I wanted to love the movie but I couldn't. Why not? The ingredients were all there. A great story. Interesting themes. Rachel McAdams, one of my favourite actresses. Even Eric Bana in the buff- many, many times. But I remained mostly unengaged.

What failed for me ultimately was that the film reduced the story to this. A woman who becomes resigned to the fact that her husband is wont to disappear into thin air and reappear at random. A man who seems to disappear and reappear at different places and points in time, at random. That is what seemed to drive the tension of the film rather than the intertwining themes of love, transience, control, coincidence and fate that are paramount in the novel.

It did not help that the two actors had zero chemistry and that there was no substantial character development. I had no idea what Eric Bana's character, Henry, felt about his time-travelling predicament except that it was frustrating, inconvienient and cold (as he always reappears naked with no clothes). It also did not help that early on in the film, Eric had a haircut that made him look like a reject from the Monkees.

I loved the book so much that to see it dissected and reassembled so shoddily is disappointing. But then again, why should I be surprised. Is not the phrase A good film adaptation too often just a contradiction in terms?

The Selby

We’re constantly reminded these days that we live in the age of technology and speed. Information flies around quicker as a result. But does this mean that we are any wiser or more knowledgeable? I don’t think so. Sometimes it just makes me feel as if I’m under siege.

You would think that with this constant flow of communication that the public/private split in society would be somewhat diminished. After all, anytime we want to know something, we go to Google or Wikipedia. Reality TV is now an established genre. Blogs (tongue firmly in cheek), Facebook and the internet transcend traditional boundaries of time and access. As a result it can feel like nothing is private or sacrosanct anymore. It’s all available if you know where to look.

Are we a society of voyeurs, dipping into and out of multiple worlds with a tap of our keyboards or hit of a switch?

I am a part of this generation but I do recall a time when it was not like this. I sometimes miss the old fashion ways of being nosy. Good old-fashion research in books and encyclopedias. Walking down the street at night and seeing how people’s homes are decorated. Gathering information from a wide range of resources rather than the all knowing Google. Sometimes when knowledge is harder won, you tend to remember what you learnt. At least, that’s true of me.

I heard about this blog yesterday. Todd Selby is a professional photographer who photographs inside homes of people he meets and finds interesting. I like it because of all the little details he captures within each home.

I also like the fact of how his blog made me think that no matter how public life seems to be now, our homes can still be private reflections of who we are.

And of course, I like how the blog satiates my inner Nosy Parker.

Auf Wiedersehen Mein Herr

Last weekend, I was sitting around a dining table with some friends in a post-dinner party-food-and-drink coma. It was late in the evening and we had all drank and supped to our hearts content. Conversation was at a low ebb and that point in the night where we all peeled off and slipped away seemed fast approaching. Then out of the blue, someone said:

If you could go back in time and kill Hitler as a three year old, would you do it?

I can't remember who the question was directed at but all of us became animated at once. It was as if we'd all had a IV shot of Red Bull into our brains. My first question was:

Does it matter how we kill him? Are there rules?

The discussion that followed was fast and furious. Some of us (well actually, only two of us) didn't hesitate in agreeing to kill a kid in order to save many more. Others believed that you should not change the course of history the argument being that history is not fixed. By killing Hitler it could jettison other key past moments which incrementally have led to the evolution of our group sitting around the dinner table that very night. One person opted for a compromise. She would top him once he became a teenager.

We discussed the points for hours, invigorated by more wine and possibly drunk on the idea of time travel and a moment of such absolute power and responsibility. Intoxicating.

In the next week I posed the question at work. Once again everyone re-acted as if stunned by Tasers.

No, no, no. I could never kill a child.
Not even if you knew that child was going to grow up and commit genocide?
No. I would encourage him to get involved in the arts instead.

The arts? The arts?

I work in the arts. It makes me want to kill. All of us in the office want to kill daily. Kill artists. All of them. Apart from one or two who we might keep as pets.

I reminded her of this fact.

Hmm. Valid point. Maybe I'd just break his arms and legs instead.

Of course. A quadriplegic meglomaniac with an identity crisis. So much better indeed.

The Charlotte Street Blues Bar

I woke this morning to find myself bleary-eyed and croaky voiced, all signs reflecting that I'd had a good time last night at The Charlotte Street Blues Bar.



This relatively new venue in London is fast gaining a reputation as being a sure thing for a decent night out with good music and a laid back vibe.

A few months ago I was wandering around Fitzrovia, in search of a cafe called Lantana which has excellent coffee. As I made my way down Charlotte Street, I saw a large crowd of people congregated together outside on the sidewalk. They were drinking, chatting and looking quite happy and pleased with themselves in general. It looked like a fun group party and my interest was piqued. As I approached them, a flyer was shoved in my hand and I saw that the crowd were at an opening of a new venue. The Charlotte Street Blues bar. Something about the whole atmosphere was so appealing that I wanted to go in right there and then but boring life committments called, as did the lure of good coffee.

Last night I finally made it down there with some friends to watch Ash Grunwald play. Ash is a blues and roots musician from Australia. I have had numerous opportunties to see him play in the past at venues such as the Fly By Night or Mojos in Perth but never did. I'd heard he was good but his gigs had always eluded me. Now that I was halfway across the world, it seemed like the time had come.

Ash didn't disappoint. And neither did the venue. It was such a thrill to actually go somewhere that you have high hopes for and actually have those hopes met. How rare is that. The bar was unpretentious both in style and service. The design of the place was intimate without being constrictive and the decor was just the right side of elegant, electic shoddiness. The staff were beyond attentive although I did notice that most of the men beind the bar all had beards. Is this a blues thing? Nonetheless, they actually did their jobs well which to my jaded view of customer service in London is paramount to finding a needle in a haystack.

And then of course there was Ash, interspersing larrikin warmth with frenzied virtuosity and bringing with him that touch of home which is so hard to describe but so tangible a feeling. He played till 12.30am and filled the walls of that place with the distinctive, plaintive wail of blues and roots.

At the end of the day, the venue was alive and warm because of the music that filled it. But if you have to sit anywhere and drink and be with people to listen to the blues, there are worse places you could be than the Charlotte Street Blues bar. I'd recommend you go. Soon.