The London Korean Film Festival 2009

A friend of mine works for a Korean animation company which amongst other projects is well known for Pucca, as in pucca up and give me one! Here is the little starlet:



The company have just sold a new animation called DreamKix which is about about footballing furries to French television. My mate has been kept busy with meetings in Paree and attending French film festivals. What a slog. Ooh la la!

Back in London, she is attending the London Korean Film Festival at the Barbican this weekend as DreamKix features in the program. Also featured is the opening gala of Park Chan-wook’s vampire flick, Thirst which apparently kicks some Twilight ass. I'm dying to see it (did you get that, dying to see it. Oh never mind)


If you are free you should get down there and see what those crazy Koreans are up to. After Old Boy, what could possibly be next?

Tanya Gold Chose My Birthday Present

I'm a Guardian reader which apparently, according to the English love for classification makes me a middle-class leftie snot. That said I also read the Daily Mail on the weekend for its trashiness and I buy the Times on a Sunday but read the mags only. If I'm bored I may delve into the Independent and if I'm desperate, I’ll browse the Telegraph.

My loyalty to the Guardian and Sunday Observer is not for its news reportage. I read it because I like the style of writing found within its pages and also for the topics the paper covers. I always keep an eye out for pieces written by Hadley Freeman or Tanya Gold as their writing almost always engages my interest because of the way they say things. As a fledging writer of short opinion pieces (a.k.a blogging), I admire the force of personality and voice behind their words. So much so that sometime in the past year I decided that if I were to write professionally, that these two would be my role models. And then didn’t think anymore of it until two days ago.


Tanya Gold. Role model.

It was my birthday. I was celebrating in an overheated bar in central London with friends. I'd had too much to drink and was trying to be a birthday host which was not going so well. At some hot, foggy point in the evening my mates, Renata and Cassandra sat down next to me. Cassandra had a book on her lap.

This is your birthday present, she said, But first I have to tell you a story.

Ok. I instantly felt more alert. I love a good story.

Do you know who Tanya Gold is?

Yes, I replied, I love her writing.

This was clearly not expected as my mates started squealing in that hyper way that only women and queens can do. I’m a joiner so I squealed:

Why? Why do you ask? She's one of my favourite Guardian writers!

She chose your birthday present! She chose it! Cassandra squealed back.

What?! How did you manage that?!

I didn't know why we were all so excited but we were. Tanya Gold’s ears must have turned purple.

It turns out that Cassandra had gone to Daunts in Belsize Park to buy my birthday present. Browsing the shelves she overheard a conversation between a woman (Tanya) and the bookshop assistant and got the impression that Tanya was someone who knew books. Cassandra is one of those naturally affable people who could chat to stone and get a reply so she sidled up and asked:

Excuse me but I'm trying to buy a birthday present for my friend and you seem to know a lot about books. Would you mind suggesting something?

Tanya to her credit went right along with it.

What kinds of things does your friend like?

Oh, erm. Travelling. New York. Books. Writing.

(note here that Cassandra might have added: She’s also stunningly intelligent, will work for peanuts and needs a writing break. Can you help?)

Has she ever been to Venice?

I don't know. I don't think so.

Well if she's never been, this will make her want to go. It’s the best book about Venice ever written.

And with that Tanya pulled Jan Morris', Venice from the shelf and started to read aloud:

If you take an aircraft over Venice and fly low above her mottled attics, you will see her canals thick with an endless flow of craft, like little black corpuscles.


Maybe it was the word corpuscles but Cassandra was sold. When she went to pay the shop assistant whispered to her:

That was Tanya Gold you were speaking to.

Oh. Was it? Who's Tanya Gold?

Cassandra, not being a Guardian reader it seems, applied the powers of Google and forthwith was regaling me with this tale several hours later.

Renata her accomplice leaned over and looked me seriously in the eye. Well eyes.

You must write to her. This was meant to be.

To say what? Thank you for choosing my birthday present?

Yes. You must. Something has happened.

At that point all that had happened was that I had turned thirty-six and was drunk. But I knew what she meant. Synchronicity is one of life’s random, strange and delightful gifts. It’s always good to acknowledge it.

So thank you Tanya for Venice and the journey ahead. And thank you C & R for brewing up some magic for me on my birthday.

On the Brink

It's my birthday today. I am 36. It feels a little odd. I only had a plan for up to 35. What now?

That said, my plan for up to 35 was not a plan really. It was more an attitude. I'll try and sum it up in five words.

Cram It All In. Now.

For as long as I can remember I have always felt on the brink. On the edge of something. I have no idea what this thing is. A nervous breakdown? Infamy? A lotto win? Whatever it is, it gets stronger with every year that passes.

I look around at my nearest and dearest and see that they too are on the brink. My dear friend Jerome is waiting to find out if he has a lymphoma. My beloved soul sister CTD is about to give birth to her second child.

Birthdays are always points of reflection. But you can't look at your life in isolation. We are all connected and when I look around me and see all that is happening in the lives of those I care about, I feel as if I am on that precipice with them too.

Maybe that's what it is, this feeling I've always had. Sharing in the joys, sorrows and day-to-day mundanities of those around me. An emotional investment in others.

If so, I can think of worse ways to feel at 36.

Toil & Trouble

I am quite a reactive sort and I am often cursing under my breath at all manner of things. The weather. Bad food. People talking loudly on mobiles. Customer service. This is fairly normal behaviour I think, for city dweller in the 21st century. We all mutter daily under bated breath. It’s normal. Isn’t it?

A situation at work recently brought on one of these muttering attacks. A familiar scenario where someone is paid a lot of money while you do all the work for them. I vented my spleen at my inanimate PC screen in a passive aggressive manner. My colleague who was also pissed off had another approach.

Mmmm. Death or flu. Death or flu, she muttered to herself.

I thought she was asking me a question.

I’m sorry? I replied.

No no, I’m just deciding which one. Probably flu. A bad one, she continued, still half –talking to herself.

Give who flu?

Oh, I just have a death or flu policy for a few people, she continued blithely. Just the one’s who push me too far.

By now my anger had been replaced by laughter.

Just the two. What about chicken pox? I choked out.

No. Just death or flu.

And with that, she returned to work to continue her double, double, toil and trouble.

A Bit of Rilke

I have a great many blog post ideas but literally no time to write at the moment. So in the interim, let's have a bit of one of my favourite letter writers, Rainer Maria Rilke.

On marriage:

The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky.

On difficulty:

People have (with the help of conventions) oriented all their solutions toward the easy and toward the easiest side of the easy; but it is clear that we must hold to what is difficult; everything alive holds to it, everything in Nature grows and defends itself in its own way and is characteristically and spontaneously itself, seeks at all costs to be so and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must hold to what is difficult is a certainty that will not forsake us.

And for everthing else:

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

A Different S(Tory)?

Friends of mine are members of the National Trust, a brilliant UK charity which works to preserve and protect historic properties and surrounding natural areas such as forests, beaches, farmland; the list goes on. Being members means they can escape London periodically and go to lots of lovely places in the UK which are steeped in history and natural beauty.

Last weekend, we joined them on one of these outings to Hughenden Manor in Buckinghamshire which is where Benjamin Disraeli, ex-prime minister of Great Britain in the 1800’s used to live when he wasn’t frequenting the halls of Westminster or based in London.


It was a lovely day out. We perused the grounds in leisurely fashion, taking in the walled garden with all its rampant vegetable growth and abundant apples trees. We embarked on a nature walk which took in (so I’m told – I was too busy talking) a German Forest and a monument to Disraeli himself (although I thought the best monuments were the wonderful woods he planted). We lunched in the old stables complex,then snooped inside Disraeli’s old country pad where he dwelled in connubial bliss with his wife Mary Anne. Finally we rested our butts on the back steps of the property which overlooked the prettily, pruned gardens. Sitting in the backyard of an ex-Conservative British prime minister turned my thoughts towards politics.

So do you think the Tories will get in next term?, I asked.

The response was a unanimous Yes.

I can’t believe it, I moaned. I’ll have to leave.

Everyone laughed including my husband whose laugh had a hopeful quality about it.

I’m serious, I continued, ignoring him. One of the reasons I left Australia was because of Howard.

I lived in Australia under the Howard government from 1996 to 2007. In the eleven years he was in power, Howard gave Australia relative economic stability and prosperity and you can’t knock that. But he also took Australia back to a 1950’s social conservatism and utterly horrified me as a citizen with his foreign policy and immigration stance. By the time I left Oz, I felt completely stultified by the stuffiness.

Jimmy who calls himself a right-wing marxist was more hopeful than I, remaining optimistic about the impending power switch.

Cameron will be the most liberal Tory to take the seat, he said, And it’s important for both parties to balance each other out. It’s not good for one party to be in power for too long.

I agree with the latter point but the current media saturation of Cameron’s face makes me feel like the walls are closing in. I lived in the UK between 1996-1998 where I experienced the dying ebbs of Thatcherism just before Blair and Labour took the reins. I remember the slight grimness in the air that lingered on from Tory rule and in the faces of the generation that lived through it. I remember paying to get into all the galleries. I remember a lot less cultural activity. Social class seemed a much bigger deal back then.

When I returned to live in London in 2005, it had changed. It was cleaner for one and far more dynamic and diverse. People seemed to have woken up from a long sleep. I’m fearful that this will change under a Tory government. I’m fearful that the whole idea of social responsibility that Cameron is so big on, actually will translate to a pay or get out of the way approach to social services, not to speak of free access to cultural activities.

In his recent conference speech, Cameron said:

So no, we are not going to solve our problems with bigger government. We are going to solve our problems with a stronger society. Stronger families. Stronger communities. A stronger country. All by rebuilding responsibility.

The idea that all the ills of society can be fixed if we are more responsible bothers me. I look around me and I don’t see many people who are irresponsible. I see people who are trying to make it through the day; keeping their heads up through the daily grind. I find it reprehensible that a government who intends to wield massive cuts within the public sector can turn around and say that it will all improve if we sort ourselves out. What does that mean? Should we doctor ourselves? Get rid of refuse by burning it in piles on the street?

In the self same speech, he proclaims:

We've got to stop treating children like adults and adults like children, which seems a bit rich since he’s been lecturing us about responsibility. But then, how can we take his sweeping statements at all seriously when he goes on to say:

It’s your character, your temperament and your judgement that in the end count so much more than the policies in your manifesto.

Did my ears deceive me? Ever heard of the word accountability David? It has the same number of syllables as responsibility.

I also hope that George Osborne’s plan to implement a wage freeze that will affect 4 million public sector workers who earn more than £18K, also includes him and his cabinet. Osborne’s slash and burn mentality will hit our society where it hurts. Being a nurse, teacher, prison officer or a social worker are tough enough jobs as it is. I much prefer Labour’s intention of pay freezing the wages of 40,000 of the top public service tier and only 750,000 of the mid wage earning sector (or a 1% increase). The cherry on Osborne’s cake is that he wants us to work for longer to help pay for each other’s pensions and old-age benefits. Maybe if the Tories are lucky, we’ll all start dying earlier from exhaustion and not even claim our bloody pensions.

Maybe my outlook is unwarranted but in addition to Howard, I have come of an age in a time where I witnessed how a modern government can completely undermine and shred the social fabric of a country so that it is brought to its knees. Two words.

George Bush


Remember him?

Paula Rego

It was London that introduced me to Paula Rego twelve years ago. I was on a visit to the Tate Britain and had wandered into the gallery shop as my first port of call. Stacked on every bare surface was a tomb-like, coffee table art book with the name PAULA REGO inscribed bluntly on the front cover. Next to the name was a picture of a woman on her knees by the seaside, baying like a dog at the moon.


Who was she?
Why was she wearing a blue miniskirt on the beach?
Why is she howling on her knees?

I opened the book and sunk instantly into the dark, staunch, sinister, bawdy, ephemeral, fleshy world of Ms Rego; artist and storyteller. There was something about the way she told a story or portrayed an emotion in her work that seemed very real, brave and uncompromising to me. I liked her guts and her fearless exploration of women's lives and realities. I liked how her work presented myth, archetypes and fairytales as part of daily life as opposed to being in a separate realm.

Twelve years later with a small collection of Paula Rego books on my shelf and a little bit of knowledge about the woman herself, I was wandering around another London institution - Selfridges. As I perused the racks of clothes that I couldn't afford to buy, I spotted a familiar figure out of the corner of my eye. A short, dark haired Portuguese woman with hooded eyes,shaded in smoky, blue-gray makeup.


I reeled in shock. Could it be?

I sneaked another look. Yes it was.

There is an opinion that it is never good to meet your heroes and idols. That they all end up having feet of clay. But on that day when I came face-to-face with one of mine, she was graciousness itself. She signed my scrappy piece of paper and listened patiently as I stammered about how much I loved her work and that my favourite piece was The Dance.


Well, she said casually, You should come to the talk I'm doing at the Royal Academy. It's on soon.

I went of course and spent a delightful hour listening to Paula being interviewed as talked about her work. A born raconteur, she prattled irreverently, sharp and funny, littering her speech with perfectly placed swear words delivered in the most precise, lady-like manner. I sat there listening and wished she'd never shut up.

Paula is one of Britain's art treasures and her work can be found at the Tate Britain, Saatchi Gallery and the Marlborough Gallery. There is also the soon to be opened Casa das Historias Paula Rego; a new museum in Cascais, Portugal which will be dedicated to her work.


I wish on the day I met her, I had asked:

What is he thinking about?



Whenever I have looked at The Dance in the past twelve years, I haved wondered that. Perhaps it's good I didn't ask. That way it will keep me wondering for at least twelve more.

Hair, Hair Everywhere

On any woman’s list of Significant Others, there are usually three to four people. Her partner (if she is so inclined), her bestie (sometimes more than one) and her hairdresser. The bond between a woman and her hairdresser is sacrosanct. She has gone through Hell and many bad haircuts to find him, or her.

On any given day you can walk along a London street and pass a myriad of hair salons, all offering you the world’s best cut. If only it were that easy. Men think it is that easy. They go into any one of those salons and come out happy, regardless of whether they emerge with a five quid buzz cut or looking like they’ve grown a badger on their heads a la Michael Bolton.

But for us women it’s a lot more complicated because we don’t just want a Hairdresser. We want a Fairy Godmother. We are looking for that one person who will magically know, after meeting us for five minutes, how to transform our dreary locks into the Best Cut Ever. A cut that instantaneously transforms us. Cheekbones higher. Eyes more glowy. We want to sashay out of that salon thinking we are Hot Stuff. Do you think this is a tall order? Try finding the person that can do this.

When I moved to London, I had no idea where to get my hair cut. I had no magic numbers in my phone book and no-one to guide me. So it was with trepidation that I ventured forth to a local hair salon. Luckily I had my hair seen to by Mark who had blonde streaks and more potential than was being utilised at the local cut and shave. After a few months, Mark left for his higher ground and I was stranded.

After being hacked at by several incompetents, I went to my Magic Eight Ball a.k.a Dr Google and asked:

Where are the good hairdressers in London?

The Dr proscribed Japanese hair salons. It turns out there is a glut of funky little hair salons in London bustling with well trained Japanese hairstylists who will lavish you with excellent service and cut your hair with the kind of precision they talk about in German car ads.

After a blissful first experience at Ticro hair in Convent Garden, I continued onto J Moriyama, (Both Mansion House and Marylbone branches) and B:zar. Moriyama was excellent but B:zar wasn't. I'm not sure what happened to the famed Japanese customer service because it wasn't present at this place. After my wanderings I returned to Ticro because I had discovered ......

If you think I’m going to share his/her name with you, you are out of your mind. I don’t even know you.

What I will say is this. Go and check out these Japanese hair salons. Cute interiors, cute staff who all smile and bow and cut your hair like a motherfxxxxr.

Mind your Manners

Over brunch the other day, I was discussing the best places to stop off between Australia and London with a group of friends. Several of the usual suspects came up. Singapore. Thailand. Japan. Hong Kong. The mention of the latter caused one of our group to screw up her nose.

I went to Hong Kong but I didn’t like it. It was too full on. I didn’t know where to go to eat. It was so confusing that I only had one meal a day.


We looked at her in consternation.

Really? You only had one meal a day?

You might think that we were being sympathetic but no.

Hong Kong is a food paradise. How could you go there and only eat once a day? I go there to eat! My tone was almost accusatory.

Another friend interjected before I could continue.

It can be quite confusing, he sympathised. It doesn’t help by the way the Chinese language sounds. It sounds like they are screaming at each other but actually, they’re just saying Hello.

That’s true, I verified, They may have sounded abrupt and rude but they were probably just asking you if you were hungry.

I’ve noticed during my time in London, that the word rude is commonly used in day-to-day vernacular. This comes as no surprise as the English are culturally defined (and stereotyped) as a society that prides itself on manners. Rudeness is seen as the eighth deadly sin. I’m not certain of the historical evolution of why this is so but methinks that Queen Victoria had something to do with it.

This is all well and good but manners are culturally specific and not always translatable. Growing up in a Chinese household, we did not use the word, please very often, nor spoke in modulated tones that were pleasant to the ear. We barked comments to one another, butted into each other’s sentences and spoke to each other in a volume that suggested we were in the midst of a busy marketplace rather than sitting next to each other at the dinner table. Chewing with your mouth open, burping, picking your teeth in public with a toothpick were all norms. Horrendous faux-pas from an English etiquette POV but perfectly normal for Chinese.

Straddling these two worlds of manners made for some interesting situations growing up. On my first day of high school, I heard my name being called by my form room teacher.

What?! I shouted out in response.

He glared at me with his beady blue eyes.

You do not say “What”, he replied icily, You say Pardon. He paused for effect.

What do you say?

Pardon, I mumbled, thoroughly mortified.Why had my parents never told me to say Pardon? We always said What! Sometimes we just grunted.

I caught on soon enough that I would have to modulate my peasant Chinese ways so as to appease the convict English ways of all my friends.

You’re so abrupt, almost curt, they’d accuse. And you never say what you really think.

Because I’m saving you face, I’d retort in my mind. Do you know about that? And do you know that when I gave you your birthday present you should have accepted it with both hands and not opened it in front of me you rude, ungrateful bitch.

I never thought it was fair that I had to adapt to their manners but that they had little understanding of mine. It was cultural imperialism at work in the playground. I had not yet learnt about the term, bi-cultural conflict, which would serve as a handy term to hang my angst on in my teenage years.

Along the way of acquiring mixed manners I’ve often asked myself why does it matter? After all it’s just a code of conduct that regulates us all in one way or another. Why can’t we be more experimental from time-to-time? Why must we frown if someone acts unexpectedly? Why must we judge?

These days my attitude to manners is much more laissez faire. I just can’t be bothered to be something I’m not so I just go with the flow. I can be the perfect guest or the rudest cow on earth, depending on which POV you are coming from and your own baggage.

But for now - thank you very much for reading my blog and please come back again soon. Have a nice day!

He's Gone with the Wind

It's a sad, old world now that Patrick Swayze has gone. Say what you like about the man and his song lyrics, but he was a marvel to behold when he moved those muscles. On one hand he was a horse-riding, football playing, jock-cowboy and on the other, a pirouetting, hip-shaking, chick-lifting danseur. A dichotomy of sorts but he pulled it off without descending into caricature. He was a man that straddled the worlds of Rawhide and Rachmaninoff with equanimity and a level of grace.


Patrick flickered onscreen as Rob Lowe's brother in The Outsiders before he burst upon us in all his sweaty glory as the tortured dance instructor/gigolo, Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing. Our hearts swooned when he taught Baby the pechanga (someone tell me what that is. I never figured it out) and showed her how to boogie; upright and horizontally. We wanted him to teach us and would have carried many watermelons and sat in any old corner for the chance.

After soaring into the stratosphere by shaking his booty, Patrick's magic continued in Ghost where he transferred his Art to Craft and swapped Ballet for Bowls. The theme of dirt continued too. By smearing clay all over himself and Demi, Patrick gave the pottery world a makeover that they've never recovered from since. He then starred as the uber-cool Bodhi in Point Break in which he and Keanu swapped personas. Here Patrick was the dude; the surfer- mystic- mask-wearing-bank robber and Keanu was the tortured, trying-to-find- and-come-to-terms-with-himself-Johnny-Castle character-cop called, strangely enough- Johnny Utah. There was not much dirt in that film but if there was, they were always rushing into the ocean to wash it off anyways.


After that, the descent was gradual. We had forgiven him the lyric,She's like the wind, through my tree. We had forgiven him Roadhouse. Fatherhood was pushing it. But when he appeared in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, there was no more forgiveness.

But the love never died. When he announced that he had pancreatic cancer, a billion hearts around the world pounded, No! Not Johnny Castle!

I got to see Sexy, I mean, Swayze in the flesh a few years back. He was in London appearing in Guys and Dolls and I happened to be in the vicinity when he exited the Stage Door. Up close his face was leathery and lined as you'd expect from a man who rode horses outdoors and smoked in his fifties. This made me strangely happy. I don't think I could've borne it if he'd had plastic surgery. He was in dancerific shape and seemed like a humble, nice man.

I wish that before he departed this world that Patrick had given us one last dance on celluloid. Despite his work as an actor his true nature was displayed, for me, when he danced. He was in his element. As the man himself said:


There's just something about dance. It's like a primal thing in all of us.
- Patrick Swayze

RIP.

An Isle of Joy

Eleven years ago I went to New York City by myself. I was on my way back home from a two year stay in London and was brokenhearted to be leaving. Despite my wobbly state of mind, New York grabbed me by the collar and made me fall in love with her. At least I thought it was love. Until now.

I've just returned from my second visit to NYC, this time not alone but with a Husband. It's been eleven years but the city and I still had a connection. Stronger in fact. What we had before was puppy love; a crush. This time I fell hard and fast. Perhaps the Husband was jealous but he knew not to get in the way of True Love.

New York is a city full of snapshot moments. It is a mistress of atmosphere and seduction. It challenges and charms you equally and in the end you either keep up with the pace of the city or you are spat out. We had many of these "snapshots" during this visit. Here are some:

*Being asked by a guy on the street if we wanted to be in the studio audience for the Late Show with David Letterman . It was the slickest backstage production process I have ever seen. Military in it's precision and frightening in its utter professionalism. I was impressed. I'm not a big Letterman fan but watching him do his thing made me realise just how hard it is to seem so natural and how very good he is at it.


*Eating a porterhouse steak at Peter Lugers in Brooklyn, reputedly the best steakhouse in New York. I'm not a steak fan but the first bite was perfection. If I never ate steak ever again, it wouldn't bother me as I think I've had the best:


*Watching Nine to Five on Broadway with the wonderful Alison Janney (a la CJ Cregg from West Wing). It was one of the best live musicals I have ever seen. Once again- high, high production values and slick professionalism. These New Yorkers are good at putting on a show.

*Walking across Brooklyn Bridge on a beautiful afternoon when all of a sudden a voice shouted out -Call 911! and we saw that ahead of us a man was perched on the bridge beam. He was holding on for dear life. At least that's what I thought until I saw his face and I realised he was deciding whether or not to let go. The crowd that had gathered were taking photos. What were they trying to capture? Desperation? Vulnerability? Fear?

*Eating corned beef on rye sandwiches at the brilliant Katzs' deli on the Lower East Side. Meg Ryan faked an orgasm here during When Harry Met Sally and whilst the food was good, it didn't make me wanna scream:




*Turning the corner onto Rockerfeller Plaza to find a location crew filming 30 Rock in the street. Seeing Tina Fey in person just about made the Husband wet his pants. He loves the series.


*Drinking one night at Milanos, an old dive bar in Nolita that feels like it's been there forever. Perched at the end of the bar amongst the grizzled regulars drinking Pabst, I felt right at home.



*Hanging out in Noho, Greenwich Village, Hells Kitchen, Chelsea,Nolita, Chinatown, the Lower East Side, Williamsburg. Where else in the world can you walk two blocks and be in a whole new world? In New York you can go Around the World in Eighty Minutes.

*The bookshops. Oh the bookshops. I came back home with a veritable library. McNally Jacksons and the Housing Works were my two favs on this trip.


*One of the best things about being in New York is eavesdropping. New Yorkers don't hold back when it comes to verbal sparring. They don't even mind if you join in. Here are some of what I overheard:

In Walgreens:

Girl 1 - He's just trying to butter me up.

Girl 2 - Oh really now?

Girl 1 - Yeah you better believe it. But you know what I told him? I said I don't what none of his butter. He can take it and spread it somewhere else. He can butter someone else's bread, you know what I mean?

In Brooklyn on a street corner

Man 1 - He was my best friend, my brother. But you shot him while I was in prison.

Man 2 - Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

*A meatball and pepperoni pizza at Lombardi's - the first pizza place to open in New York and still one of the best!

*If New York is a pulsing heart with its streets as vessels, then the hundreds of yellow taxis are most certainly the cells that transport life around the city. There is nothing more blissful that riding down one of the arterial streets of Manhattan in a NY cab with the window down, the wind blowing in your hair on a summers' evening.


* My most favourite building in the whole world. Grand Central Terminal. It's impossible to capture in photos but everyone keeps trying:


Dinner at the Oyster Bar in the station was delicious. We had East coast & West coast oysters and in my opinion, the former were much better.


*Having a proper New York diner breaksfast at the Lexington Candy Store (no candy in sight but lots of fat, sugar and carbs):


*Strolling through glorious Central Park. Whose brilliant idea was that? A living, green oasis in the heart of the city.

*Trying a red velvet cupcake and the devils food cake at the Magnolia Bakery


*Gagging at the pretension of some of the stuff in the Whitney Museum.. And where was the Georgia O'Keefe work? Ripped off.

*New York street art. Punchy, to-the-point and attention grabbing. Kinda like it's citizens:




And that was just day one.

It was a heady trip. Exhausting, stimulating, challenging, engaging. The city dunked us in its unique emulsion of craziness and control. It wasn't enough. I wanted more. I left New York kicking and screaming; a junkie to the core. I did not want to leave this city that had once again imprinted itself so definitively on my heart, my mind and my psyche. I had no choice this time but next time, I'll plan it differently.

For now, it's:



But not forever.


Summer journeys to Niag'ra
And to other places aggra-
vate all our cares.
We'll save our fares!

I've a cozy little flat in
What is known as old Manhattan
We'll settle down
Right here in town!

We'll have Manhattan
The Bronx and Staten
Island too.
It's lovely going through
The zoo!

It's very fancy
On old Delancy
Street you know.
The subway charms us so
When balmy breezes blow
To and fro.

And tell me what street
Compares with Mott street
In July?
Sweet pushcarts gently gli-ding by.

The great big city's a wonderous toy
Just made for a girl and boy.
We'll turn Manhattan
Into an isle of joy!

We'll go to Yonkers
Where true love conquers
In the whiles
And starve together dear, in Child's

We'll go to Coney
And eat baloney on a roll
In Central Park we'll stroll
Where our first kiss we stole
Soul to soul

And "Abie's Irish Rose" is a terrific show they say
We both may see it close, some day
The city's glamour can never spoil
The dreams of a boy and goil
We'll turn Manhattan
Into an isle of joy!


Manhattan (1925) by Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart

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?