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?

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.

Are Words Not Enough?

I was in conversation with a friend recently, talking about the power of ideas and words. She was of the opinion that all the theories and ideas and words in the world are useless if they are not applicable. If they cannot be used in some practical way. For her, the power inherent within words can only be unleashed if they cause some sort of an action or impulse.

Is this true?

I thought about our conversation for several days afterwards. I decided that I disagreed with her.

I think the purity of creating and sculpting a vision, idea or theory using words is far too precious to be compromised in terms of what the outcome will be. Like any creative or scholarly endeavour, if you concentrate too much on what the outcome will be, you are not present and engaged in the process.

Sure enough a lot of times the outcome is crap and no good and that is why drafts and editing, revision and breathing space are so important. But that comes later. It comes after you have let the words out.

Sometimes the power of words cannot be measured by a tangible outcome. Today I read The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock for the umpteenth time. Whenever I am feeling unsure about work and career and fate, I find solace in the evocation of desire, despair, melancholy and lingering hope that T.S. Eliot gave to the world through that poem. It makes me feel more human and not so alone.

...There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

How could anyone think that words alone are not enough?

The End of the Line

How do you know when is enough is enough? How do you know when it is time to end a relationship or start a new one? Quit your job. Pack up and move to another house, another city, another world? What are the signs?

Some might say that it is not about signs, but about choices. That we make our decisions based on the information we have.

The information we have.

What is this but signs?

I have made a big decision. Actually the decision was made long ago but it is only now that it has forced it's way to the surface of my life. It's a big leap off a high cliff but never mind. I like to do that every now and again.

The signposts that have been pointing the way to this crossroads have been getting bigger and more glaring of late:

A gift of white flowers
The concern on my husband's face
The vision of my friends being held in a box to be unpacked in winter
The big "A". Addiction and dependency
The acute sense of physical revulsion that strikes
The unhappy faces of the bright and loving people in the same situation as me
The feeling that something inside has snapped.

The biggest sign of all was a two hour pep talk given to me by someone who wants me to make a different decision to the one I have made. She does not know of my decision yet as I have not told her. But something inside her knows as she spent two hours bolstering me up. She challenged me to be strong and face the difficulties. To detach myself emotionally from situations so I can get what I want. To be crafty, clever and strategic. She lectured me about maturity. That I have to force myself to do things I don't want to for the bigger picture. To disassociate myself from all the negativity, rise above it and live to fight another day.

By the end of the talk, I felt as if I was about to go into battle. Fight a war. And then I remembered that abridged quote by Sun Tzu who wrote The Art of War:

Choose your battles wisely

and

He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot, will be victorious.[sic]

Instantaneously, the two hour working over I'd had dissipated in the face of the simple truth that I did not want to fight her battles for her anymore.

Wisdom comes with age they say. I don't agree. Some people older than me are the daftest people I know. They have closed themselves off and are locked into a quagmire of their own making. They have stopped paying attention to the signs around them. They think they have already learned all the lessons they ever need to.

What arrogance. What fear.

Wish me luck as I jump off this particular cliff. I'll let you know what I find when I land.