We have natural disasters, some big some small. We have something going on with the politics- all around the world actually… but what is truly important, and what will be shaking the international media universe up for weeks to come and not only has the full potential to have palpable repercussions upon your life and private bubble, but also on inspiring thousands upon thousands of people is, Fashion Week 2010.
Hello and welcome to one of the biggest shows spattered with colour, pazazz, style and size 0. Although the fashion world has been in uproar over the recent death of Alexander McQueen, who else better to tell you, that The Show Must Go On? And dammit it does. The designers design, the models perfect the art of clothes horse and sashay, whilst the rest of the world await with baited breath to see what Style will dictate our wardrobes for the coming months.
It would appear as though the famous peoples are setting a trend for the frills and bold colours, whilst the designers are having more of a field day with the different shades that can be found between white, whiter, black, blacker and that fine line in between…
I kid, of course. We also have a range of metallics making their way into our lives. It is being called Grubby Gold, which of course instantly makes one think of being filthy rich, which by the by, you would have to be to own some of the pieces being paraded.
I’ll tell you what does have all the promise of being terribly thrilling though; wearing ones underwear on top of ones clothes. Now, I am not talking about doing your own little version of Superman with your Speedos on the outside of your trousers, because, well, just, don’t do it – for everyone’s sake but mainly mine...
No, we are talking sexist fashion for women. We are talking corsets under a blazer, sexy bras peeking through and most probably suspenders akimbo, but I feel this is a more personal preference. It is the very image of the empowered woman walking nakey down a street, because bloody hell, she can – this is how much we’ve advanced over the years. And men, this is not for you, because although you are more than able to fanny down a street in your boxers I am sure it would not be the height of fashion, but more so a question mark on your mental health.
Another thing that has appeared to make a comeback, other than denim - yes, denim is slapping us all in the face again; as if it weren’t hard enough to find that perfect pair of jeans, we are now being confronted with how best to fashion the hillbilly dungarees PLUS the golden rule we have all grown up with, (I have anyway), that denim on denim is a resounding No. Well, we are now being encouraged to become a walking advertisement for a Western, but in the most fashionable manner…it’s nice when life’s not a challenge, right?
Other than this delightful denim affair, another matter which has appeared to slip unnoticed through the fashion net is size 0. They are everywhere. You know how that little kid saw “dead people”? Well I’m seeing nobly knees and lollypop heads. Everywhere.
Once more the fashion world is being represented by the abnormally thin. And this is not some personal size-ist rant, rather, a point of view that I believe begs the question of what is it that we consider Art these days?
Is it to see fabulous materials clinging softly to the sensual curves of the female body, punctuated with a gait full of passion for the beautiful? Is it for every turn and swirl to be infused with a wondrous perfume full of flare and finesse? Or is it for the materials to hang off the bones our society craves so badly, with knees protruding rudely from beneath wild silk? Every gasp from the audience not being one of amazement at Art encapsulated, but concern for the tottering human before them?
This portrayal of art tarnishes slightly the glorious world that is that of the fashion dreamers. But as humans, we adapt and conform and mustmust seek the silver lining in all. Though I must say, I believe the silver lining in denim on denim has been deeply sewn in and we could find ourselves searching for some time…
lunes, 22 de febrero de 2010
lunes, 15 de febrero de 2010
Rite of Passage
It’s like a rite of passage. Some walk over hot coals; others have that lil’ bit of extra skin cut off their woohoo; others have a good ol’ drink; others have a party at a certain age – but actually, with the consumerist society that we are, the parties come more often and less far between! The important birthdays are no longer the coming of age, but the coming of ages: we have 13, we have 15 in some circles, we have 16, we have 18, we have 21 and it really does go on. But they are all rites of passages. And this was what I thought when I got told I would have to have my wisdom teeth removed.
Upon viewing an x-ray, not only were the two at the top ready to be removed, but the ones at the bottom were not in fact ready to grow vertically, but set to torpedo themselves in a horizontal manner against the rest of my teeth. The dental nurse gasped when she saw the image, I panicked and said “Oh no! Is it bad? I’ve only ever had fillings. And they’re white.” Ashen, she didn’t answer but took me back to the dentist. I quickly explained to my mother and told her I had been alarmed by the nurse’s reaction.
The image suddenly came on the screen for all in the room to see. There was a unified, sharp intake of breath, my mother the most dramatic – whilst I sunk deeper in the chair and wondered if it kept my mouth firmly shut whether it would all go away…
Instead, dental surgery dates were made; I went a little paler than my natural shade and the nurse stroked my forehead.
Finally the day for the worst of the surgery arrived. First, they messed up the times and told us it was very possible that we be made to wait for 2 hours. I had no intention of sitting in the waiting room for a terrible thing to be done to me! It was the same concept of the ECT waiting room in psychiatric units; why on earth would one go and voluntarily wait to be electrocuted?!
So, we waited. A grown man went in for a normal extraction and came back looking like he was about to cry. My heart panicked and my mother went to reach out to him. I told her it wasn’t PC.
The anesthetic was administered and I broke down.
My only concern was that the anesthetic wouldn’t work and that I'd have the bad luck of not passing out before I had felt too much pain.
The surgeon stepped in and after having been assured by the nurses that he was one of the best in Madrid, he said, “Which are we taking out today?” my eyes widened and as indignantly as possible, given my thick tongue, I answered, “The bottom ones!!”
Silent tears streamed down my cheeks as he pressed down and jimmied away at my tooth. I imagined he was going at the tooth like one would with a car jack. The nurse pointed the sucking tube in all directions, which at one point made me wonder whether she may suck up one of my tonsils by mistake…
Finally the surgeon said, you may hear something break now. The only thing I could think was that it had been such a mistake to not have worn waterproof mascara.
The other side was less anesthetized and my panic grew as he touched the drill to the gum. Being an English student, my attempt at a rather long, incoherent sentence escaped my wide open mouth, trying to inform all that it bloody well hurt. Message was conveyed and on it went.
I was stitched up and the room cleared, all except the matronly type of an Eastern European nurse, who I’m sure had stroked my forehead at intervals throughout the operation.
I stood up and she stuffed two rolls of gauze in either cheek. More silent tears escaped as I tried to tell myself not to cry, it was over now! But for heaven’s sake, I wanted my mother! The nurse looked shocked and asked me whether I was upset because I was leaving them? I cried a little harder.
I walked into the waiting room with cheeks thrice as puffy as when I had walked in 2 hours earlier and stared at my mother. She and the other 6 people there stared back at me. It was quite possibly shaping up to be the end of the world.
I spent that day with an ice pack and on very high pain meds.
The next day I woke up with no pain, but then looked in the mirror. My cheeks were huge! I looked like the Elephant Man’s long lost sister! Such was the size of my cheeks that my mouth had been pushed into the tiniest constant pout and my chin had disappeared!
Bending down was not an option as my cheeks weighed too much. Walking swiftly or running was also completely out of the picture as I would need a support for my cheeks. Eating, yawning and copious amounts of talking were also out of the question as the backs of my cheeks had been sewn to the backs of my gums. This was like a gastric band but in the mouth!
I spent three miserable days, looking like I was trying to smuggle hoards of little people in the pouches hanging off my jaw line. Leaving the house was done by wrapping a scarf up to the tip of my nose and ending up looking very much like a highway hit-man.
By the fourth day, the swelling had gone down noticeably, I had recovered a chin and also yellow bruising. I now looked like I was going fabulously mouldy.
I have decided this rite of passage is horrific and fully intend on being as high as a kite for the removal of my next pair in March. I will also go armed with waterproof mascara and a large scarf. I will have some pre-written cards in my pockets, the one at the top of the stack will read, “You have 3 seconds to back away from my mouth before I scream bloody murder.” Or something to that effect, possibly less polite.
Upon viewing an x-ray, not only were the two at the top ready to be removed, but the ones at the bottom were not in fact ready to grow vertically, but set to torpedo themselves in a horizontal manner against the rest of my teeth. The dental nurse gasped when she saw the image, I panicked and said “Oh no! Is it bad? I’ve only ever had fillings. And they’re white.” Ashen, she didn’t answer but took me back to the dentist. I quickly explained to my mother and told her I had been alarmed by the nurse’s reaction.
The image suddenly came on the screen for all in the room to see. There was a unified, sharp intake of breath, my mother the most dramatic – whilst I sunk deeper in the chair and wondered if it kept my mouth firmly shut whether it would all go away…
Instead, dental surgery dates were made; I went a little paler than my natural shade and the nurse stroked my forehead.
Finally the day for the worst of the surgery arrived. First, they messed up the times and told us it was very possible that we be made to wait for 2 hours. I had no intention of sitting in the waiting room for a terrible thing to be done to me! It was the same concept of the ECT waiting room in psychiatric units; why on earth would one go and voluntarily wait to be electrocuted?!
So, we waited. A grown man went in for a normal extraction and came back looking like he was about to cry. My heart panicked and my mother went to reach out to him. I told her it wasn’t PC.
The anesthetic was administered and I broke down.
My only concern was that the anesthetic wouldn’t work and that I'd have the bad luck of not passing out before I had felt too much pain.
The surgeon stepped in and after having been assured by the nurses that he was one of the best in Madrid, he said, “Which are we taking out today?” my eyes widened and as indignantly as possible, given my thick tongue, I answered, “The bottom ones!!”
Silent tears streamed down my cheeks as he pressed down and jimmied away at my tooth. I imagined he was going at the tooth like one would with a car jack. The nurse pointed the sucking tube in all directions, which at one point made me wonder whether she may suck up one of my tonsils by mistake…
Finally the surgeon said, you may hear something break now. The only thing I could think was that it had been such a mistake to not have worn waterproof mascara.
The other side was less anesthetized and my panic grew as he touched the drill to the gum. Being an English student, my attempt at a rather long, incoherent sentence escaped my wide open mouth, trying to inform all that it bloody well hurt. Message was conveyed and on it went.
I was stitched up and the room cleared, all except the matronly type of an Eastern European nurse, who I’m sure had stroked my forehead at intervals throughout the operation.
I stood up and she stuffed two rolls of gauze in either cheek. More silent tears escaped as I tried to tell myself not to cry, it was over now! But for heaven’s sake, I wanted my mother! The nurse looked shocked and asked me whether I was upset because I was leaving them? I cried a little harder.
I walked into the waiting room with cheeks thrice as puffy as when I had walked in 2 hours earlier and stared at my mother. She and the other 6 people there stared back at me. It was quite possibly shaping up to be the end of the world.
I spent that day with an ice pack and on very high pain meds.
The next day I woke up with no pain, but then looked in the mirror. My cheeks were huge! I looked like the Elephant Man’s long lost sister! Such was the size of my cheeks that my mouth had been pushed into the tiniest constant pout and my chin had disappeared!
Bending down was not an option as my cheeks weighed too much. Walking swiftly or running was also completely out of the picture as I would need a support for my cheeks. Eating, yawning and copious amounts of talking were also out of the question as the backs of my cheeks had been sewn to the backs of my gums. This was like a gastric band but in the mouth!
I spent three miserable days, looking like I was trying to smuggle hoards of little people in the pouches hanging off my jaw line. Leaving the house was done by wrapping a scarf up to the tip of my nose and ending up looking very much like a highway hit-man.
By the fourth day, the swelling had gone down noticeably, I had recovered a chin and also yellow bruising. I now looked like I was going fabulously mouldy.
I have decided this rite of passage is horrific and fully intend on being as high as a kite for the removal of my next pair in March. I will also go armed with waterproof mascara and a large scarf. I will have some pre-written cards in my pockets, the one at the top of the stack will read, “You have 3 seconds to back away from my mouth before I scream bloody murder.” Or something to that effect, possibly less polite.
lunes, 8 de febrero de 2010
Wrong Room 101
Let’s make life fun. Let’s turn all little miss-haps into something positive. Learn to laugh at yourself! These words are disgustingly familiar as the ones I try and live my life by. But frankly, sometimes it’s kinda hard even for those that laugh easily, to laugh at everything.
This week has been hectic. I have kept unsociable hours, my life has been turned into a merry go ‘round of car, hospital, home, car, hospital, home- and the only way to get off the dizzying ride was to close your eyes, wish upon a night time star and await the morning call.
My grandmother had a hip replacement operation, which if you’re anything like me will send your imagination into overdrive. I imagined the surgeon rocking the table with the saw in one hand and the flaps of thigh skin moving in the wind of the air conditioned operating theatre. Nurses at the ready to take the piece of bone that was being taken out, chuck it to a pack of waiting dogs and replace it with a steel tube, which by the way, is said to eventually fuse with the real bone of the leg and become at one with it. Now, the only way I imagine this happening is if you put the steel tube in with superglue at either end…apparently it doesn’t work that way. Also, it is not a steel tube, but one made of Teflon. I say Teflon, you think frying pan with a hotspot in the middle? No? Well I did.
Suffice to say the operation I imagined would take a few hours and then a few more for her to come around after the anesthetic. But no, 30 minutes and the Teflon had been slipped in and she was wheeled to a room of her own, on the same floor as the gypsies.
Ahh the gypsies! The entire family/troop/brood/football team/clan took up the downstairs waiting area. Four gypsy generations sat there as hospital life whizzed past them. The men differing in height and size, but all in black. The women, half of which were toting a kid on a hip like the latest accessory, all wore platform shoes, differing in height and colour. I believe they were there to keep the Family’s Sacred Grandmother company. I also believe they were a mafia and that somewhere between baby, hip and platform a discrete dagger nestled.
I’ve been taught to cross myself after happening upon a gypsy. And dammit, I did. I’ve also been taught not to stereotype. And dammit, I’m working on it.
My grandfather went to visit one day. He parked, he walked past all the gypsies, got into the lift and got out when the doors slid open, made his way down the corridor and arrived at the room. Waiting there for him was not my grandmother surrounded by her home comforts, (because in this family we do not travel lightly anywhere), but instead, the blinds were drawn, the bed was empty and had been made and a printed note lay on the starched sheet, stating that the patient had been taken into surgery for a heart operation.
Now, my grandfather also has a delicate heart and the poor sod kept it beating whilst he turned on his heel and frog marched his way to the nurse’s station to find out just what in God’s name had happened to his wife, her hip and now her heart! The nurses offered little information, each claiming to know less than the first and each promising to ring somewhere and find out.
Whilst the promises and the telephonings were going on, the poor man walked himself back to the room only to find three more people had appeared. They all stared at each other. And then my grandfather asks, “Are you from here?” Make of that what you will. Are you from the hospital? Were you born here? Is this room where it all began for you? Are you au fait with the law of the land regarding this room? I can only assume he was in shock and a question had to be thrown out and some sort of an answer had to be produced. Finally, one piped up, “You’re not from here, you’re from the 3rd floor.” All hospital visitors speak the same lingo apparently.
And indeed; grandmother was found, home comforts strewn everywhere, hip still Teflon, heart intact and mystery solved. This was the only politically correct giggle of the week and since then, I have scrubbed clean the scrawl across his forehead which read, “3rd floor.”
This week has been hectic. I have kept unsociable hours, my life has been turned into a merry go ‘round of car, hospital, home, car, hospital, home- and the only way to get off the dizzying ride was to close your eyes, wish upon a night time star and await the morning call.
My grandmother had a hip replacement operation, which if you’re anything like me will send your imagination into overdrive. I imagined the surgeon rocking the table with the saw in one hand and the flaps of thigh skin moving in the wind of the air conditioned operating theatre. Nurses at the ready to take the piece of bone that was being taken out, chuck it to a pack of waiting dogs and replace it with a steel tube, which by the way, is said to eventually fuse with the real bone of the leg and become at one with it. Now, the only way I imagine this happening is if you put the steel tube in with superglue at either end…apparently it doesn’t work that way. Also, it is not a steel tube, but one made of Teflon. I say Teflon, you think frying pan with a hotspot in the middle? No? Well I did.
Suffice to say the operation I imagined would take a few hours and then a few more for her to come around after the anesthetic. But no, 30 minutes and the Teflon had been slipped in and she was wheeled to a room of her own, on the same floor as the gypsies.
Ahh the gypsies! The entire family/troop/brood/football team/clan took up the downstairs waiting area. Four gypsy generations sat there as hospital life whizzed past them. The men differing in height and size, but all in black. The women, half of which were toting a kid on a hip like the latest accessory, all wore platform shoes, differing in height and colour. I believe they were there to keep the Family’s Sacred Grandmother company. I also believe they were a mafia and that somewhere between baby, hip and platform a discrete dagger nestled.
I’ve been taught to cross myself after happening upon a gypsy. And dammit, I did. I’ve also been taught not to stereotype. And dammit, I’m working on it.
My grandfather went to visit one day. He parked, he walked past all the gypsies, got into the lift and got out when the doors slid open, made his way down the corridor and arrived at the room. Waiting there for him was not my grandmother surrounded by her home comforts, (because in this family we do not travel lightly anywhere), but instead, the blinds were drawn, the bed was empty and had been made and a printed note lay on the starched sheet, stating that the patient had been taken into surgery for a heart operation.
Now, my grandfather also has a delicate heart and the poor sod kept it beating whilst he turned on his heel and frog marched his way to the nurse’s station to find out just what in God’s name had happened to his wife, her hip and now her heart! The nurses offered little information, each claiming to know less than the first and each promising to ring somewhere and find out.
Whilst the promises and the telephonings were going on, the poor man walked himself back to the room only to find three more people had appeared. They all stared at each other. And then my grandfather asks, “Are you from here?” Make of that what you will. Are you from the hospital? Were you born here? Is this room where it all began for you? Are you au fait with the law of the land regarding this room? I can only assume he was in shock and a question had to be thrown out and some sort of an answer had to be produced. Finally, one piped up, “You’re not from here, you’re from the 3rd floor.” All hospital visitors speak the same lingo apparently.
And indeed; grandmother was found, home comforts strewn everywhere, hip still Teflon, heart intact and mystery solved. This was the only politically correct giggle of the week and since then, I have scrubbed clean the scrawl across his forehead which read, “3rd floor.”
domingo, 31 de enero de 2010
Cross Country for a Giggle.
I am the cat that got killed by curiosity and most certainly, the one brought back by satisfaction. And so, I find myself on the motorway with an entire 400km ahead of me. The idea neither overwhelms nor does it seem eternal. This surprises me given that the idea of sitting still for the duration of a movie usually sends me into a tiny bit of an inner panic: “What will I do for an hour AND A HALF? Will I be able to sit still? What if I get bored?!” – the latter being the worst out of the three. I have continuous ants in my pants. But here I was, on the motorway, on a road trip, all on my own, to go and visit my non-romantic other half.
We are infamous for spending our days laughing like others spend it breathing. People are surprised when one turns up without the other and even more so when our giggles are not the trumpet that announces our arrival.
We are what happens when the Chucklebrothers meet Dumb and Dumber. We are an instant feel good pair and I was off to submerge myself in a weekend of that. Whilst partaking in some cultural tourism, of course.
I found myself on the motorway, using all my might to make sure I didn’t speed when suddenly a voice rang out telling me to take the next exit off the motorway. I looked left, just in case, then right and realized I could see no exit and had no idea what I was being commanded when suddenly I decided it would also be a great idea to look at what the SatNav was suggesting. Sure enough, there was an exit and sure enough I decided the SatNav knew better than me and sure enough, I suddenly found myself on a country lane surrounded by a whole bunch of country.
Suddenly, I had 300km left and it looked like it was all going to be happening on country lanes. Bugger. I decided to trust the SatNav, though suddenly I did begin to worry that I had never actually updated it on the internet and perhaps I ought to have…perhaps it was silly of me to put all my faith in this little machine, called Tim by the way, who although was my homing pigeon, had also managed to get me lost on more than one occasion…Bugger.
At least the country side looked nice this time of the year. That was a plus as I went up mini mountains, came back down them. Turned sharp bends, avoided little lambs and tiny goats – which by the way I’ve decided I would like a few of - they just look so cute!
As I got sent through tiny villages that meandered their way around mountains, through crowds of their inhabitants who would stare mercilessly at the huge neon sign reading: “You know I know I’m bloody lost” that crowned the car, I began to realize I would have to stop at a petrol station soon and I sort of had to pee.
I had passed two petrol stations already but they all looked quite run down and old and empty and perhaps a little bit like a draft of one of Stephen King’s ‘Misery’-esque novels. And one of the last pieces of advice thrown my way by my father before I left was, “don’t stop in any small places. Just the big ones and be careful.” So I thought, well, I’m being careful, but perhaps so careful I’m going to end up pushing the car up the next mountain!
I made a promise I would stop at the next petrol station. Also, I really had to pee.
Although I was highly aware I was on country lanes and was absolutely sure there would be no speed cameras I was conscious that some police are just out to get people like me and that they could be in secret police cars with those little speedometer machines. Thus making every abandoned car a liability and ensuring I slowed down upon having spotted it…
I must add, in the interest of rectifying how paranoid I seem, that I did spot two police cars crawling along at some stage – in fact, I was going to overtake before I realized they were the reason we were all going so slowly. So I pulled back and sat twiddling my thumbs, waiting for them to pull over for a doughnut brake. Silver lining? At least I wouldn’t be fined for jaywalking since it was them that were causing it.
I continued to be sent around mountainside villages, I swerved a lone squirrel tail in the middle of the road, which I can only assume fell off someone’s hat and still, I had to pee. I was beginning to seriously consider my options…random bush, plastic bag, if only I were a boy! Instead I chose to wish upon a non visible star and find the silver lining: there was no silver lining!! I was going to wet myself. Suddenly I saw a petrol station peering out from amidst the green hills and my bladder breathed a sigh of relief.
I was aiming to pick my friend up from the school at which she works and so was following directions to that. Suddenly the country lanes fell away, the SatNav promised it was 6 minutes till I reached my destination and just like that a school materialized before me. I literally dumped the car and got out to make sure I wasn’t suffering a mirage in the middle of all this countryside.
I had arrived. I hadn’t had to push the car up any mountain. I hadn’t met any of Mr King’s characters, nor had I been stampeded by goats. I had arrived and I had 48 hours of pure laughter before I could do it all again in reverse.
We are infamous for spending our days laughing like others spend it breathing. People are surprised when one turns up without the other and even more so when our giggles are not the trumpet that announces our arrival.
We are what happens when the Chucklebrothers meet Dumb and Dumber. We are an instant feel good pair and I was off to submerge myself in a weekend of that. Whilst partaking in some cultural tourism, of course.
I found myself on the motorway, using all my might to make sure I didn’t speed when suddenly a voice rang out telling me to take the next exit off the motorway. I looked left, just in case, then right and realized I could see no exit and had no idea what I was being commanded when suddenly I decided it would also be a great idea to look at what the SatNav was suggesting. Sure enough, there was an exit and sure enough I decided the SatNav knew better than me and sure enough, I suddenly found myself on a country lane surrounded by a whole bunch of country.
Suddenly, I had 300km left and it looked like it was all going to be happening on country lanes. Bugger. I decided to trust the SatNav, though suddenly I did begin to worry that I had never actually updated it on the internet and perhaps I ought to have…perhaps it was silly of me to put all my faith in this little machine, called Tim by the way, who although was my homing pigeon, had also managed to get me lost on more than one occasion…Bugger.
At least the country side looked nice this time of the year. That was a plus as I went up mini mountains, came back down them. Turned sharp bends, avoided little lambs and tiny goats – which by the way I’ve decided I would like a few of - they just look so cute!
As I got sent through tiny villages that meandered their way around mountains, through crowds of their inhabitants who would stare mercilessly at the huge neon sign reading: “You know I know I’m bloody lost” that crowned the car, I began to realize I would have to stop at a petrol station soon and I sort of had to pee.
I had passed two petrol stations already but they all looked quite run down and old and empty and perhaps a little bit like a draft of one of Stephen King’s ‘Misery’-esque novels. And one of the last pieces of advice thrown my way by my father before I left was, “don’t stop in any small places. Just the big ones and be careful.” So I thought, well, I’m being careful, but perhaps so careful I’m going to end up pushing the car up the next mountain!
I made a promise I would stop at the next petrol station. Also, I really had to pee.
Although I was highly aware I was on country lanes and was absolutely sure there would be no speed cameras I was conscious that some police are just out to get people like me and that they could be in secret police cars with those little speedometer machines. Thus making every abandoned car a liability and ensuring I slowed down upon having spotted it…
I must add, in the interest of rectifying how paranoid I seem, that I did spot two police cars crawling along at some stage – in fact, I was going to overtake before I realized they were the reason we were all going so slowly. So I pulled back and sat twiddling my thumbs, waiting for them to pull over for a doughnut brake. Silver lining? At least I wouldn’t be fined for jaywalking since it was them that were causing it.
I continued to be sent around mountainside villages, I swerved a lone squirrel tail in the middle of the road, which I can only assume fell off someone’s hat and still, I had to pee. I was beginning to seriously consider my options…random bush, plastic bag, if only I were a boy! Instead I chose to wish upon a non visible star and find the silver lining: there was no silver lining!! I was going to wet myself. Suddenly I saw a petrol station peering out from amidst the green hills and my bladder breathed a sigh of relief.
I was aiming to pick my friend up from the school at which she works and so was following directions to that. Suddenly the country lanes fell away, the SatNav promised it was 6 minutes till I reached my destination and just like that a school materialized before me. I literally dumped the car and got out to make sure I wasn’t suffering a mirage in the middle of all this countryside.
I had arrived. I hadn’t had to push the car up any mountain. I hadn’t met any of Mr King’s characters, nor had I been stampeded by goats. I had arrived and I had 48 hours of pure laughter before I could do it all again in reverse.
jueves, 28 de enero de 2010
Old Sir, I look into your eyes
and as they are downcast, I feel not see
And so I feel not see, and a little of my heart dies,
For I feel what it is you used to be.
You used to be young and sprite
With your essence bubbling forth,
Rumour has it, on your feet you were light
And with a young wife you danced your way up north.
Happy and merry as this may be, times change do they not?
Time passes leaving gifts of wrinkles and age
And in controlled despair you wonder if this is life’s lot…
With sadness and frustration you turn page
Every time leaving further behind a life that was not.
Old Sir, I look into your eyes
And I must feel not see,
For they are downcast beneath lids of years
And I wonder what sweet nothings fill your ears whilst you sit for hours and lie for many more.
If I seem to ignore ‘tis only to guard the heart that goes out to you,
For old Sir, I cry too, when I think that out of anonymous loyalty you wished away years.
Old Sir, I do see though that you still have glimmers of sprite
Even when you look low –
Perchance you are remembering some wild romantic age where you danced all night?
and as they are downcast, I feel not see
And so I feel not see, and a little of my heart dies,
For I feel what it is you used to be.
You used to be young and sprite
With your essence bubbling forth,
Rumour has it, on your feet you were light
And with a young wife you danced your way up north.
Happy and merry as this may be, times change do they not?
Time passes leaving gifts of wrinkles and age
And in controlled despair you wonder if this is life’s lot…
With sadness and frustration you turn page
Every time leaving further behind a life that was not.
Old Sir, I look into your eyes
And I must feel not see,
For they are downcast beneath lids of years
And I wonder what sweet nothings fill your ears whilst you sit for hours and lie for many more.
If I seem to ignore ‘tis only to guard the heart that goes out to you,
For old Sir, I cry too, when I think that out of anonymous loyalty you wished away years.
Old Sir, I do see though that you still have glimmers of sprite
Even when you look low –
Perchance you are remembering some wild romantic age where you danced all night?
jueves, 21 de enero de 2010
Haiti: Nothing Funny About It.
"...that question that haunts and taunts the conscience: "What can you do?" ""One week on, it is impossible to see how Haiti can recover from this earthquake.
The fund-raising effort around the world has been truly incredible.
In the middle of one of the worst recessions in living memory, people have been giving money as perhaps never before..." (Price, M; BBC)
Since we are all au fait with Facebook, and if you're not, find someone who is and pass it on, I thought this was a good idea: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#/pages/We-Will-Donate-0001-to-Haiti-for-Every-Person-That-is-a-Fan/284100898626?ref=search&sid=506204755.3569471062..1
Amidst the mass disaster, destruction and utter desolation currently tearing through Haiti, thus our news stations, there have been a few gems that help take the chill off the dire after-effects of this seemingly unatural disaster.
Stories from survivors that make your skin goosepimple and your heart smile.
"...pulled out after spending eight days buried under Haiti's rubble...-...a neighbour cry out: "I heard your daughter, she called out."
"I didn't believe it, but I rushed, the neighbours dug, she was alive and they dug her out. She talked to me and asked me for milk and cornflakes and then she fainted." ...The surgeon treating her at a French field hospital described her survival as as "a miracle". "...She is blessed by the gods," said Dominique Jean."
And:
"...She had been attending a church meeting in the home of Haiti's Roman Catholic archbishop, when it collapsed around her.
"We kept working until I could reach the woman and I felt she grabbed my hand and squeezed it strongly and I felt that God had touched my hand," said one of the Mexican rescuers...-...was dehydrated and had a dislocated hip and broken leg but sang as she was carried away on a stretcher..."
After earth shattering disasters there seems to be a sickly sweet effect on the otherwise individualistic, somewhat hostile society we have become; we knock down all barriers and merge together, because somewhere inside us, we realise that eventually together we are stronger. An article in the New York Times illustrates this fact wonderfully:
"...disaster makes strange bedfellows. Hence the cast of characters in a community where the melting pot usually melts only so far and the Hasidim and the Haitians invariably find themselves in separate worlds or competing ones. Nevertheless, for a day, there was the Haitian mayor, Noramie F. Jasmin, and her Hasidic administrative assistant, Aron Wieder, directing traffic inside the cavernous lobby, the urgency of the moment looming larger than the cultural chasm that usually separates them..." -
To read the rest, follow this link: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/22/us/22iht-letter.html
Whether you are a believer or not, it is at times like these when people of all faiths and walks of life find themselves raising their heads up to the skies and asking how on Earth such cruel happenings could exist? But it is this being, for want of a better word, that we love to hate, real or not real, believed in or not - that becomes the butt of all problems. As well as the band aid.
It becomes the one that can be stuck on when needed in order to quiet the heart that hurts. Believers and non-believers turn to prayer. Custom made, written, mumbled and made to order. In the end, we all do, because it's the only thing we can do, right?
Facebook has also a page for prayers for Haiti: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#/group.php?v=wall&ref=search&gid=246779503401
"Smoke from the morning fires begins to fill the nostrils, masking the smell of the dead. It filters the rising sun.
A golden glow covers this little fold in the hills of Port-au-Prince, as survivors pick through their homes." (Price, M; BBC)
Amidst the rubble, little miracles keep ocurring and it is these that will help build a better, stronger Haiti than before.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/22/us/22iht-letter.html
http://images.google.es/imgres?imgurl=http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_etdY51YqlW0/SMG1iP9-8oI/AAAAAAAAARg/WjGeVTrKqa4/s400/781-ayb05_haiti_LATIN_EPF_standalone_prod_affiliate_56.jpg&imgrefurl=http://pached.blogspot.com/2008/09/horrible-escena-en-hait-despus-de.html&usg=__VI6V0S0jBLK9mKhfJ_LhopfSLQg=&h=304&w=400&sz=33&hl=es&start=31&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=UjnE8IbuQTpQHM:&tbnh=94&tbnw=124&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dafter%2Bhaiti%26ndsp%3D21%26hl%3Des%26rlz%3D1T4ACAW_es___ES334%26sa%3DN%26start%3D21%26um%3D1
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8459090.stm
lunes, 18 de enero de 2010
I'll Shop, You Drop!
What could possibly be more gratifying than going shopping? What could possibly be more satisfying than being able to peruse the vast array of colourful items of clothing; each row softly whispering your name as you urge your legs to keep moving, to ignore the pink suede that would look perfect with your tan bag…
…you walk past the aisles of clothes, neatly hung up together, colour coordinated and according to style – each soft ripple in the material begging to be touched. Just the once. It whispers your name and your hand reaches out, your fingers grasp the tip of the garment and as its delicate material caresses your skin, your bank balance flashes before your eyes, but before you know it, you’ve promised to eat lettuce for the next week so long as you can have that top – pleasthankyouandohmygod!
Seem familiar? It is this scenario no doubt millions of us go through when faced with the thought/need/urge/itch to shop. Sales or no sales, financial crisis or no financial crisis – retail therapy is the cure for the majority of things. Clearly not a broken leg, as anybody with half a nose for fashion will kick the crutches from beneath you if it means getting the last top in the last size.
So with my head full of all the fashion bursting through the market right now and the knowledge that Spain has extended their winter sales by two weeks – yes, two whole weeks (!!), when my aunt said she was planning on visiting Madrid for the weekend and would like to shop, well, I nearly hyperventilated with joy.
She wanted to revamp her wardrobe. All her things were fashionable in the 80’s and she wants new. I did tell her that the old is in fashion now; the big shoulders, the oversized knit wear etc But I also understand the need to feel a new item of clothing bumping against your leg through the shopping bag, as you take it home like the prized possession it is. I understood the yearning in her heart and so agreed to be her personal shopper.
It. Was. Fantastic. Shopping without spending money is amazing. I waltzed through the sections of clothing turning my nose up until I landed on a gem. Gem found, hand raised, pile increased and finally we would flounce off to the changing rooms.
Don’t think I am a complete saint-of-a-shopaholic-niece who has her consumerist itch scratched by watching others shop! No, no, I shopped earlier in the week and have managed to spend more money than the monthly recommended amount in just a few hours. Therefore watching my aunt spend money and shopping through her was surprisingly enjoyable! My bank balance also loves me more.
I already had a sense that Spain’s newest fashion scene was wanting to slink back to the 80’s – to the post-Franco years of the “Movida Madrileña”, translated as The Madrilenian Movement – which saw the birth of a new identity for Spain. From it rose many talented artists gracing many different fields, one of them being expression of oneself through ones clothes.
But it has been completely confirmed this weekend: Spain is working the ‘manufactured rebel’ – trying to be like those in the 80’s, but with none of the ‘pazazz’ that comes with the originality. The ‘in thing’ right now is to push the socially acceptable Spanish boundaries in the most pitiful manner.
This fake expression of the wealthy rebel advertises the whole ankle swinging, tight fitting, high waisted jeans teamed with flat, thin laced, pointed shoes and big black square rimmed glasses – and frankly, it is horrific. It is an asexual look and just screams copycat.
Primarily, why oh why would you tempt your ankles with chill blaines? Make your bum look bad in this day and age where we have jeans to fix all posterior issues and heavens above, I’ve very little that is not awful to say about the shoes. We are not in the 50’s 60’s, 70’s, 80’s or about to enter a jazz get together and apparently, we also, have no personality!
One thing is mixing today’s fashion trends with yesteryears and another to smack on a copied version of what used to be, on a very modern, well bred child who is clearly trying to rebel in the most mapped out way possible. Ummm…?!
The rebels of Spain’s 80’s had a cause, the cause was freedom. The rebel’s of today are without cause and so just look silly, for want of a better, stronger word.
All wannabe rebels without a cause aside, it is my duty as a fellow shopper to recommend that you do not die without experiencing shopping without spending money!! I can assure you, it is one of the most rewarding things a shopaholic suffering withdrawal symptoms could possibly live through.
…you walk past the aisles of clothes, neatly hung up together, colour coordinated and according to style – each soft ripple in the material begging to be touched. Just the once. It whispers your name and your hand reaches out, your fingers grasp the tip of the garment and as its delicate material caresses your skin, your bank balance flashes before your eyes, but before you know it, you’ve promised to eat lettuce for the next week so long as you can have that top – pleasthankyouandohmygod!
Seem familiar? It is this scenario no doubt millions of us go through when faced with the thought/need/urge/itch to shop. Sales or no sales, financial crisis or no financial crisis – retail therapy is the cure for the majority of things. Clearly not a broken leg, as anybody with half a nose for fashion will kick the crutches from beneath you if it means getting the last top in the last size.
So with my head full of all the fashion bursting through the market right now and the knowledge that Spain has extended their winter sales by two weeks – yes, two whole weeks (!!), when my aunt said she was planning on visiting Madrid for the weekend and would like to shop, well, I nearly hyperventilated with joy.
She wanted to revamp her wardrobe. All her things were fashionable in the 80’s and she wants new. I did tell her that the old is in fashion now; the big shoulders, the oversized knit wear etc But I also understand the need to feel a new item of clothing bumping against your leg through the shopping bag, as you take it home like the prized possession it is. I understood the yearning in her heart and so agreed to be her personal shopper.
It. Was. Fantastic. Shopping without spending money is amazing. I waltzed through the sections of clothing turning my nose up until I landed on a gem. Gem found, hand raised, pile increased and finally we would flounce off to the changing rooms.
Don’t think I am a complete saint-of-a-shopaholic-niece who has her consumerist itch scratched by watching others shop! No, no, I shopped earlier in the week and have managed to spend more money than the monthly recommended amount in just a few hours. Therefore watching my aunt spend money and shopping through her was surprisingly enjoyable! My bank balance also loves me more.
I already had a sense that Spain’s newest fashion scene was wanting to slink back to the 80’s – to the post-Franco years of the “Movida Madrileña”, translated as The Madrilenian Movement – which saw the birth of a new identity for Spain. From it rose many talented artists gracing many different fields, one of them being expression of oneself through ones clothes.
But it has been completely confirmed this weekend: Spain is working the ‘manufactured rebel’ – trying to be like those in the 80’s, but with none of the ‘pazazz’ that comes with the originality. The ‘in thing’ right now is to push the socially acceptable Spanish boundaries in the most pitiful manner.
This fake expression of the wealthy rebel advertises the whole ankle swinging, tight fitting, high waisted jeans teamed with flat, thin laced, pointed shoes and big black square rimmed glasses – and frankly, it is horrific. It is an asexual look and just screams copycat.
Primarily, why oh why would you tempt your ankles with chill blaines? Make your bum look bad in this day and age where we have jeans to fix all posterior issues and heavens above, I’ve very little that is not awful to say about the shoes. We are not in the 50’s 60’s, 70’s, 80’s or about to enter a jazz get together and apparently, we also, have no personality!
One thing is mixing today’s fashion trends with yesteryears and another to smack on a copied version of what used to be, on a very modern, well bred child who is clearly trying to rebel in the most mapped out way possible. Ummm…?!
The rebels of Spain’s 80’s had a cause, the cause was freedom. The rebel’s of today are without cause and so just look silly, for want of a better, stronger word.
All wannabe rebels without a cause aside, it is my duty as a fellow shopper to recommend that you do not die without experiencing shopping without spending money!! I can assure you, it is one of the most rewarding things a shopaholic suffering withdrawal symptoms could possibly live through.
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