20 November 2011

This post has been a long time coming. It's a difficult thing packing up and moving to the other side of the world. Especially when one has a tendency to hoard as I do. These logistics are time-consuming to say the least. I had it in mind that my last two weeks in London would be made up of a few days of packing up and a number of days at the V & A or perhaps the Wellcome Collection. As it stands, I still haven't been to either. The many necessary trips down to the Holloway Road to organise and to post and to print have prevented me. I did however manage to get to Marrakech which has always been a high priority. However, once there, I found that the harassment on the streets by men quite unnerving. It was chilly and therefore my cleavage was in no way on display. On the contrary, it was hidden under two scarves. I found it wearying and sordid. The city itself was a city. I'm sure that I've made the right decision to leave off traveling when my capacity for or interest in describing the wonders of a city have ceased. I'm afraid that makes me sound bitter - but I'm certainly not. I'm grateful to have done it but also happy that it is over. Perhaps this is my way of accepting the change.

This reminds me of something that I just read... Here it is, an extract from the D.F. Wallace that I'm reading, where he takes an extract from DeLillo (which is ironic in itself if you consider the irony of the passage):

Several days later Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the most photographed barn in America. We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides -- pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.

"No one sees the barn," he said finally.

A long silence followed.

"Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn."

He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others.

We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies."

There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.

"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism."

Another silence ensued.

"They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said.

And that's traveling.

Here's another observation that illustrates the point: apart from the camels, the Ourika Valley in the Altas Mountains reminds me very much of the Gisborne Gorge, which I have driven through on innumerable occasions.

I'm in Thailand and I've just had breakfast and I'm stuck in this lounging restaurant because the rain is hurling itself out of the sky. My room is thirty second walk away but if I attempted it I would be soaked through. All I can think is that I left the window ajar and the hammock swinging with a pillow in it. I hope that my proprietress doesn't find me and my sodden linen out. There's no sign of relent in this storm.

The family of the proprietress are playing some sort of game involving taking a small red bucket out into the rain whilst under the protection of a small red umbrella. It seems amusing. I'm amused. Although the point escapes me. Thirteen more days of this for me, wherein hopefully I see some more sunshine so that I can restore this alabaster complexion to its natural colour before I embark on the final leg of this relocation effort.

Yesterday, the electricity went out for most of the day. In the afternoon there was also a great thunderstorm which hampered my efforts to wash and dry a bundle of clothes. The thunder was so loud that it produced some rather irrational butterflies within the stomach. So long as my primitive little bungalow doesn't get washed down the cliff, I'll be able to watch another sunset from this glorious vantage point (pictured above).

Further, I saw the biggest bug in the world last night. It flew at me whilst I was engrossed in Daphne du Maurier. She served me well. She helped me to swipe the behemoth away and then again smack it through the floorboards. I shall be pleased to be home where the bugs are of an acceptable size.

Excuse any mistakes above - I shall not be editing, let alone casting my eye over it.

29 August 2011

It's been a wee roller-coaster over the last couple of weeks or perhaps the last month say. Only a wee one. I don't like roller-coasters, dizzying heights or exhilarating experiences. But, I've come to a decision about my UK visa expiry which takes place at the end of November. I actually have the right to apply for two more years under my current visa allowances but recently my heart has sunk every time I thought about what the next year would bring. What a surprising reaction! Next year sees the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics in London. I've an extra-specially amazing team of colleagues and plenty of exciting work and the bank account is not likely to sustain me for long without employment. Not to mention the fact that the painting does not want a slap-dash finish. This was entirely not the plan. I'm sure when I left, I said to everyone, "five years or forever".

It's Bank Holiday Monday and I'm indoors having a Rolling Stones marathon whilst the rest of London attends the Carnival. I'm disinclined to join them. I've been every other year and I'm sure I'm still reeling from the Fruits de la Mer Fantasie of Saturday night (pun intended). It was a joyous occasion. Martin, Nicholas and Emily woke at the crack of dawn and headed to Billingsgate Fish Market for some early morning bargains which constituted a huge feast. That evening, we devoured almost every single morsel. The mussels and prawns went especially fast. It was like a pack of seagulls had descended on the coffee table.

Our house guest, Celia, is at the Carnival today. We've been looking after her effects more than her because she's such a get-about. As soon as her school term ended she was off, traveling everywhere. Terribly peripatetic. Speaking of the Greeks, one of the first places she went was Athens. Whilst there she was to take the trip up to Delphi and so when I sent her off one work-day morning, having just woken up and feeling very much still full of sleep, I summoned up for her the energy to do the "Navel of the World" routine. You probably know the one. It takes a very thick Mid-West American accent set at a piercing pitch.

When I was one in Delphi, when I was a good deal younger, my companions and I were particularly keen to see the navel of the world - a large stone affair which looks like half and egg on a plinth. It's the kind of belly-button one might get if the doctor hasn't tied their umbilical cord quite tight enough. When we found it, two very large American woman had parked their very large butts up against it which was prohibiting our getting a satisfactory photo of the thing. After a while, we managed to get their attention which was difficult, to say the least, because they were giving each other an in-depth account of the items that they liked to have for breakfast.

"I have my eggs once a week. And my oatmeal everyday, everyday."

"Oh, a photo! You want a photo? What is it? Oh the navel. The navel of the World? How do you know this?"

You've heard this one, no doubt. It's nice to be reminded. I'll do it again for you sometime. Anyway, with that, I sent Celia on her way, and I've hardly seen her since!

Granted, I was away myself, spending some time back in New Zealand to celebrate Mother's Sixtieth. It's a big occasion. I'm glad that I was there. I must admit, I was also using the opportunity to do some reconnaissance. I wanted to be clear on how I felt about leaving London and moving back home. It has been four years. I do think that's a good effort (although, I remain surprised at myself).

It wasn't life though. It was a holiday. I had a wild time full of parties and wanderings and ramblings and sitting and gazings... There was cider and wine and tea and long breakfasts. Is that really what it's like there? Certainly not. And if it was, I would be simply obese after a few months. But it was nice, nonetheless. Stephen and I sat in front of the tank at Kelly Tarlton's watching the great, old stingrays circle their tank. Why don't I just show you... here, I've added the video. Isn't it grand?

I was plagued by cake for the duration of the trip. Everywhere I turned, cake, right there! I must have eaten enough to be certifiably cake-product by the time I left. Needless to say, it's been a strict regime of vegetables since landing at Heathrow. You couldn't imagine how many times I had to do the "Cake or Death?" routine. I love it so.

Cake, or death?
Death, no! Cake, cake, I mean cake.
You said death.
Oh, but I meant cake.
Oh, very well.

So as cake plagued me, everyone else was plagued by me reciting this routine until it was done to death.

Routine or death?
Routine, no! Death, death, I mean death.
You said routine.
Oh, but I meant death.
Oh, very well.

I seem to have a few routines up my sleeve that I've been recycling lately - what with the fat ladies on the navel and pilfering from Izzard.

On moving: What if it's all a huge mistake!? London is a wonderful place to live (forget the riots for now). Emily and I were following the crowd between some very hip place in Shoreditch, with a brilliant rooftop where you can watch the sun go down over the sprawling buildings, and another very hip Pizza place. I felt far too trendy in this the very trendiest of districts. I'm practically a scene-ster. We revelled in the picture of the man that we glimpsed parking up his red double-decker quietly, having laid down his London Transport issue jacket as a prayer mat, because it was that time of the evening.

What do you think? Oh, don't tell me. You know that I'll book the ticket based on my whims and not any reasonable argument. It's the regret that frightens me. Of course, it will always feel a little like this, no matter when the packing up process starts - this year, next year. But start it must. I can't be here forever.

And it's definitive statements like that, which roll off the finger-tips, which tell me that somewhere, deep-down in the depths, the decision has already been made and the rest of me is just catching up.

15 June 2011

This made me laugh for a while, thank you:

Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.

-- Kingsley Amis "Lucky Jim"

14 June 2011

Hello readership.

That sounds lofty. Oratorial even. And yet, I have little to address here but a general moan about the state of things lately. I think you might find it quite out the ordinary because I generally view life's little obstacles as rather humorous. Sometimes, I might even go so far as to find them charming. I realise that there are bigger issues in the world to dwell on, but that shan't hold me back because, this week, I'm appalled by the snowballing of these little obstacles of late. I like to expect though, however irrational it might be, that this series of unfortunate occurrences might be rewarded with a series of fortunate events - or at least one mighty good thing.

I think, with my rational mind (although I'm unsure about it's true capacity for reason), that actually life draws itself more slowly than that and the cadences with their nadirs slump in long, fluid ups and downs rather than a sort of barcode affair. Like this, for instance: one short good, one long bad, two short goods, a pause, two short bads... and so on.

On with the events. I quite like starting the week well. Crisp, clean suit. Porridge well-soaked the night before (when did I turn eighty? Quite recently, I should think). But, hell, I arrived at work on Monday only to find that my stockings were in tatters up one leg and as the day swung into action so swiftly and didn't stop until I had been to three meetings, at each of which I couldn't seem to help crossing tatty leg over non-tatty leg so as to catch everyone's eye, I just couldn't find the time to remedy the problem. The day didn't seem to want to terminate. It went on and on in the office until the sun sank and the pollen finally settled... oh, my stars, don't start me on the pollen. It's that season again and I have an aversion to sneezes. Even my own.

My feet are also in tatters. It rained incessantly on Sunday yet I was due in Sloane Square for a late lunch baby-shower affair. I bought mother and bump Bob Dylan's Forever Young, in the form of a children's book with some lovely retro illustrations. Do you know it? It's a classic and a fabulous present. But having picked up the book on the way to the luncheon, I had yet to wrap it, and I found myself smashed up against rubbish bin in Bond Street station's Pret-a-Manger trying to write a nice message in the card and get it into the wrapping paper without it looking like a train wreck.

No, this is not my complaint, I assure you. Although, I should like to add that I would have picked the present up sooner if everything in the stores didn't have freaking teddy-bears all over it. I had to reassess my gift at the last minute having been let down by the High Street.

It was stiflingly hot on the tube, and I was beginning to glow. I was late, it was raining, and, you wouldn't believe it but, the glue on my shoe was coming unstuck! At first I thought that it couldn't be, it just couldn't be. But yes, the lesson is that you shouldn't buy your shoes in Thailand. I'd just had them reheeled to boot (I love puns). I also love haikus:

From South-East Asia,
Such cute shoes come to their end
In a bin on Bond.

Okay, well, the long and the short of it is, I stumbled over to the nearest shoe store, couldn't find anything but some stilettos and as you may know, stilettos have a mandatory breaking in period. Poor little footsies.

Yes, I hear you. It could have been worse. My shoes could have broken somewhere other than one of the largest shopping districts in the UK. I guess that I'm most mortified because of the expense. I could handle the lunch in the fancy gastro-pub, and the wine, and the present ... but new shoes! Come now. They are rather rather lovely and indulgent though.

Oh, shoot. I've just spilt my tea and it's going all cold and sodden on my duvet and up my leggings.

I've lost my train of thought. Let's move on.

I have some smashing syntax for you courtesy of Jade. She said:

"Imagine, not to be a party pooper but imogen if it rains on Saturday.... is there a plan or do we just turn up wearing black rubbish sacks and umbrellas?"

It's genius. You can just hear her plaintive voice. And I want to put commas everywhere!

Speaking of expression, the nice thing, looking back over this post, is that that the sentences are more like a breath of words rather than structured transactional points. I could go back and fix this but I don't think that I will. It's like Breton's Nadja. I read it twice and I still found that all it gave me was a sort of sense of something having happened but little else.

It also ended abruptly.

6 May 2011

We're out of the April woods. Thank goodness. It was all madness. There was far too little of the responsibility of work and the sense of reason that it entails and far too much of the revelry of a Royal Wedding atmosphere. What great, long, sunny days we had, with nothing but an expanse of time to fill however we wished.

And what did you do for the Royal day? I received reams of messages from home from people in pajamas, curled up on couches, with bottles of wine. But why not champagne?

Why did I get so festive about the occasion? It seemed that everyone in London had let their hair down for the day. We started at a pub in Marylebone, far too early. I'd never had an espresso martini before myself but it works just the trick to wake you fully from your slumber and give you that pep to see the day through to its likely endpoint. The possibilities weren't endless. The endpoint was invariably another pub. I managed to get to the park where another party was happening. The rest is a little hazy.

I love weddings. It's all dancing and drinking. There's always a feeling of the happiness of love. Does my whimsy about weddings sicken you? Then you haven't seized the spirit of the occasion in the right way.

May looks set to be a more sober affair, or so one hopes. I think we've all already welcomed the summertime and summertime things are setting in. The park, the table and chairs on the sidewalk and the mayflies. I sound like frigging Horace. But it can't be helped.

It's Friday today and I'm not at work. I had a terrible twelve hour day yesterday, due to a late meeting. The night before I had dreamt of taking Friday off and asking my boss who agreed. So, dreams can come true. I remember, years ago, in Paihia, Penelope and I went to a "Cosmic Fair" that had come to town and had our fortunes read. The fortune teller seemed to me to be a bit of a hack but he did say that I had the ability to dip into the Akashic records and see the future or the present or what not within my dreams. This same man also said that I was a "cripple" in a past life in London and that's why I had trouble with my legs (do I? Not really). Then he stood me up, pushed a little spot in my hip and asked if it hurt. Pinched nerve, apparently. I suspect it arises from wearing platform shoes throughout my teenage years rather than and incidence of past life. Still, it was probably worth the twenty dollars to be felt up by a fortune teller.

I now have three days to fill and I'm willing to take suggestions as to how to fill them... so far I've had three cups of tea and I'm expecting more of the same.

15 April 2011

I like that I get comments. Far from making me feel like a bad blogger and reprehensible, they make me cheery. And how can one not feel cheery on a Friday evening, with the sun streaming in... April is not the cruellest month, I find.

We've just checked the fridge situation and found eggs and noodles. So, whilst we think about the myriad concoctions that these might become, we've opened a bottle of wine as we watch all the possibilities that the weekend has to offer unfold at our feet.

This afternoon I tapped away at some work from home as I've been suffering again from a wretched affliction. My voice this week has varied between squeak and sexy, husky tones... with a less than sexy cough. Perhaps that's why April is a cruellest month - it's the change of season and Mr Elliott was known well to be an insatiable hypochondriac.

Last weekend, the last weekend in which I was the age of twenty six, I went to Pamplona. There were no bulls involved. I'm not particularly keen on the bull fighting aspect of the city. I'm not an afficionado in that respect but very keen on the two euro bottles of reserve wine. Moi bueno! We took the wrong way back to Santander in the hired car on Sunday and found ourselves winding through some beautiful, mountainous forest roads. Sometimes, the wrong way can be the right way.

And now, once again, I find myself a year older. And, as we all do, I look back on my achievements over the last twelve months. And you'll be pleased to know that my painting is two coats away from completion. I think then it takes a few months to dry proper and a bit of varnish over the top and voila! I'm too proud; I've added the photo above in the hope that you'll be proud too (although don't be too hard on my early unveiling).

My hair's a bit longer. The book is taking shape. Goodness me, what with all these achievements, I might as well just quit now, I'm doing so well.

This year, I'm tackling the Anna Karenina and come to the conclusion that I must go to Russia. That will be an event. And it's just another reason why I cannot drag myself away from London, regardless of a quiet yearning that I have to go back home and start setting up shop. Not literally. I don't want to set up a shop. Although, that would be a nice life. I'd have a crafts shop. I'd engage my crafty friend Bri Bri to make my wares and it would double as a tea shop where you can come and sit and take in the scenery and the people walking by. I'd live upstairs and that would be the limits of my little world.

But, probably, I'll just stick to my vocation, pushing paper from one side of the desk to the other for the rest of my working life. Occasionally, I'll answer the phone, and more often than not the caller will be subjected to the cough and the squeak rather than a husky phone voice.

For my birthday, daddy bought me Pascal, Proust, Lautremont and de Sade. Gems! All of them.

Don't snigger... each to their own, I say.

Each book came on a different day in a different package. That's how presents should be. My work-wife, Sandra, has this habit of saving the presents that she gets for Christmas and opening one every now and again over the course of the day. So, when everyone has already smashed through their wrapped goods, and finished their turkey, she'll say, in a satisfied tone, "oh, look! What's this? I have another present to open."

I broke my glasses again. How odd - looking back to this time last year, I did the same thing. And it was almost in the same manner. A night at the pub and glasses strewn across the floor and oops! What do you know. I've stood on them. Luckily, with a little DIY they were salvagable. After a brief but fraught argument with a less than helpful woman at Specsavers, Sandra, seeing my frustration, brought her glasses repair kit into work (she'd purchased it from Tesco for one pound to undertake one of those fiddly jobs for which only the tiniest of screw drivers will do) and I spent one lunch hour mending. Who needs the professionals? I certainly don't. I'm like a bush optometrist.

I have a lot more to say... but, I am half way through making a home made birthday card. It's a pièce de résistance. I've got a very flash private dining experience to attend tomorrow night, for which I will have to get my most glamourous, most flimsy frock out of the wardrobe, and the prospect has sent shivers down my wallet's spine. So, this week, I've made a pledge to only spend the sum total of ten pounds. That's right - a full seven days, feeding myself and what not... hence the eggs and noodles. Thank goodness for the points on my Boots card.

I must admit to you, I've spent fourteen pounds and it's only been five days, but in the spirit of the endeavour, the birthday card is home made. Lucky for the birthday boy, the present shall not be. On the contrary, in response to the flash dinner, I'll be heading down to Liberty for my purchase, and if you happen to find me in the champagne bar there, eating oysters, you'll know that the ten pound budget has been thrown out the window along with a raft of other good and frugal intentions...

The crafts corner calls... but, you'll hear from me again, and shortly this time, I'm sure...

6 March 2011

It's only been a few months. What of it? I've been a rather busy bee, that's all... Welcome to the new year, belatedly.

It's funny the kinds of thoughts that spark your desire share a post. For me, this time, it was pickled eggs. I've been thinking about them for a few days. Perhaps I saw some on the tele. They used to be a staple at pubs and now they've practically vanished. I've never had a pickled egg. I have tried a one thousand year old egg at a little place called Leung's Legend in China Town. It's a great restaurant - not because of its decaying eggs - but because they do an obscenely large stuffed crab full of chilli and garlic. They also give you a large cracking device to demolish it with.

I'm going to buy some pickled eggs. Have you tried them?

I've been the most ridiculous tourist since I last blogged. Everywhere I've been, I've taken all the same photos that everyone else has in their albums and bought all the same things that those oversized women on group tours have bought. Take Istanbul for example. I now have a lantern, a set of hand-painted bowls and some multi-coloured woven fabric in traditional designs. Ludicrously unoriginal. The photo above is a case-in-point. I took it on the Bosphorus as we pulled up to Asia in the ferry. I thought it was a good example of the descriptions of dilapidated houses from my Orhan Pamuk readings... until I looked around me and realised that everyone was taking a picture of the same thing...

In Hungary, we sang David Bowie in the Labyrinth...

In New York, I bought myself an "I heart NY" t-shirt...

I think that I had better stay in London for a while. Before I turn into some sort of cardboard cut-out. A lemming. Perhaps without the trademark cliff-diving. Having said that, sitting on the couch on a Sunday, up against the radiator with laptop in hand, isn't particularly original. Mildly warming at least - it's miserably cold outside. In fact, I'm wearing two scarves inside. One of these scarves is possum fur and Penny left it to me after she'd finished with it in New York. She reasoned that she'll never see that kind of cold again and she was concerned that I was warm enough in the London winter. Too thoughtful. She quietly left it in the hotel room, as she took off for the airport, and I happened upon it whilst packing myself up.

Like foxes, one shouldn't feel too sorry for possums, because they're extraordinarily warm.

I've been possum shooting before.

(It's quite odd to write a sentence like that).

I was staying at a friend's farm. I must have been about thirteen. There was a pig that you had to beat back with a stick if you wanted to cross its field. It was eaten that year for Christmas dinner. Not only did they take me on a possum shoot but they also took me on a turkey shoot. Why shoot the turkeys? I couldn't tell you. Perhaps they were rife. Population control. I guess that all experience is good experience. It all sounds more intrepid than my recent travels, doesn't it?

So, you see, you haven't been missing anything. Life is less than wild. Less wild than a lemming's.

I'm afraid that the little guys don't dive off cliffs or rain down from the sky though, in truth.