Bye bye Lalaland

悄悄的我走了，
正如我悄悄的來；

徐志摩 詩 1928

..............
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqsyXdj_p_I
`No Surprises´by Radiohead

This is my favourite song to play on the crowded tube on a weekday morning at rush hour. Raindrops falling steadily into the silent crowd. The heads hung low, the vacant eyes, tired arms hanging onto the loose railing, chugging above the relentless track. Another Stop. The painful look in one's eyes as one by one another squeeze past bumping into you, outwards towards the jaw like door of the carriage, then as one by one they file back in...
'no alarms and no surprises, please.'

................................

From Whitechapel I walked down Brick Lane, which has become not only my favourite street in London, but perhaps the world.

I walked under the metal gate of Bangla Town, past the neon lights of the restaurants, past the curry touts who were by now too tired to say hello, instead huddling in a small group smoking cigarettes and sipping cans of imported canned soft drink. Past the giant BanglaCity Supermarket, past the old men in crispy white punjabs and skullcaps, past the window holding a group of English blokes so sloshed that they were standing up on the dining tables singing a football song.

I walked past the BBQ stand outside The Big Chill, past the Emo Boys and Shoreditch Princesses sitting on the edge of the curb, now also too tired and huddling in a small group smoking cigarettes and drinking cans imported soft drink. Past the stomping bar above All Stars, Studio 95, the over-priced vintage shops, past the dark alleys ways leading to Commercial Street, under the old bridge, and past the construction site. Past the salt beef shop, now with a small que outside, past the tiny Christmas lights of Casa Blue.

I crossed the road and come to Sebastian's house. His upstairs window glow like cats' eyes caught in the headlights. Through the half opened window, in his kitchen his collection of knives neatly lined up on the magnetic strip.

I hope he never finds out that I stand out here all the time.

................................

Everyone I love is here. Well, almost everyone. And they all fit into this tiny apartment. Candles glow for Earth Hour against the rims of the wine glasses, the amber liquid swirling against Herbie Hancock.

Wendy - whimsical, vivacious, empathetic, gifted, alluring, nurturing.

Armando - sensitive, casual, engaging, inquisitive, mysterious, unpredictable, irrisistable.

Shanti - curious, lustful, cynical, giving, wild, cautious, unbeatable, frank.

Mel B - personable, seeking, bold, impatient, wily.

Mel K - soft, optimistic, stylish, innocent, unbridled.

Claire - big-hearted, bountiful, undiscovered, sentimental, Australian.

Daivd - open, unscripted, undisciplined, generous, drifting, fun-loving, exuberant.

Jo P - unchallenged, loud, energetic, warm, confident, quirky, excellerant.

Deno - thinking, perceptive, self-deprecating, complicated, surprising, sensitive, intriguing, sanctimonious.

Tane - well-versed, observant, engaging, enthusiastic, excitable.

Keren - elegant, searching, articulate, stable.

Yuki - sweet, colourful, vibrant, curious, childlike. If I was Japanese I would be her.

.....It still feels strange that my individual friends could get along so well with each other. They are all so solitary and unique, it seemed like they should all have a planet each. But it has taken me, and most of them, good 30 years to come to this. This is a beautiful stage of one's life - mature enough and seen enough to be truly interesting, and still young enough and haven't done enough to make them incomplete and wanting. So this is pushing thirty with the propensity to over-indulge - Dancing in a second hand dress in the depth of a credit crunch, holding up a strawberry martini in a room full of people I love.
...................................

Spring sprinkled in effortlessly, and its made leaving the hardest thing to do. Gone were the relentless long nights replaced by energetic sunny afternoons of more ales on the sidewalks and chatter before the football. On the top of the double decker the view is of children bouncing their way back from school, and daffodils, neatly planted in curvy lines, dancing to and fro to Wordsworth's old poem. In the evening the best-heeled bejewelled besuited and gasping crowd at the ballet swarm around the art-nuveau style campaign bar at the opera house, and end the night hopping into a black-cab after ensuring a short mention by the private eye. On the bus in my comparatively and embarrasingly down-market outfit, I enjoyed the scenes of hens nights grinding to a messy halt and flouro jacketed and steel-cap booted men sweeping the cigarette butts and what not out of everyone's way.

Between the wild and often euphoric farewell parties I feel mildly melancholic.

There hasn't been a place anywhere else I've felt I could slip in so easily. London just absorbed me in so quickly and so graciously. I've never felt at home more here. Within a month or two of arriving here I was trudging the streets and negotiating corners as if I've know them all my life. I realised that I belong to places that are so busy and so distracted that they don't notice me. Another six months would have done me so happily, but then we are never satisfied, are we? But a fate is sealed when you arrive feeling transient, temporary and anonymous, like every other person in this town. Recyclable faces; rent-a-crowd.

How little and and how inconsequential I am. Maybe this is a little bit like dying. The self-centred perspective we all take when we try and articulate our existence or non-existence. That life would go on without me, children would grow up, people will change, building will get torn down, then they will rise again. And this very tiny tiny slice of London that's embedded into my memory will only ever be relevant to me. Yes that's sentiments. and a little bit of regret.

But my father said to me, that when our ancestors left the impoverished and repressed fishing village off the coast of Fujian in Mainland China more than 400 years ago, restless blood began to flow in our veins.... so its not something we should fight.

So I close this chapter of my book with this line from Mr Dickens:

'It was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on.'
- Great Expectations, 1861.

Snowflake Oblivion II

The most amazing thing about this snow storm is that it happens in complete silence. Its 1am and I cradle at the edge of the balcony, watching these featherlike flakes drifting from above. I know rain and I know hail – nasty heavy noisy stuff. Not snow. I don’t know snow at all. And for once, in the middle of the city, there’s no traffic noises or the sound of broken bottles being cleaned out from the pub around the corner. Just silent snow. The fleeting shadows of the falling flakes silhouetted in the glass of my lounge room window cast on by amber coloured street light.

..................................................

I felt like I was three again. Screaming in delight as I woke up to yet more coats of snow all over the estate gardens, covering the streets, building up the front door of our main entrance and settled on the top of lamp poles and tree branches… kids all over the premise making snowmen or playing snowball fights, taking advantage of cancelled classes.

Other commuters as bewildered as I was wandered carefully through the knee-deep fine ice, avoiding various puddles of brown sludge in the gutter as they crossed the road. There’s no buses and most of the tube lines are down, and there aren’t enough people keen to take on the streets. Its so empty, and white.

It took me over an hour on an ordinarily 40 minute walk to get to work, mostly because I was having too much fun taking photos!

..................................................

I ate a mouthful of snow. It was fluffy and cold, that’s about it. I still felt like I was three.

..................................................

The 17th century marble building was like a haunted castle. The painted images of the founders of our revered organisation peer out from their designated frames, watching the place on behalf of the senior managers who couldn’t get to work today, because they all lived in big country villas far away from the rest of us, and their 1.5 hour daily commutes were impossible with the South England-wide public transport shut-downs. Only about 30% of people made it to the office, and it was quite apparent after a ‘survivor’s meeting’ at 10:00 that it would remain this way for another day if not the rest of the week.

I danced around the empty corridors and made faces into empty office spaces – its like having the house to yourself when your parents had gone on holidays. I run the show now! I run the show now!

Outside my window the snow continued to fall. Some LSE students rolled pass a gigantic snow ball, completely outdoing me in outrageousness.

..................................................

TV’s broken. My flatmates and I were so totally drunk on mulled wine. Its only 4.30 in the afternoon, but what else would we do?

..................................................

The current Squeeze comes in the form of an Italian chef from Milan, a 25 year old version of Al Pacino, but more grunge. His excitable yet suave personality reminds me of Merlin the Mighty Tiger. He won’t eat any of my food unless its ‘authentically East Asian’ or unless he’s hung over. Its both an insolent challenge and a blessing in disguise.

“You know, Bambina,”
“…yeah?”
“I can call you Bambina, no?”
“Yeah that’s fine, that’s really nice.”
“You know what they say about my carbonara?”
“…no?”
“They say, it taste like snow.”

…don’t let me stop you.

..................................................

Snowflake Oblivion I

Snow storm in London or heatwave in Melbourne?

Recently updated:
Iranian Spaceships
Persepolis I
Persepolis II
Cowgirls at Fire Temple

Life in London @ 45 weeks

I walked home in the snow from the station. Blinking again. Feeling like I can’t speak about what I’ve seen and where I’ve been, because I’ll just be misunderstood. January is a miserable time to come back to London. But darkness is a solace for once.

Before Christmas, and for much of the year I was just in a rush to do everything, to be in the middle everything and to be everything for everyone – it just never stopped and life was a blur. Its fine as long as its all done in a blanket of intoxication and as long as I didn’t wake up. Spending this time away has knocked me to the other side of the spectrum where I just feel completely removed from the everyday world I exist. And even now plunging back into this whirlpool of irrefutable English expediency with an irremovable Taiwanese work ethic I still managed to exist in the little zone of ‘me-and-what?’ introspective investigations. And in my defense its not narcissism because its no where near as passionate or as equally repulsive.

So for this and for other unfathomable reasons, for the first time in a long time I couldn’t help but feel lonely. At times it cuts me hard and at others I find it strangely liberating. And solitude is a strange place – in the hollowness the echoes seem to resonate a more penetrating and fulfilling sound. It is strangely where I grow the most, without the distractions of this busy, restless, relentless metropolis.

So… 2009. Another page, another line. Is any of this actually necessary?

Maybe I should shoot a movie.

Life in London @ 40 weeks (with Videos)

If bleakness had a colour it would be light grey with a tint of purple.

This is now the depth of winter in old London town. Here I am sitting in my shoebox, a tiny spec amongst the millions of tiny windows lined up in the dark when you look across the city's skyline. The withered leaves have long been swept away and the trees stand bare in the faint neon flushed sky like skeletons lost amongst the buildings and mist. I am scrunched up in a brown striped, fluffy, oversized and overheating jumper I brought in the Netherlands last weekend, resembling more or less the Lion without Courage from The Wizard of Oz. The muddy bottom of my jeans hang drying behind the door and my horrible wet socks are contaminating the rest of the laundry in the hamper. Its not so much the cold or the rain that gets me, but the lack of sunshine time that's giving me a bit of subconscious anxiety. According to Daiv its a proper diagnosed disease called SAD , but then again I am also quite prone to hypochondria. I am just not coping with the early afternoon darkness at the moment and I am desperate to hang out in jandals. Alas it must be December when I am biologically clocked to be sweaty and tanned.

Despite the dreary weather, the Brits who are obviously very used to it keep up the sanity by continuing to gather up in toasty pubs and restaurants and markets and shops across the city, cheering aloud in the festive season, completely ignoring the sharp winds channeling through those damp dark alley ways and the occasional dumps of ‘slush’ on the sidewalks. Every where you go there are Christmas lights dazzling in your eyes, reminding you how bright and cheerful you should be feeling in these darkest hours. Everywhere you go the pints keep flowing and the roasts keep piping, people keep smiling and the irreverent jokes keep mocking. Who says the Brits don’t know how to have fun?












Its been 40 weeks in London, which means about 12 weeks to go before my visa's out and I'll certainly be on the road again. Thinking about the impending departure I have many mixed feelings. No way am I going to spend another winter in England voluntarily I tell myself, but at the same time I’m continuing to have the most ecstatic time here – every day is still fresh and exciting here, and every corner I turn there are still surprises and new things, I keep meeting new and interesting people, and uncover more and more about the whys and why-nots of people do things certain ways on these fair isles. And the endless parties, gigs, pub crawls…. If it wasn’t for administrative confrontations I would no doubt be spending a few more years here, and if not forever, but I am not a fan of bureaucracy and so I am going to pluck myself away before I can’t. This contagious lifestyle of being on a constant high is almost like being in another type of comfort zone, and I know in the long run I’ll be so complacent in this that I don’t extend myself further else where. So yes, it might just be a blessing in disguise. Looking at a March/April departure for a few months traveling then maybe six months or so in Germany, and home via India if it all works out. Watch this space. Meanwhile, Shanti and I are hoping to be in Turkey and Iran for the Christmas break - but only if the Iran visa comes through.... fingers crossed!!

Updates to come in the near future re: Amsterdam, Cambridge, Bonn, Croatia and Dublin. Meanwhile, videos of a few of London's collection of sporting events that I was lucky enough to observe:

London to Brighton Veteran Car Run 2/11/08

Held on the first Sunday in November every year pretty much since 1896, where the original run celebrated the official passing of the law which allowed cars (or Locomotives as they were then known as) were allowed onto public roads for the first time in Briton. Its a nostalgic spectacle of a collection of beautiful old vintage cars (the rule is that the participating vehicle has to be made before 1905!) which chug along at 20km per hour from London to Brighton - of course many don't make it there, some didn't even make it out of Hyde Park where the run starts, but hey, what a splendid morning for all of us cheering those old fellows along!!

Bike Polo in Brick Lane crica November 08

Urban East end boys answer to the aristocratic horse-sport, quite a craft really. Not surprisingly all the players are cute! First invented in 1891 by the Irish (who else would come up with this?), but enjoying a recent modern revival.

Football - Chelsea vs Burnley 12/11/08

On Deno's invitation I arrived at my first ever live football match at Chelsea's home ground at Fulham Broadway. The sheer size and atmosphere is larger than life - its the biggest ground and largest crowd this poor little church mouse has ever seen! Having limited interest in the actual game, its amusing people watching. I consider the fans behaviour like those overbearing parents at Saturday school matches, shouting and tormenting their own team when they are doing badly, while reverting to cheering madly and devoutly to chants during the intervals completely forgiving any mistakes the players would have made just five seconds earlier, and then acting like complete bigots by jeering and swearing when the opposing team scores. And when the home team lost the final penalty shoot, the crowd drops into dead silence and clears the stadium mournfully. Human nature at its most blatant and most honest and finest hour.

Life in London @27 Weeks

Winter has bypassed autumn completely and has loomed London in a coat of grey. Darn. Why I continue to join 7.5million others in putting up with this weather still baffles me. Typically I am back on the IKEA foldout couch at Wendy & Deno’s in jolly old Dalston while I look for another dig to plonk myself in for the next little while. In any other circumstances living out of plastic bags would be a pretty dire situation for anybody - but I have found myself back into a busy routine of ever-ending after-work drinks, luncheons and picnics and dinners and festivals that it really doesn’t make a different what I live out of anymore. Alas!

I now make a 1hour 15 minute walking journey to work in Holborn through the melting pot of Clerkenwell Road and Grey Inns Road. People watching is at its best here – Londoners of all walks of life cross their paths here on foot, on bikes, and - but in an uncrowded and fairly succinct and ungrumpy way that I still get to observe their expressions, idiosyncrasies and their choice of attire quite closely. It adds a wonderful supplement to my current read – the hilarious Watching the English by Kate Fox.

On the days that rain (which is quite a few) I take the 243 bus (takes equally long as walking, would you believe). Sitting on the top of the double decker, every journey I have taken on this bus passes the bus stop on the corner of Kingsland Road and Old St in the middle of buzzing Shoreditch. I have been on a self-imposed 8 week alcohol break, and hence have a tendency to over-react when I see any signs of alcohol. I am irritated by the site of two cans of Fosters beer that’s been sitting on the top of the bus stop canopy for as long as I remember taking the 243. a) I wonder how it got there at the first place and b) I am really surprised that no one had gotten to it in a bout of desperation already. Does this say something about how unresourceful drunks are in London or does this say something about the quality of Fosters?

Flat hunting was a bit shit to start with. Because of the transient nature of London, and how busy young professionals are, its very hard to find a kiwi-style flat where there is a communal feel to the household. Many lodgements are maisonettes where the tenants have individual leases with the landlord, have their own locked rooms and share a common bathroom and a kitchen, like a guest house arrangement almost. It basically makes the place very sterile and not-looked after because no body’s really taking care of each other or a communal shared space. None of the other tenants would be interested in who the next person who moved in would be and naturally they’re not there to meet you. And then there’s other places where the location is so bloody fantastic that it doesn’t matter how run down or dirty the house it. I literally tripped over dirty underwear in the hall way of one of the flats, that had 2 years worth of grease in the kitchen and more years worth of mould in the bathroom. To add to the insult, the incumbent tenant appeared to be doing some sort of psycho-sexual scientific experiment in the room – it had torn rubber gloves all over the floor and stuck on the walls, and there are strange looking white powder and paint scattered all over the place. The agent of the landlord, unshaven, and dressed in ripped track suit pants with his beer belly pouring out resembling someone who would be desperate enough to take out those Fosters beers on top of the bus canopy, was completely unembarrassed by the condition of the house. “Call me darling, if you’re interested.” he said.

Thankfully after a painstaking search I have found a lovely little place just off Old St near the park and canal, and only 10 minutes walk to the thick of the exciting nightlife in Shoreditch and Brick Lane. I will be sharing my tiny little haven with a balcony with a Mexican robot inventor (Emma says I only want to live with him because it sounds nice on my blog) and two Polish sisters, one an accountant and the other a student. It was pretty much sold when the ad specifically asked for someone who will be there to be part of the house and no someone who’s there only to sleep. Why is this something so hard?? and when I saw the plate of biscuits they prepared for the open-house visitors I knew that I have found, finally, somewhere I would feel at home and part of. First of September, in the diary.

Other updates:

• My grandpa is still in hospital (but a different one – he had to move due to health insurance) and apparently not getting better or worse… it’s a little frustrating esp now that my poor aunties and uncles have to commute a lot further, by Dad will be back for mid autumn festival to spend time with him which is good.
  
• My M-8 has gone travelling full time before he heads home in November ;-( Its sad to not have him at my greasy little fingertips, but I will be meeting up with him in Wales this weekend for some nice hikes and then in Croatia for some sun in late September, so its not all bad is it!!
  
• Stupidly I scheduled Dublin in during my self-imposed alcohol break, because I was quite inspired by the fact that my boss had managed to do a work trip there on Ryan air for £18 all up. (my ended up being £68 – talk about discrimination) but I am sure I will survive the temptation of whiskies and guinness’s… I hope…
  
• And there’s finally been an update on the food blog for those that can’t handle this one!!

Rolling Rolling Rolling

There is something for everyone in London. Basically that’s what makes it a little bit bizarre. Yet when you walk into this place it just seems absolutely normal, and you genuinely believe that this is what your every Joe and Josephine would do every single weekend after they knock off from Happy Hour.

Take 500 people dressed in highlighted lycra, tutus, hot pants, afros, glitter, etc etc etc team it with flashing roller blades (not blades) and a dash of beer and a DJ or two, throw them into two rings (one slow for the less suicidal and one fast for the show-offs) and dim the lights – hey presto YOU’VE GOT ROLLAAAHHHH DISSCCOOOOOOHHHH!

For an unusual but extremely fun night out - check it out: http://www.renaissancerooms.co.uk/?section=club&action=home

Otherwise Preoccupied: Life in London @ 20 weeks

Ahhhh --- the 1st of July. Where did time go? I've just been so terribly busy with leading a full on hectic schedule of summer fun-ness in the grand city, more bits of weekend travelling, coping with daily routined administration and various challenges that wonder out of the blue. Updates in June to come below re camping in Wiltshire, mystery weekend along the canals, my one-woman reenactment of the D-Day landings in Normandy, and generally blissful summer life.

Family
I certainly feel a lot more relaxed at the moment than I had been in the last week or two, where my life had been knocked out of tune with the bad news that my grandfather had been hospitalised again, this time being in the worst state he had been in for a while. I had made arrangements to take leave and book tickets for Taipei, when I heard that he would pull through after all. For the first few days honestly I constantly felt so upset that I was nauseous, the thought of possibly losing him and being so far away from my family, my entire body aching and shivering with worry and guilt and uncertainty. Also what to do with the new contract I've just been negotiating at work, whether to just give it up and leave everything here and go. Thanks to my grandfather's lucky stars things are settling a little more, but I am still vigilant and I am ready to head back any time they need me. He really is a cat with 81 lives. I wish I could be half as tenacious as he is. ** bless you A Gong **

Work
Anyway. Phewww. So looks like work will offer me some more employment that will stretch me up till Christmas. It will mean less holidays and travels for the mean time, but a little more income and stability on my CV for the interim.

Housing
I am also moving out and moving on from Vicky's designer heritage listed apartment in Bayswater. As much as we enjoy a good yarn with each other, I am just not sure if I am mentally capable of managing her unpredictable mood swings and intense possessiveness. I need space, freedom from being constantly advised about everything, and the chance to feel relaxed in my own home and my own skin. My tolerance just ran out. I can't continue to be the grandchild she never had. I mean, I still maintain that she is one of the most interesting people I've ever met, and I have learnt so much stuff and changed a lot of my ways of thinking and behaviour because of her, but it is time to return to a life of normalcy, with people my own age, who are just a little bit more chilled and have less emotional baggage than some one that is basically the narrator of the 'I've Never Been to Me' song.

Boy
Another big development in my life is that since May I've been in a relationship with M-8, an unlikely suitor who is completely different to the type of guys I'd usually go for (OK, apart from being a little camp which is what I've always liked), but I just adore him. He is an extremely lively and energetic individual with boundless energy, guided by a quirky thought processes and an encyclopedia of irreverent jokes. A seductively trim triathlete when he's not at his desk job, he lives as fast as he swims/bikes/runs, basically always living about 15 minutes ahead of the rest of the world, it spins my head (in a really nice way) just to keep up with him and keep him entertained. We started off taking things really easily, considering that we are both at a very transient stage of our respective lives, and so its been very easy-going being in a fairly low-maintenance relationship where we are both very independent. I think it is rolling along nicely, but perhaps too nicely. I think it might be time soon for us to amp it up a notch. I think we are both capable of making this a much more intellectually challenging venture, give it a bit more intensity and grip. One of us at least needs to play up soon. Be more manipulative, be more demanding, be jealous, be immature, be insecure, be a little more serious, fall hopelessly in love. ..

yah.

My Big Fat Half Ethiopean Party

It was my landlady Vicky's birthday and she threw a humongus party for her collection of very interesting friends.

If I calculated correctly (because I am too scared to ask, and she is too precarious to tell) according to her claim that she was born in the year of the Rabbit but she is older than my father, then she would have just turned 69.

What a kick arse number.

The Night Before
The festivities started the night before with the preparations that reminded me of the days when I was a child and my grandmother used to gather the family around the round table and form a production line making dumplings, wontons, sushi, bamboo leaf parcels (for Dragon Boat festival), a real ritual around food preparation and special times in the calendar to give meaning to mundane things like the passage of time. Vicky had gathered around 4 or five girl friends of hers all buzzing around the house slicing and dicing and marinating bits that make up of what I can see as a mountainous amount of food.

And then we kinda got drunk. Well, I had two glasses, no more than the others, except they are all about 40 years older than me and they had all been way too tired. So the evening ended slightly grimly with the mentioning of a few infamous events of various peoples lives and some vile cursing. Suddenly having realised that she had just cursed a few of the people that she in fact actually love very much (don't we all get that some times??) my landlady presented us with a vessel of water in a bottle made into the shape of the Catholic Madonna. 'This is Holy water from Mother Teresa - we must put it on our head to chase my curse away'. I have never really been that religious in my life but being slightly amused and tipsy at the time it just kinda made sense (and to be polite) to just slap the water on my head.

The Morning
I spent the morning giving out Berrocca tablets to my landlady and our various house guests, who at 7am in the morning went back to work on the mountains of food but obviously still suffering from the over indulgence of the night before. One of them that wasn't there last night (but was cursed at - I didn't say anything, of course) turned up with the flu. So I administered Lemsip and some phenylephrine action and wrapped her in a towel. She said Vicky would never talk to her if she didn't risk her life turning up to her party. Then there was the scratched elbow of Vicky's Jamaican Vegetarian son that needed a bit of Antiflame and patching up. Some one else had a burn that was also bound to happen and I whipped out the ice pack, and then the timely attendence to a cut from a broken plate. I do feel like a nurse. At lease useful because they won't let any one 'junior' near food preparation, even though I am the only one in the room that can boast a food blog. I do pride myself in my culinary skills, but given that there are five large elderly ladies yelling at each other welding their knives in the air in a very small kitchen I thought it just wasn't really my place unless was called upon.

The Party
Ding dong --- I think that was a flash back from one of the skits from 'Who's Line Is It Anyway' where you had to guess who exactly the party guest was and stuff? From 3pm they streamed in and the party was in full swing. Vicky has a pretty active life in her retirement, apart from being very active at her Church and the Ethiopian community, she does everything from yoga, bridge, acupuncture, majong, meals on wheels, the retired staff club, the Apartment Council, the anti-Madonna-adopting-Ugandan-Baby action group, and making her own curtains. And being both Ethiopian and Italian she feels like she has to invite everyone she knows. But because she is so eccentric and peculiar, not everyone and anyone are actually friends with her. so you can guess that the characters that filter through the system to be very very interesting. Particularly at the age of 60 - 90, a lot of these individuals have lived very full and adventurous lives. Some of them have not only lived through WWII, but things like the Hungarian Revolution, the Ethiopian Revolution, the golden sixties in San Francisco, deaths of their own children, suicides of lovers, bankruptcy, divorce, drug overdoses, rubbing shoulders wit the rich and famous, plane crashes, miracle cures and sordid affairs... So what's me the young lass of 28 to do when an oldie sits me down to dish out the dirt of their lives?










On the right is only a very small part of the spread. The Ethiopian curries spice the room and bring out some tears, while the Italian classics fill everyone up with comfort and satisfaction. My highlight will have to be the soft, moist Ingera bread (seen here rolled), the most typical Ethiopian carb, dipped in a prawn and octopus coconut seafood fanfare. And the Strawberries in Cointreau and orange juice is the recipe I'll be taking home with me.




























This is a bit of dancing action later on. Don't you think Vicky looked pretty hot in her bright green designer frock for a Nana her age??






Late into the evening
The dusk sank into a smokey grey and only three guests remain. Two very well dressed Ethiopian grandmas who sit very gracefully with their small handbags tucked on top of their closed knees, nodding to each other as they discuss family affairs, and Mrs J the 75 year old widowed Irish lady, who had just finished a conversation with poor Emma, who looked like she fled the party.

Mrs J said, as she sat me down, 'I thought your friend was only 15!! I didn't know you were the same age!! I'm sorry I gave her brain damage, haaaa haaaa haaaaa!!'
('Great,' I thought to myself)
'I'm a Catholic, but not a very good one. I wasn't a virgin when I got married. I started having sexual intercourse when I was only 17, when I moved to London. But it was all about just intercourse. I never loved any of them. '
To my absolute bemusement she went on to describe every detail of her sexual activities with her late husband, particularly elaborating the fact that he was very 'well-endowed'.
'You know, Sarah Brightman wrote in a newspaper article that although the marriage to Andrew Lloyd Webber ended badly, she enjoyed life with him because he was well endowed. And I think that has everything to do with sex with a man, don't you think dear?' She said.
'Musicians are generally renowned for that sort of stuff, I guess, Mrs J.' I replied.
'The ecstasy and excitement of having him inside me just made me want to forget myself. I would never want to look at another man again. I decided that it was then I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Have you felt that about a man before my dear? Well I guess you are still young, aren't you dear?'
I am speechless, I am blushing, the proper Ethiopian ladies are blushing. I am suddenly feeling like I am the biggest prude in the world because I am too shy to over talk a 75 year old widow on the simple matter of sex. When did they become so liberated and I so dull???

The Aftermath

They have all gone and its 1am. I am still eating and candidly making a small rocket fuel concoction in my goblet. Vicky pulls out her shisha and we have another good puff.

Apart from a slightly smaller mountain of food left over there is also a small mountain of empty plates. I am thinking of the conversations we are going to have next.

'They came, they ate, and drank, and then pissed off. All I did was clean up and worry and stress and stuck talking to people I don't even like. This is the last party I am ever going to have.' She said.

'They told me that's what you said last year.' I replied, exhaling.

The Zeelanders Kicks Arse at Hummus Fest 2008

Breaking News: Wendy and WaWa have just taken Runner-Up placing with their 'Ladies of the Ring Trilogy' in the 'first ever' Hummus making competition held by Hummus Bros & the Jewish Community Center for London.

http://flavorpill.com/london/events/2008/5/18/hummusfest
http://www.jcclondon.org.uk/Food_HummusFest.html

Full report to follow with video of the fierce competition. The recipe is now available on my food blog.

Sex and the City