All I want for Christmas is this...

Thanks to Mr Gareth Bright for this beautiful photo...Best present!

I arrived in Bangkok on Christmas eve. Days of delays at Heathrow (read third worl ghetto) and dealings with the incompetence of Air India staff had made for frayed nerves and an occasional and slightly off putting twitching in my left eye. Twenty four hours of travel however ended in the most joyous reunion between me and my dearest friend Evie (Aka Tangerine Tree). As she navigated our way home through Bangkok's bustling stations, across its rammed roads, I felt the tolls of the trip leacing me, as I anticipated cracking open a bottle of duty free Baileys and a few bottles of Chilean merlot. After a quick (much needed shower) and change it was off to a Christmas Eve party at Eden's house. Eden lives in the same building as my Tangerine and had decked her house it in much festive spirit. THe evening was a wonderful blend of old and new friends - reconnecting with some people I hadn't seen in years (Gareth and Jamie) and meeting others for the first time (Eden and Chantal). What started off so civilised - we were even served some soup - soon turned into the kind of gathering where every conceivable drink was poured, every drop drunk. We reminisced, fought about music and introduced each other to new stuff (Gareth and Evie thanks for Lissie, Jamie don't forget about Darwin Deez) shouted over each other and went on a midnight booze run and had an argument with a dildo wielding neighbour (rather don't ask). Needless to say none of us were feeling very clever in the morning. But it Christmas! And so we soldiered through our brutal hangovers, put on some Christmas rokkies and headed off to a beautiful buffet style lunch at The World restuarant.

Silly season could not be a more apt description. The four of us - Yvie, Gareth, Eden and myself, were at that point of hangover where it was only possible for us to make sense to each other. The plethora of dishes and delicacies had us stupified, the view of Bangkok held us spellbound. As we fed the legacy of the night before we took advantage of our lack of adult supervision and added totally inappropriate behaviour and toilet humour into the festive mix.

Despite the nausea and inconceivable thirst, Gareth and I were in adventurous spirits and so decided we would try oysters for the first time, Aphrodisiac?! I think not! Nothing turns you OFF faster than a boger that tastes like the ocean's ass! This is one taste I will never acquire. Later we all had a little egg nog for the first time and here was a gamble that paid off. The potent alcohol/egg mix made me a fire breathing dragon and certainly took the edge off. We munched our way through prawns and cheeses, salads and soups, roasts and desserts (including a magical ginger bread house). Spoonerisms were the entertainment of the day, with our muddled brains producing such fine examples as eye braai (a South African eye brow?) and plitter (the love child of poppy seeds and glitter). We left our gastronomical adventure several kgs heavier and full of festive spirits with the need to put our food babies to bed. This was the most unusual and yet merry Christmas, but the traditions were over and Evie and I were about to haul our backpacks across Bangkok and take what from here on shall be known as the Hell Train..,

To be continued...

It's Cool to Compliment

Self deprecation is in. Hell, self deprecation is the new black. And I am not talking about modesty here people, I am talking about downright dissing ourselves. It's got to a point where I cannot remember the last time I was sitting down with a group of my friends and I heard one of them say something positive about themself. No one likes an egotist, or a fat head, but to be honest I am sick of hearing people list their failings: every last dimple of cellulite, every last pimple and blackhead, every fear and phobia, every faux pas and foible. Hey! You are better than that! You are the sum of your parts and all those hang ups and neuroses fold together with all the great stuff into the most delightful package. The reason people love, or admire, or indeed are just amused by you.

This is not to say I am not a dreadful, whiny bore about all my short comings. I mean lets face it, we have been living with most of these things, in varying degrees (both physical and emotional/mental) since our teens, when we suddenly opened our eyes critically for the first time and fell into a state of hate with our own selves. We battled up hill for the best part of 10 years, trying to get to grips with all these new found reasons to dislike ourselves, trying to come to terms with curly hair and gangly legs and pangs of jealousy and ugly toes and a host of other imperfections, and just when we seem to have grown into all these attributes, it seems the mid twenties plonk a whole lot more insecurity on our plates.

So firstly, to my friends who read these restless rambles of mine, please remember that I see something (or many things) beautiful in every one of you. And sometimes those things are in fact the ones you so bitterly complain over. Your insecurities make you human, your funny toes make me laugh, I don't see cellulite I see a great ass. At this time of the year I am seeing everyone at parties all dressed up, happy from mulled wine and presents, and I can't believe how lovely everyone is, and its so easy to mull these thoughts over in our heads, while others are obsessing over whether there hair is doing that stupid thing or whether they just upset someone with their tipsy racousness. So today your mission, should you chose to except, is to tell people every time something nice about them pops into your head. Shower people with (true) compliments. Maybe it will shut them up droning on about their flaws, and get them thinking about how cool it is to compliment! 'Cause guess what, You're Beautiful!

LoveActually

Christmas movies are as a part of the festive season as mistletoe and crackers. While I usually applaud myself for a somewhat discerning taste in film, I love to wallow in the sentimentality and predictability of the Christmas film. I love the romantic scene when it snows for the first time, and the moment when Dad realises that his kids are a lot more important than his corporate job (I know its vomit inducing but I really dont care), I love seeing the elves make all the toys, and I love it when fully grown adults start believing in Father Christmas again... I love it all! But I do have a favourite. Love Actually is not just a festive classic, to me it is one of the most perfect romantic comedies ever made. The Americans tried to do it with that abortion called Valentines Day, but they just cannot recreate that sort of magic with out descending into cliche after cliche.

All the interlinking stories are about love, but love in its different guises and with its different meanings. The beauty of poor Mark's love for Juliet is made that much better by the fact that it can never be, and the humour of his little slide show is great in that desperate, English way. How many times I have believed my wasted heart would love someone until they were mummified...ah! I can never see Emma Thompson's heart get broken, with the plaintive sounds of Joni Mitchell in the background without shedding a little tear, and why oh why can't Karl and Sarah end happily ever after? Damn that phone. And yet her love for her brother is so touching too.

And so there are sad stories where you don't expect sad stories to be, and yet there is a dash to the airport, and Colin Firth and the lovely portugeuse girl learn new languages for each other, and the Rock Star realises that the love of his life may indeed be his manager (in his own words: the ugliest man on earth), and the posh prime minister falls in love with the voluptuous tea lady from the dodgy end of Wandsworth (coincidentally this may be where I live), and Colin Frissel and his BIG KNOOOOB get to have an orgy in the states, and my absolute favourites, the body doubles (Martin Freeman - Tim from The Office, and Joanna Page would become Stacey of Gavin and Stacey) hook up in a charmingly conventional way considering the nudity, and generally I just feel all warm inside, and ready to believe in love and human happiness and all those things again.

So Merry Christmas! And if anyone is feeling a little grinchy out there I recommend you pop it in the dvd player and feel your heart grow three sizes.

PS - to avoid total syrupy Christmas overkill, should be watched in conjunction with A Nightmare Before Christmas, just for the sake of balance.

Francesca's Secret Kitchen

London has a secret. It's called underground dining. For the last two years people all over London have been holding what could be described as a mix between a dinner party and a restaurant. I have been slightly tardy at getting in on the trend but now that I have I am convinced.

Having heard rave reviews of Francesca's Secret Kitchen (one friend described it as being transported back to the era of The Great Gatsby) we decided that this was where we would start our underground dinner party adventures. Francesca's Secret Kitchen is run by two Francescas. It is hosted in one of their houses, and basically you email to reserve a booking, they serve up to 20 people an evening, and host about twice a month. You are served a four course meal and the suggested 'donation' is £30.

After an early false start, last Friday my dearest girlfriends and I braved the chill and frost and headed to Camden to Francesca's Secret Kitchen. Having never been I really wasnt sure what to expect, but as we were ushered over the threshold I saw that we were basically coming into a home, albeit a beautifully decorated one. Warm, and lit by the glow of scores of candles, our dinner tables had already been set, each one with different linens, and those who had arrived before us were mingling in the observatory. The house was cluttered (in a most pleasant way) with meaningful objects from all over the world. The design aesthetic consistes of a meaningful, rather mismatched bric-a-brac, a delightful shambles of sentimental pieces collected over a time. A huge wall in the observatory was taken up by books and knick knacks, photos and postcards. The bathroom (just a little guest loo) was wallpapered with crazy wall paper covered in leaves and monkeys (?!) with a wall dedicated to travel books and ornamental pineapples - just the right amount of whimsy for me.

After a precursory drink we headed to our tables. Some tables were mixed with more that one group, creating a really relaxed non threatening environment to meet new people. We had brought our own wine, and so as the bottles were opened everyone began unwinding from the weeks stresses as we tucked into the first course of pulses soup with mushrooms. I am not the biggest fan of soup but this was truely extraordinary. In fact at one point I thought Tiff was going to get into the bowl with the soup. The next course was roasted peppers with a tuna sauce - the low point in an evening of culinary brilliance.

Away from the buzz of a restaurant and the annoying hovering of a waiter, dinner with friends is a lot more relaxing. Conversation flowed, uninhibited by the gentle hum of the other diners, as we were served our main course. Beautiful beef stewed in red wine, served with polenta, it was the most glorious adaptation of traditional South African pap and vlies, and was the subject of much hilarity as Tiff continued to refer to it as beef and 'placenta'.

Dessert was a refreshing orange tarte served with chocolate ice cream, and followed by espresso and mint tea.

The evening was certainly a success. It was lovely to have the intimacy of a dinner party without the inevitable rushing off of the host every moment to deal with some new emergency in the kitchen. There's also something pleasantly voyeuristic (in an non seedy way) about going into the home of someone you don't know and seeing how they live - especially when they live so beautifully. My anticipation had been of more interaction with the hosts, however their absence just allowed everyone to get on with it. So, thank you to the Francesca's for opening up their home and feeding us so well. If you are interested in having dinner at Francesca's look here.

November

The city life is starting to grate on me, and I can feel this South East Asia break is more necessary than ever. However, I have had a little boost this month, as I cannot deny that London is a wonderful place to live come November.

As it get's colder, people gladly reach for new coats, boots and scarves, and for a while the cold feels like a novelty, and red noses and cheeks flushed with chill are endearing. The first morning I saw my breath I shivered with excitement and was glad for my new multi coloured mittens as I crunched purposefully over the first sprinkling of frost on the grass. The delicate dusting of frost is not the only beauty nature offers us in November. She also gives as the rusts, reds and russets of autumn, the leaves turning before they drop off the trees and cushion the pavement in a rustling carpet. The colours are a show I missed out on live in the wonderful but steady climate of Durban for most of my life. Now the foliage fills me with wonder as I whizz past it on busses and trains, and I find myself picking up fallen leaves on my way home, and finding them crushed and crumpled days letter in my pockets.

November air carries the non threatening scent of gun powder as fireworks light up the skies in flares of celebration. This year it threatened rain, as usual, but people turned out in hoardes on Clapham Common for an impressive show. My brother Rory laughed as I Oohed and Aahed at the pops and bangs. Fireworks fill me with that wonder that gets harder to hold onto the older you get. They are magical, and incomprehensible for an artistic soul like myself who has no knowledge of the endless possibilities of Chemistry.

And so, I love November - despite the corporate crappiness of early onset Christmas, with every coffee chain printing red ribbons on their cups and stores exploding in tinsel in early October, I am still somewhat entranced by the twinkly lights adorning Oxford Street and Regent Street. I look forward to the mulled wine and mince pies and mistletoe that accompanies this beginning of winter, and despite the cold I am glad I live in London.

Critics of Christina - shut it!

I have posted about Christina Hendricks before and since then the world has become even more obsessed with the buxom beauty of Mad Men. In 2010 Esquire polled female readers who voted her sexiest women of the year (I whole heartedly agree) and UK Equalities Minister Lynn Featherstone highlighted her as a positive role model for young women. "There is such a sensation when there is a curvy role model. It shouldn't be so unusual." I think she is down right gorgeous, glamorous and sexy as hell, and when I see her rocking a wiggle dress or a designer gown I wonder at the wisdom that maintains that clothes look better on skeletons...Anyway enough of that old chestnut and on to the main reason for this post.

Christina at the 2010 Emmys

Christina Sans Make Up

Recently, Christina was spotted in a state of less than perfection, which has gotten the old blogger bitches typing double fast, to ridicule her, call her fat, frumpy, plain etc. The glee with which they have denounced her beauty and derided her is obscene, and it would be easy to wonder what these arch critics themselves look like, but instead of being nasty I am just going to say that I think it's great! Christina is gorgeous! And Hallelujah, Christina is normal. Sometimes she has to pop to the shops in good old comfy clothes. Sometimes she can't be bothered to pop her contacts in. Sometimes she wants to give her face a break for all the make up, and just pull her hair into a pony tail. She is just like the rest of us. She needs a little make up and some magic undies to look her best. Friday night I glam up, with all the glitter, mascara and hair spray that entails, and then on Saturday morning I look like Ozzy did my eyeliner and I fall out of bed and into a hoodie and jeans, my only purpose to locate a fry up as soon as possible. To say I don't look my best would be an understatement. But I am usually with someone I love, laughing over the previous nights drunken transgressions and mortifications, and not giving a flying fork about what I look like. It makes me love Christina even more if that's her Saturday morning ritual too.

Where thou art, that is home - Emily Dickinson

Over a month without a post - pitiful I know! Lame excuse, but life has been pretty crazy busy over the last month, and mainly due to a gypsy relocation - that's right me and my little caravan got all packed up and moved house. And what a painful process moving always is - lucky it is a lot like child birth in that you forget how hideous it is as soon as the last box is unpacked, otherwise we really would never move house again, and they would be taking me out of my current abode in, well, a box.

I find that, without fail, halfway through every moving process I vow to never buy another thing I can not consume, and contemplate leaving the rest of my crap to the next poor occupier, as I push seldom worn clothes and never read books into straining cartons. As per usual, I found long lost (and forgotten) socks and hair pins coexisting peacefully in the forest of hair and dust swirling under my bed. Down sofas were a myriad of lighters and pens - both items long thought to be extinct in our house hold, and behind bookshelves a singular bauble or Quality Street - remnants of a festive season long passed. Successful packing I find starts with sorting everything by type, ensuring that books are in one box, toiletries in another, a bag for shoes etc. However towards the end I always find there are items that missed their boxes sealing that now end up in an ever increasing pile of jumble that I no longer want or need. But as I have already packed its mate in another box, or promised it to someone who has failed to collect it I know I am going to have to make the ultimate moving error - a miscellaneous box. Filled with batteries that may or may not be flat, long obsolete phone chargers, mismatched earrings and forgotten coffee cups. I know the likelihood is that it will move with me, unopened, into eternity.

Unpacking, for me anyway, is a far happier prospect - I love rediscovering my possessions in a new environment. Putting pictures on walls, and loading shelves with trinkets gives old mementos a new lease on life. This move was even more exciting than usual - for I was moving from a room reminiscent of Harry Potter's cupboard under the stairs into an Olympic sized boudoir. My double bed, swaddled in layers of violet, lavender and plum, seems endless and I can lay in it for hours enjoying my fourth floor view of Mary Poppins-esque London chimneys. I revel in the fact that it takes me more than four steps to cross to the door, and I have so much cupboard space (comparatively) I am tempted to store one cardigan per shelf. The paint is peeling around the windows, the carpets probably witnessed the days of Thatcher and I am not mad for cream walls, but none of it matters - it's huge and it's mine! Home, for the moment, is certainly where my heart is.

Roma - EAT, Pray, Love

Why Elizabeth Gilbert found it necessary to visit three countries to Eat Pray and Love I do not know, as I found Rome facilitated all three just fine. I am gonna do three separate posts about Rome, the first entitled EAT...

Our first night in the eternal city my mum and I headed out late and were really only interested in being fed and watered and heading back to bed. We chose a restaturant I had found recommended on the web called Antico Casale. I felt like I was in an Italian film - vespas in the background, checked tableclothes, a coltish alley cat wrapping itself around the table legs in the hopes of a few scraps. Not a tourist in sight, our limited phrase book got good exercise as we tried to italian our way through the menu. Our tongues, loosened by a pleasant 3 Euro caraffe of casa de vino, butchered the names of our dishes, but the waiter listened patiently.

Upon the arrival of our meals I realised how the English speaking world has misinterpreted pasta - instead of being about endless ingredients, spices and herbs, the key here seemed to be simplicity and freshness. My gnocchi (perfection) was served with cherry tomatoes and sticky, creamy tuscan cheese and was a revalation of earthy tastes, while my mum had a hearty portion of spaghetti with prawns and zucchini, both rich flavours harmonising, without being stampeded by a tomato or cream base. Heavenly, and so simple. We finished with a shared scoop of italian gelato - creamy and tasting perfectly of nut truffle.

As we discussed our meals - bowled over by the purity of the food (Oh god, I sound evangelical and we are not even on the PRAY post yet...) - we realised that the combinations were simple enough, it was the quality of the ingredients that we don't have in the rest of the world.

Our other highly notable culinary experience was on day 3. After a tiresome morning of touristing around Rome the mater and I made a beeline for Obika, a bar with a difference. Pointed in this direction by fabulous foodie Jo, Obika is a mozzarella bar - the first of it's kind. It's got a Japanese zen feeling to it, and after the chaos of an infinite number of trattoria it's simple menus of mozzarellas and accompaniment seemed a blessing.

There was a choice of four buffalo mazzarellas, ranging from strong and smoky to creamy and sweet. I opted for the sweet and creamy variety, partnered with basil pesto and beautiful cherry tomatoes, while mum decided on a stronger version with salami and fresh basil. Mine arrived in a riot of the Italian tricolore, beautifully laid out and looking all freshly picked. The best word for this meal would be LUSH. Some divine combination of Italian sun and soil seems to render this sort of produce some sort of platonic ideal. The tomatoes become worthy of Pablo Neruda poetry, the mozzarella conjures up scenes of pastoral bliss and all served with a crisp white wine - I felt certain this was how food was meant to be. I managed to barter some tomatoes and pesto for some salami and was so glad I had. All round it was the most different and best meal I had in Rome. I hear one has opened in London, a hard act to follow but I am going to give it a shot.

And so that ridiculous amount of adjectives brings to a close the EAT post.

A Million Little Pieces - Days 13 and 14, A Fiction and Nonfiction Book

I am gonna be combining Days 13 and 14 for this post, which may seem oxymoronic (is that a word) but hang on and you'll understand why...

James Frey's book A Million Little Pieces caused a media sensation. A harrowing account of drug addiction and rehabilitation, the book was billed as completely factual. Under closer inspection however it appears that Frey had perhaps overstated how truthful his account was, and in fact had used a lot of poetic licence and portrayed his perception of his experiences, rather than what actually happened. To add insult to injury, the queen of melodrama Oprah Winfrey had added A Million Little Pieces to her book list and thus took his 'betrayal' personally, and so invited him on her show under false pretences and launched a blatant attack on him and his writing, bleating on about how he could lie to her, how could he do this to her.

Obviously at the time of all these goings on I was living in some sort of media bubble (also known as Grahamstown, where I went to University) and so was unaware of the shit storm brewing around this particular book. In 2006 I picked it up in a book store, and it was prefaced with a sort of apology and explanation by Frey, obviously to account for what had happened in the media, and so I read it quite aware that it was not a totally true account. I was blown away. Frey takes language and pushes it to its limits. He adds an urgency to everything he writes by making the sentences contain more thoughts and feelings then they were meant to. I found that most of all what overawed me was his ability to show how time has different meanings when we are in different states of mind. His desperation shows in the way he attempts to pack the hordes of emotions flying through him into these long running sentences, which seem to collide with one another and roll over each other, until I felt I was reading what he was feeling. I long to have this power over words so that I could magic emotions into being, and the fact that he has honed his craft to this effectiveness meant to me that the truthfullness of his account was not nearly as important as the fact that the way he had described it made me believe he knew what it was to feel that way.

If you have not read A Million Little Pieces, or its follow up My Friend Leonard, I would urge you to do so, as Frey manages to examine this period in his life with such a unflinching eye, and with so little compassion for his own choices, that it urges you to do the same in your own life. It is a work that profoundly effected me and the way I saw mental illness and addiction, and I think that regardless of its factual merits, Frey's style is certainly one to learn from. Read from the excerpt below:

"The clock holds me nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere. There is nothing else but now and the shifting depth of the night. I sit at a table alone smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and thinking and surviving. I should not be here or anywhere. I should not be breathing or taking space. I should not have been given this moment or anything else. I should not have this opportunity again to live. I do not deserve or deserve anything else yet it is here and I am here and I have all of it still. I won't have it again. This moment and this chance they are the same and they are mine if I choose them and I do. I want them. Now and as long as I can have them they are both precious and fleeting and gone in the blink of an eye don't waste them. A moment and an opportunity and a life, all in the unseen ticking of a clock holding me nowhere. My heart is beating. The walls are pale and quiet. I am surviving."

Ribbon and Thread - Day 12, Whatever Tickles Your Fancy

My fancy is always tickled by the awesomeness of Etsy. I can get lost in its quirky, creative pages for hours on end. If you want to feel that this global village is a little smaller, then all you need is a little smaller then all you need to do is order something from one of its variety of sellers - you will receive service beyond anything you would expect from any local store. I have yet to receive a piece from a blessed etsy seller that was not originally (and beautifully) packaged, with a personalised note - long live customer service and the human touch.

And so I would love to invite you to meet (and browse the wares of) my new favourite etsy seller: Ribbon and Thread. I am a huge fan of the handy canvas holdall and own a varied collection myself - cute, good for the environment, better than the crappy old plastic packet - Bags for Life are the way forward, and this stylish collection is too good to turn down. Hand made (with much love) by my dear friend Bridget, each one is hand painted with unique designs. The totes are trendy, arty and well made. Being, sadly, artistically mediocre at best myself, I marvel at what Bridget produces. Next payday I will be putting in my order (I am a sucker for the London print) and I urge you to do the same - the fun Bubble design for a friend to haul around her vintage shopping finds, the sneaker design for a college student's book bag, or one of the birds for Nana's knitting.

Another Place - Day 11, A Photo of You Taken Recently

This picture was taken during my recent trip to Liverpool. I was so caught up with all the Beatles action that I never posted about the fact that I went to see Anthony Gormley's work Another Place. While it may look like I am just crouching behind a rather large rusty guy with his somewhat unimpressive junk on show, he is in fact one of 100 permanently erected figures along 2 miles of Crosby Beach outside of Liverpool. It was a windy day, with sand flying all over the place, and in our boots and layers we were ill prepared for the excursion. The beach was not too well sign posted, and we asked dog walkers, joggers, and shell collecting children along the way to make sure we were going in the right direction. And then suddenly as we came between two sand dunes, we saw them. Lone figures, dotted along the beach, randomly spaced. Some up to their calves in sand, others being lapped by the tide.

It's a strange piece, and yet oddly meaningful. To know that they are always there, in any season, immovable, unchanging, all the same and yet weathering differently.

Simple Pleasures - Day 10, A Photo Taken of You Over Ten Years Ago

This photo of me was taken at least twenty years ago. I must have been about 3 or 4, and we were still living in our house in Greenwich before we moved to South Africa. It was summer time, and even at that age I remember the magic time that was. Long evenings, that stretched on to infinity, when my brother and I really couldn't understand the need for a bed time.

This is one of a set of photos taken on the same day. Everyone smiling into the camera - my mum and dad making a bonfire, my brother barely a toddler naked and grinning in a little paddling pool, in the background trimmings from the garden piled high on a cheerful green wheelbarrow.

At the bottom of the garden, along the fence, raspberry bushes grew rapidly, heavy with fruit for a few weeks of the year. That day my mum gave me the bowl and told me to pick until it was full. Her and dad had explained to me how to check that they were ripe and to pluck them carefully from the bushes so that I did not squash them. As I went along I squashed the odd one here and there, until my fingers were stained pink and the nails red rimmed. I remember the tart sweetness of the berries, and looking up to smile into the camera, filled with a days worth of simple pleasures.

Global Graffitti - Day 9, A Photo(s) That You Took

Whenever I go away somewhere I always look for the local street art. I love the spontaneity and unexpectedness of it. I love how in some cities it feels natural and blends in with the great architecture and dilapidated buildings, having every right to be there. I love the fact that great street art gets imitated by artists and marketers alike, and that it owns the spaces it fills and reflects the people that live there. And so here are a collection of street art pictures that I have taken here in London and on my travels. Hope you like them:

Rad Stencils off Tottenham Court Road

Poodle found astray in Shoreditch

Space Invader in Covent Garden

Roller Pig in Barcelona

Green Lady Paste Up in Berlin

Graffittied Section of the Berlin Wall

Donkey - a symbol of Barcelona

Femme Fatale stencil in Berlin

A Selection of Secrets - Day 8, A Picture That Makes You Sad

I am not sure that there are that many pictures that make me sad, generally. But every week when I click on to the PostSecret blog, and read the posts I seem to live the whole spectrum of human emotions. I posted about this wonderful site here once before, and here I have a collection of a few sad ones. Sorry to do this to you kids on a Friday...

Picture Perfect - Day 7, A Photo That Makes You Happy

This photo is of my best friend and I. It was a self portrait taken just before I left for London. I was throwing a hens party and Evie and I had her car rammed full of a billion pink balloons. We were running late, but one look at ourselves in the rearview mirror and I quickly took this shot. The drive to the party was hysterical, balloons bumping about our heads, the AC trying to keep the Durban summer at bay, me fighting them off Evie's face so that she could see the road, stereo blaring Zeppelin. It was a bitter sweet time. No work, all play - knowing that I would soon be leaving. My family were all over here already, and I spent my last month with good friends having good times and doing exactly what I wanted when I wanted. Wonderful and sad together. This picture reminds me of that time.

This is the newest picture of Evie and I. I made it the other day, as a pick me for the office. Everytime I feel a little miserable at work, I look at it and remember that in 5 months I will be somewhere in South East Asia with my best friend. On a beach, far from all the madness of the city and work and everything else. And so this picture also makes me happy.

Forever - Day 6, Whatever Tickles Your Fancy

Okay so I have already managed to lose a couple of days here, so this thirty day post may take a little longer than planned - oh well! Anyway today I am to blog about whatever tickles my fancy. And today what tickled my fancy was someone else's blog :)

The Slow Track to Everywhere is in fact my auntie's blog, and will be most interesting reading as it develops as her plan is to document her and her husband's seven year circumnavigation of the earth on their 35ft boat, Forever (unbelievably awesome, I know!). I have heard some of her stories, in her emails sent from the high seas, and others around dinner tables at various family functions, but I am looking forward to reading the complete works as she writes them, and hear her tales of her bohemian trip complete with exotic destinations, wonderful people and the odd bit of drama I am sure. The first instalment has me gagging for a trip to Palma already, so this is not a good sign for my travel budget - just hearing the prelude to their Great Trek is enough to make me want to jump up off the couch and run down to my nearest marina.

So if you are an avid blog reader, or just a travel enthusiast, allow my dear Auntie Peggy and Uncle Mike and their intrepid exploits on Forever to inspire you.

The Importance of Being Wilde - Day 5, My Favourite Quote

If you ever go to Paris, make sure you visit the Pere Lechaise Cemetery. It was a sharp, frigid day in November when my friend Tarryn and I visited it. We were 18 and had been spending our gap year before university abroad. We were hungry for new experiences, and had learnt so much in our few months away from home. Yet we were still so impressionable, sensitive and naive. Experiences that would no pass over me then profoundly changed my outlook.

The graveyard was icy - the grass crunching beneath our feet, our breath swirling in the air before us. It was strange to me to come to a cemetery, pick up a map and then hunt down the resting places of great men and women. I felt disrespectful as we clambered over the gravestones of unknown residents to marvel at the remains of Ingres and to hold a moment of silent vigil at the Marlboro and condom strewn grave of Jim Morrison. Pere Lechaise Cemetery is on a hill, and we made our slow progression up to the site of Oscar Wilde's memorial. As we came to the apex of the hill we saw a white, stone memorial. A large modernist angel dominates the tomb, and it reminded me of something in a Pharaoh's tomb. As Tarryn and I moved closer we realised that the surface of the angel was mottled in shades of raspberry, scarlet, fuschia, cherry and plum. Upon closer inspection these smudges were a collection of hundreds of kisses left by admirers. The grave is marked with a sign asking visitors to respect, and not deface it. And so, in deference to, or perhaps in spite of this sign, faithful followers have left this mark only. We were touched by the dedication to Wilde so long after his death, by the love he seemed to inspire. We had come seeking Morrison and in the process had found Wilde. And so we rouged our lips and silently pressed our pursed mouths to the cold stone.

We walked back down to the entrance quietly, mindful of the things we had encountered and suddenly well aware of our own mortality. Aware of the greatness that had gone before.

Over the next year I read every bit of Wilde I could get my hands on and fell deeper and deeper under the spell that had been cast when I first saw that strange angel. Wilde's wit was as sharp as a razor, his insight profound, and so below I present you with a select collection of Wilde's quotes:

"Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination."

"Arguments are to be avoided; they are always vulgar and often convincing."

"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."

"I am not young enough to know everything."

"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you."

"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth."

"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world."

"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train."

"I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works."

"I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being."

"I see when men love women. They give them but a little of their lives. But women when they love give everything."

101 Books to Read Before You Die - Day 4, My Favourite Book

Another impossible decision imposed upon me, and yet again I shall avoid it with aplomb. As you may know I am a passionate reader, and I pride myself on reading books that teach me something. I have read a lot of good books in my time - some of which I have thoroughly enjoyed, others of which have been rather bitter disappointments. Despite my dedication to literature generally there are certain gaping, and rather embarrassing holes in my reading, and so in order to remedy this I set myself a task. Exclusive Books, a book store in South Africa released a list of 101 Books to Read Before You Die. I have been reading in and around this list for about a year now.

Unfortunately, occasionally I get distracted by some lesser popular culture (lost a couple of weeks of valuable reading time to those bloody Twilight books) but I am moving through it, and reading some goodies that might be related to the list along the way. I have also invested in some of the ones left to read which I consider a step in the right direction too. So here it is:

The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien
The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
The Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
The Poisonwood Bible - Barbara Kingsolver
The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho
Life of Pi - Yann Martel
The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
The God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy
Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
Spud - John van de Ruit
The Power of One - Bryce Courtenay
The Hobbit - J.R.R. Tolkien
Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis de Bernieres
Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts
Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger
Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Disgrace - J. M. Coetzee
My Sister's Keeper - Jodi Picoult
The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
Catch-22 - Joseph Heller
Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett
Gone with the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
Cry, the Beloved Country - Alan Paton
The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time - Mark Haddon
Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
Atonement - Ian McEwan
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand
The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje
Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
Love in the Time of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
I Know This Much is True - Wally Lamb
A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
Nineteen Eighty-Four - George Orwell
War And Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Clan of the Cave Bear - Jean M. Auel
The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera
The Little Prince - Antoine de Saint-Exupery
The Secret History - Donna Tartt
Possession - A. S. Byatt
Perfume - Patrick Suskind
The House of the Spirits - Isabel Allende
Chocolat - Joanne Harris
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency - Alexander McCall Smith
Q & A - Vikas Swarup
Dune - Frank Herbert
Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
Fugitive Pieces - Anne Michaels
River God - Wilbur Smith
Little Women - Louisa May Alcott
Lord of the Flies - William Golding
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe - C.S. Lewis
Mort - Terry Pratchett
Crime and Punishment - Feodor Dostoyevsky
The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood
East of Eden - John Steinbeck
The Name of the Rose - Umberto Eco
The Other Boleyn Girl - Philippa Gregory
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas - John Boyne
The Prince of Tides - Pat Conroy
Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier
Bridget Jones' Diary - Helen Fielding
The Shipping News - E. Annie Proulx
Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
Animal Farm - George Orwell
The Red Tent - Anita Diamant
Watership Down - Richard Adams
Magician - Raymond E Feist
Middlemarch - George Eliot
The Day of the Jackal - Frederick Forsyth
We Need to Talk About Kevin - Lionel Shriver
The Magus - John Fowles
The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk
The Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
The Shell Seekers - Rosamunde Pilcher
The Colour Purple - Alice Walker
The Beach House - James Patterson
Doctor Zhivago - Boris Pasternak
Kringe in 'n Bos - Dalene Matthee
The World according to Garp - John Irving
Northen Lights - Phillip Pullman
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
Shades - Marguerite Poland
Kane and Abel - Jeffrey Archer
Fiela se kind - Dalene Matthee
Story of an African Farm - Olive Schreiner
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
The Magic Faraway Tree - Enid Blyton
Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe
Winnie-the-Pooh - A.A. Milne

Weapon of Mass Distraction - Day3, My Favourite TV Programme

Choosing my favourite TV programme? It's unnatural, like choosing your favourite child. I know people who scathingly deem television a 'Weapon of Mass Distraction' and point all their furniture at a fireplace instead of at the 'idiot box'. They have never heard of McDreamy, or The Stig. They have no idea that America's greatest president by far was Martin Sheen, and that the reason men are choosing to wear suits again is thanks to the smooth masculinity of Don Draper. They didn't gasp when Mr Darcy dove into the lake and came out wet shirted, or cry when the Friends left that purple apartment for the last time.

As you can see I am a real television aficionado, a follower of great (and sometimes mediocre) television. I enjoy the weekly morsels of drama and comedy that get doled out to you in hourly increments, and I love to gorge on a box set, and not move from the screen for a weekend at least. I have indulged in total and utter brain trash (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Heroes) and lauded myself for my intelligent viewing decisions (Six Feet Under, Dexter). I have learnt lessons from TV, and quoted wisdom (Yes I am one of those people). I feel passionate about this most simple, and most corrupted, of cultural products, and so I cannot choose one, but I can give you a list of shows, in no particular order, I think you should not flick past...

The Sopranos

Mad Men

True Blood

Six Feet Under

Greys Anatomy

30 Rock

Glee

That 70s Show

Two and Half Men

The West Wing

Only Fools and Horses

Gavin and Stacey

My Name is Earl

The Mighty Boosh

South Park

The IT Crowd

Dexter

Fawlty Towers

Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice - Day 2, My Favourite Film

It's so hard having favourites. Very restrictive - I like different things, at different times, for different reasons. However I think everyone has a film that they can always watch. When there is nothing else on you pop the DVD in, when you are browsing through channels and you chance upon it you stop surfing.

Beetlejuice is that film for me. I was four when it was made, and not much older the first time I saw it, and yet it never scared me, just fascinated me. Macabre though it is, it actually took all the fear out of death for me. Burton's stripes and swirls fascinated me from the onset, the homemade horror of it appealed to me - it was like a trip inside an imagination your parents didn't want you to see. And I see so much of his future films that I enjoy in these earlier baby steps. Michael Keaton's Beetlejuice is still one of my favourite villians - his diabolical plans are in no way personal, and he makes no apologies for his revolting behaviour, or wanting to marry a minor (Hmm - dodge). The hysterical concept of the after life being a civil servant run nightmare, staffed by suicide victims, dawned on me as I grew older, and appealed to my flippant sense of humour, and despite the strangeness of the host of characters, I find the wholesome, sweetness of the Maitlands and their floral house quite endearing (although it has always upset me that poor Geena Davis had to spend eternity in that god awful dress).

So yes, that is my favourite film. If you feel like a dose of young Burton, with some Winona, gothic humor, stop motion and Harry Belafonte thrown in, then pop down to your video store or onto Amazon now and organise that shit!

Almost Famous - Day One, My Favourite Song

Okay, the truth is I have gotten a little lazy over here lately. I get distracted by the (lame) machinations of so called 'real' life and forget the pure joy of chronicling my random little thoughts and experiences. Sometimes thinking of something to write seems like a chore, and so to get me back into the swing of things I am taking a little tip from the lovely Steph and decide to do the 30 Days Tag challenge. Basically I have a prescribed list of topics, of a personal nature, that I am going to blog on - one post per day. So wish me luck kids...Here goes Day One:

Tiny Dancer - Elton John

My favourite song is Tiny Dancer by Elton John. My mum, a lovely lady with dubious taste in music, has long been a fan of the self proclaimed 'pink poof' and I grew up with many of his legendary lyrics floating around my home and indoctrinating me to love the ballad. However, not until I watched Almost Famous did I realise that one of his songs was in fact my favourite. I think Tiny Dancer's association with the movie is what sealed it for me. This is a film about a bunch of girls in the seventies who have let go of everything that society expected of them and followed their passion (frequently that passion led them to the beds of rockstars, but have you seen Billy Crudup and Jason lee? I'm not complaining). They wear great clothes, listen to great music, take pictures on polaroids, and call themselves BandAids. The scene on the bus, when they begin singing Tiny Dancer is one of my favourite in movie history. It's about solidarity and friendship and acceptance and its one of those moments that if you are part of it you will remember forever. When William Miller tells Penny Lane 'I have to go home' and she replies 'You are home'. I have this feeling that if I was there I would be home too. It has inspired my best friend and I to call each other Ruby Tuesday and Tangerine Tree respectively, and makes one of my greatest dreams to follow a band around for a summer...All that from a song...

As if it wasn't great enough already, Dave Grohl then bestowed his blessing on the tiny song by playing a ridiculous version on a US Talk Show. Greatness.

City Image of the Day

The debuting of a new feature... Since I got my darling iPhone, I find that more often I stop to take a quick snap of some fancy or perculiarity in this beloved city... I then post it on that book of faces, or MMS it to a pertinent friend or something, and so I have decided to post a few of these random snaps here intermitently.

So ther first one to be posted I took on Monday this week. I was on my way home, walking past our local florist and as I passed by imagine my delight when I looked into the truck parked outside and saw these shelves of perfect flowers. Stacked up like that they reminded me of towels in a linen cupboard, smelling all fresh and clean. Lovely blocks of colour, textured by the petals. So pretty...

Elephants on Parade

One of the highlights of this here London summer that we have been having are the herd of elephants that colonised our fair city. Called the Elephant Parade it was a wildlife welfare project to benefit the Asian Elephant, who sadly is very seriously endangered.

Over 250 elephant sculptures, decorated in a variety of ways by everyone from famous designers to children, were displayed around London, outdoors, in areas where Londoners and tourists could actually interact with them. They were richly designed and beautifully decorated and they really became a part of the cityscape. Children climbed on them, at lunch time we sat on their plinths and ate our sandwiches, at time I orientated myself by them, and whenever I was in an unfamiliar area I found myself having a little hunt for a new one I hadn't seen before.

The process was that they were among us for a few months, and then they were removed away to a field and auctioned off to the highest bidder, having raised funds and awareness. And alas now they have been taken off to their new homes and London is left feeling rather forlorn as we wander past the spaces the colourful beasts once filled.

Dr Sketchy's Anti Art School

"...and clover being green is something I've never seen, 'Cause I was born to be blue."

I would never have thought of putting burlesque and cabaret performance together with sketching, but I sure am glad they did. Welcome to Dr Sketchy's Anti Art School. One part performance, one part art, one part cider - three of my favourite things. To be honest I really couldn't be sure what to expect when Bridget and I made our way over to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. The outing was Bridge's birthday present from me. Bridget is a talented, if a little out of practice, artist, whereas everything I draw ends up looking like I did it with my feet.

And so we arrived, rather expectantly, got our drinks and got settled. Our host for the evening was a slim, elegant gent with a beautifully cut suit and enviable eye make-up named Dusty Shadows. He explained that Dr Sketchy was started in New York, where it was taken very seriously by budding artists and graphic designers. In London it tends to consist of a bunch of tipsy amateurs more there for giggly doodling than any serious artistic pursuits. This suited us fine.

Dr Sketchy has all range of models and performers that grace their stage. At this session we

were treated to the Blue Lady, styled as Vladimir Tretchikoff's 'Chinese Girl' she sang old standards about 'being blue'. Her sulky, velvet voice couldn't be taken seriously when paired with splendid blue face paint as she drawled "...and clover being green is something I've never seen, 'Cause I was born to be blue." She posed for us, but I managed somehow to draw her looking like Miss Piggy?! And while Bridge's drawing's got stronger as we went along, mine some how managed to get weaker, and by the time we move on to sketching a camp, cabaret singing cowboy called Mr Meredith, my 'art' had stopped resembling anything remotely human.

The whole evening was a different experience, a stand out event in my week. While I became more aware that my artistic skills are somewhat lacking, I realised that I still very much enjoy trying to draw. And so my dear Bridget and I are looking forward to our next visit, and hopefully soon I will do something that is at least passable enough to post!

Isle of Wight 2010

Sorry about the silence. There has been rather a lot of work related drama over here, and this has caused my creative endeavours to take a bit of a back seat, not a good thing when the catharsis of writing is what keeps one sane! Anyway, since we last 'spoke' I have had a rather large adventure, my favourite type of adventure in fact. A weekend of song, sun and silly outfits all round at the Isle of Wight festival.

I have long wanted to go to this particular festival as it is the godfather of the English festival. It is the setting of one of the greatest Rock 'n Roll moments of all time. In 1970 Jimi Hendrix played to 600 000 people on the Isle of Wight, in his last major performance. Jimi came on round midnight to give everything he has left to give. Within three weeks he would be dead. Opening with a distorted version 'of ‘God Save The Queen’, he looks troubled, but sung and played with what has been described by some as a savage grace'. Someone sets the stage on fire after his set, like a wake for the 1960s. After Jimi's performance, and the havoc wreaked on the Island by its 600 000 hippie guests, the Isle of Wight would not host a festival for another 32 years.

The festival is now pretty corporate with its Marlboro only cigarette booths, ITV sponsorship and exclusive sale of Carling, however the energy of the crowd is reminiscent of its optimistic hippie ancestors. An older audience means less surly, stand offish teens, and more ridiculous twenty something eager to learn from the free spirited community left in their parent's generation. There were many a tie dyed sexagenarian floating around in a Debbie Harry bubble of euphoria as Blondie blasted the crowd with hits that don't seem to have aged at all, and ladies in their fifties were launched onto the shoulders of graduates as we all bemoaned our Hearts of Glass. Paternal types disseminated baby wipes to grossed out twenty five year olds as we all waited in the queues for lavatory facilities that at best could be described as short long drops (ick). Everywhere I looked were society's escapees, doused in glitter, sucked into Lycra, be-wellied and ready to rock out to anything from The Strokes to Crowded House. I bought a flower garland to wear in my hair, and was only too charmed when a spaced out lady wearing a hemp dress asked me if I had found Robin Hood yet, because I looked just like Maid Marion.

Maid Marion??

Londoners who would normally be found shouting at an overzealous commuter gave up on charging their iPhones (myself included), and instead of recording every moment on their cameras gave in to the experience and chatted to the person next to them as they queued for cider or basic sanitation. The sun shone for us, and by the time Paul McCartney took up the stage on Sunday it didn't matter that the heavens opened. In fact it was a blessing, as it served to wash away the wee that some ingrate had found it necessary to hurl into the crowd. My companions on this adventure, Tiff and Lara, were rather revoltingly splattered, but god bless the healing (and cleansing powers) of a Beatle, for after being severely anti-bacterialed, they continued to bop, and get their Hey Jude on.

Happy kids, even post the pee incident...

Sir McCartney was unbelievable. He showed himself to be every bit the Rock/Pop veteran as he charmed the crowd. I wept as he sang Here Today a tribute to John Lennon, and I felt my heart would burst forth from my chest as 45 000 people beseeched Jude not to make it bad. I am still a bit awed that I saw a Beatle, and floated for the rest of the night on that thought. After Paul left us with Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, we danced in the rain in ridiculous disposable ponchos and I couldn't think how it was possible to be any happier at that moment. Despite my dose of Year 2000 cynicism, and my inability to go an hour without sarcasm, I can't help but feel like those hippies were onto something with all their Peace and Love and Rock 'n Roll.