Girls who read Part 2

I know, I know. It's been a while. I am getting back in to the swing of things, so here's a little plagerism for starters...

by Rosemarie Urquico

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

The Wonder of the World

I am a musical aficianado of sorts, an obsessive appreciator. I can talk musical history, appreciation, origins, even throw in a few technical terms, but that is where my musical ability ends - in appreciation, not creation. I am not adding to the catalogue, I am not making music, I am not furthering the cause. I play no musical instrument and hence keys and chords mystify me and I look upon those who know a major from a minor with an air of reverance and more than a little envy.

And so with this sense of enigma in mind, I set off with a friend to find him a guitar. After looking in a catalogue, and deciding that a £60 Argos guitar with complimentary carry case was totally un-rock 'n roll, we headed to Denmark Street. Located behind Tottenham Court Road station, it is like Harry Potter's Diagon Ally - a hidden gem lined with guitar shops and musical book stores.

From the windows of half a dozen shops gleam the wood and paint of every type of 'axe'. Electric and acoustic jostle for elbow room and my eyes darted back and forth, taking in metallic paint jobs, inlaid wooden roses, straggles of strings and pedals ripe for pushing. Outside most of the shops a rock veteran or two lurk, pinching their cigarettes between calloused, nicotene stained fingers.

Some of the stores cater purely to the professional, and they smirk at our beginners uncertainty, but others patiently take down Fender after Fender and encourage us to hold them, pluck them, strum them. Shyly we make our first tentative sounds, listening to the difference in woods, in strings, in necks. We know nothing and yet nod appreciatively as one after the other's sound is described to our novice ears.

They are beautiful, and I feel like I am at the pound and should take each and every one of them home. I wonder which ones will belong to owners who will take a few lessons and cast them aside, and which ones will be used to sing a lullabye, write the next Stairway to Heaven or smashed in a fit of punk rage. I hope they will comfort lost adolescents and be toted belovedly across countries, and that they will be used to make more great rock 'n roll so an appreciator like me can keep appreciating. My friend didn't buy the guitar that day, decisions like this take time. But it looked so comfortable in his arms I hope he does soon.

"Years will come, years will go and politicians will do fuck all to make the world a better place. But all over the world young men and young women will always dream dreams and they will put those dreams into song...in future years there will be so many fantastic songs...they will be written, they will be sung, and they will be the wonder of the world..."

- The Count in The Boat that Rocked

Girls Who Read

I am not very good at finishing things, so apologies that I have not yet completed my Asia postings...they are written by hand, they are waiting, but I just need to type them out. Sorry.

Coming back to London I launched into my new job. It's insanely busy, and most days I run around like a headless chicken, with no real life/work balance what so ever. So this is just a plagerised post from someone else, something sent to me by my sweet friend Riz, that was so brilliant I wanted to repost it. I will return soon, dear readers, with more posts from my own mind I promise, but until then, enjoy...

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

"...because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgartory is better than a life in hell. Do it because a girl who reads can describe the amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled - a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accesible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows. and rightly demands, that they ebb comes along with the flow of dissapointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses - the hesitation of breath - endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a perios and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn't read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don't date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the cafe, you in the window of your room...The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colourful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed properly, of someone who is better than I am... You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take you Hemingway with you..."

Thai Time

The bus conductor is sweet and dweeby looking. He diligently hands all new passengers a damp towellete, sealed cup of waterand a ration pack of chocolate biscuits. After each stop he pours dainty cups of pepsi watered down with ice and served on a tray with a straw. During one of these pepsi breaks I ask him what time we will arrive in Chantaburi and he says six o'clock. Upon looking at his watch and seeing that mickey's hands point to ten minutes past six he smiles and says seven. I once asked Evie if Thai time was like African time. It seems I have my answer.


But it's okay, it's dusk outside, my favourite time of the day and I'm travelling by myself and not stressed, so I turn to look out the window at the country side sliding by. At that moment we pass a fleet of spirit houses sparkling in the dying sun.


I arrive at the River Guest House in Chanthaburi at about 8. I am pretty sure I have been ripped of by the cab driver and the quaint sounding guest house is a shithole. I feel like Leonardo Di Caprio in The Beach, and keep wondering if someone is going to slip me a map to the promised land and then end it all. But where else am I going to go? So I pay my money, catch up with some people online and then head upstairs to my room which is a blessing purely for the aircon and hot water (which I paid extra for). I take a shower, not sure if I am getting cleaner or dirtier, and afterwards sit down on my bed and look out the window at the view of the bridge, festively lit up, cars crossing back and forth. The bridge and their lights however have lost their charm at 3am when I still can't sleep due to the intermitently loud traffic flying over it. Oh well. Cambodia tomorrow.

But alas, no! The minibus drivers who usually ferry to and from the boarder have decided that the four of us who want to cross are not a good enough reason to go, and so we will have to wait and come back tomorrow - sorry what? Another day and night in Chanthaburi, and this overweight white girl with giant red curly hair is now target number one for all tourist scams. Suddenly all my romantic notions of the intrepid traveller are in tattters and all I want is my own bed. I head back to the River Guest House, pop down my backpack and regroup. Comisserations are offered to me by two Swiss men, the one of whom has several long hairs sprouting out of his nose and curling into his mouth which makes it difficult for me to concentrate when he explains alternative border crossing options, however they all require a half days travel and I decide to stay put until tomorrow.

And so I go for a walk in Chanthaburi - it seems the city is a centre for gem trading and every shop twinkles at me with beautifully cut jewels. Ah if only I could go home with a pocketful of rubies, but I am just looking for something that vaguely resembles western food as my tummy is not too happy with me. On my mission I stumble upon a little Thai massage parlour. Foot massage 150 baht. I look down at my poor feet - burnt in a reverse sock tan from my time on the kayak, swollen from all the hours of bussing, one still showing signs of the London cankle - not happy! They deserve this. And so I enter and the experience is much as Evie said it would be - my masseuse chats to her friends, and for the first half of my 90 minute massage watches and sings along with the strange combination of hindi music videos on tv with Thai subtitles. They are all shot in London, all in the 80s - there it it, my home, as seen through the eyes of two different cultures. Someone changes the channel and it's King Kong and it't not been dubbed! English! Not only that but now my masseuse and I share word - King Kong. And so every now and again she looks at me, smiles and says King Kong, and I say King Kong, and we smile and she continues, and my feet are glad for the massage, and I am glad for Adrian Broody and Jack Black and Naomi Watts.

Later I am back in my room and listening to my music and for the first time in years I am just listening, and doing nothing else. As I press the head phones into my skull I really hear the music, and I search for things in the audio I have never heard before and I find them, and I am glad I am stuck in Chantaburi, glad for this strange day in limbo.

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.

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.

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...

The Ideal...

"...the ideal should be to be capable of loving a woman or a man; either, a human being,

without feeling fear, restraint, or obligation..."

- Simone de Beauvior -

Post your secrets

I tend to be a bit fickle when it comes to blogs and sites. I will check them compulsively for a couple of weeks of months, and then my interest will taper off, or I will just forget. But there is one blog that I have been reading weekly for years. PostSecret is, by its own definition, an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a postcard. Every Sunday creator Frank uploads a batch of secrets, and the voyeur in me has to pop over and read these confessions, some strange, some inappropriate, and some could be mine. Every now and then one really speaks to me, or tickles me and I have to save it. This is a collection of those secrets...

Do-It-Yourself Class of 2010

Here are some pics from my wonderful prom birthday party. It was a wonderful mix of whimsy and romance - I love dress up for those reasons...You can be someone else, you can act like someone else, you get to surround yourself with things that you love but aren't necessarily for everyday or all the time! I wore a tutu, a tiara and fishnet gloves - would love to say this was my everyday attire, but alas I do not live in a fairytale (most of the time). So I have to take my Cinderella moments were I can get (or manufacture) them...

This party was a Do-It-Yourself extravaganza - all the decorations were made by my ever diligent friends, who cut out stars and made linked up paper chains, and made it a kitch/cool fiesta of epic proportions! Pink and purple, tinfoil stars - it was all totally indulgent! Everyone dressed up to the max - with an alarming amount of nerds, a few 80s throw backs, and even a bit of a tart... I was given a year book to commemorate the event - filled with ridiculous Captains Of and Most Likely Tos - will continue to give me many, many laughs!

In this case pictures are worth a thousand words, do feast your eyes on my silly theme and a handful of my ridiculous friends :) You are all wonderful!

An Open Letter to my Sixteen Year Old Self

I turned twenty six yesterday. It was birthday, and this time of the year always tends to rock my boat. Because it is a celebrated landmark, it inevitably draws attention to where you were this time last year, what you had hoped for and how far you have come. Inevitably I end up being underwhelmed by my progress and wallow in existential crises as long as anyone will let me. In the run up to the anniversary of my birth this year the usual anxieties surfaced, however yesterday I suddenly realised that I was 26! I had lived 10 years after my 16th birthday. This seemed such a milestone. Sixteen was a landmark year for me. It is when I started to realise who I was, forge my identity, become an adult. Looking back I was so remarkably like myself already, and yet there was an innocence that I dearly miss, and a self doubt that I do not. I think everyone has a few things that they would love to share with their younger selves, a few lessons you wish you hadn't had to learn the hard way. And so...

Dear Young Hayley

Some advice...

Playing dumb is not attractive. You have a brain. You have (strong) opinions. You love books, you look things up, you like using big words, you are interested in politics...These are all things that you will learn to be proud of, and will define who you are. Stop thinking anyone knowing that you are a clever girl will lead them to assume you are dull. Don't let people assume you are a bit of a giggly airhead, because you will waste much valuable time having silly conversations with silly people. Your brain is one of your most attractive qualities - use it, and show it!

Give people a break. You are arrogant and you think you can imagine every conceivable situation and how you would react...you have no idea. You cannot know a person until you have walked two moons in their moccasins. Judging people will get you nowhere, and sometimes you will wish you had asked more questions, because you will find yourself in the same situation.

Your parents are people too. They have all the same problems and hang ups and difficulties as you, so stop expecting them to be above human weakness. Mum is the best friend you will ever have, stop throwing tantrums and give her a break.

Teenagers are a hideous, mutant subspecies - try not to behave like one.

Don't drink that bottle of Malibu at 17 - it will put you off for life, and make cocktail choices very limited.

You are going to have more fun than you can imagine. Your life is not going to be boring, and everything happens after High School. But don't believe the bullshit Hollywood is selling - life isn't like that, and God you'd probably hate it if it was.

Stop blindly following fashion. You don't look like those girls, and who wants to look like everyone else anyway.

Some of the prettiest adolescents are unremarkable as adults, and you grow into your face, so don't worry too much on that account.

You will always miss dad, but you are so like him that he is still here.

This is not the worst day of your life, neither is tomorrow or the next day, or the one after that. Tough times are coming, so save the drama. You are strong and you can deal with it.

Stop fighting with your hair, stop brushing it, and please god, don't cut it again.

Tortured artists are overrated, and you are too high maintenance for their own self absorption. Move on, its never going to happen.

You have to learn to let go of things. Realise that things change, people change, you will change. Everything is not forever. Sometimes people are in your life for a short time, and that's okay. Don't flog a dead horse - you need to realise when its time to move on. By attaching yourself too firmly to people and places you will stagnate. Not every decision is life altering. Start going with the flow now - I need the practice. You will lose some people along the way, but never the things that you shared with them. Let them go.

You'll be fine, you'll see.

Love Old(er) Hayley

** I have finally figured out how to sort out the commenting feature on this blasted blog, and so you no longer need to be logged on or whatever to comment...give it a try, and let me know if its working!

Peachy Keen

I have never been the biggest fond of peach...It reminds me of eighties weddings ( above: me as a flower girl in '86), and the frilly toilet roll covers favoured by grannies. However, lately I see it catching my eye. First, I saw this hopelessly girly, romantic tunic listed on Etsy - its all in the whimsy value I tell you. I then started seeing little bits of it I liked all over the place. (All items can be found when searching for Peach on Etsy). I even found myself coveting peach SHOES the other day - whatever next?!

However, I have not as yet given in to wearing any. I am just not sure if I am 'a peach'. While incredibly pretty I am just not sure I am that much of a girl. Give me your thoughts on this here femme dilemma...

TuTu Fabulous

From something a little serious to something a lot frivolous! These are the first, sneak-peek pics of my magical birthday tutu! A few years ago I was flipping through channels and landed on the enviable image of Amy lee (of Evanescence) in a fantastic deep red tutu - it was mighty Cinderella goes Shirley Manson, and I fell a little in love. And so with my 26th (oh God) birthday approaching, I decided I wanted one of my very own. Where to turn but to the joys of Etsy and the expertise of Kristin of PrincessDoodleBeans.

Kristin, the designer and maker of many a little (and big) girls dream, was brilliant to work with. She patiently answered my million questions, indulged my many mind changes, and completed this wonderful work of tulle whimsy in record time. And so, now, it is winging its way to me via UPS and soon I should get my box full of flouncy, gauzy goodness!