Kicking back in Koh Samui

To attempt to formulate some sort of narrative out of our time in Koh Samui would be madness. It was too varied and full, and attempting to impose a story structure on it would make it into the blog equivalent of showing someone your holiday snaps - boring! (I will be doing this to some of you when I get home though)

Koh Samui was my first real taste of Thailand, and what a way to start. Evie says it is by far the friendliest island she has been on, and really everyone we met was lovely and helpful. The Secret Garden was on the quietest stretch of beach, fringed by coconut palms leading onto white sandy beaches and blue waters. Our room was simple with a balcony where we could sit and enjoy the sea breeze, and chat away the hours. Our first full day there we swam and sunbathed all morning - the first time I had done that in years. My poor pasty skin got a bit of a shock at the sight of the sun and all my little, long forgotten freckles appeared one by one, like stars in the sky.

We found the most wonderful travel agent lady called Lei, who booked our passage to Koh Phangan and our accommodation there as well (we procrastinators left it to the least minute and thought we might be speed boating to and from the NYE Full Moon Party) which meant we could relax about where to next. SHe also organised us a trip to Angthong National Marine Park - more about that later...

One of the highlights of my time on Koh Samui was our visit to an incredible spa (I will remember the name of it later, but right now the brain is fried). Having heard of the wonders of Thai massage (no happy endings thanks) I was keen to get one, but Evie refused to let me first experience of this wonderful art be from some woman who sat on her stoep screaming 'mahsaaaaase' and who would then continue watching TV and chatting to her friends while you attempted to reach your zen state. So, we choose a fancy shmancy spa, which sent an air conditioned taxi to fetch us, and from the moment we set foot in there we were queens. After choosing our oils (a forest blend) we were led upstairs where our feet were washed in beautiful scented water and we changed into wraps. Our massages took place under a wooden gazabo draped with mosquito netting a few feet from the sea. The massage was a combination of swedish aromatherapy and traditional Thai massage and after the week's travelling toils was precisely what I needed. The setting was so restful and the sound of the waves so calming that I felt everything slip away. It lasted 2 hours and cost 2300B (approximately 50 quid) - well worth it.

And so while the main point of our Samui stay was relaxation and rejuventation, we did have one night of total, debaucherous indulgence. We ventured out from our sheltered beach paradise into the fray of the Samui night life. Chaweng is the hedonistic heart beat of Samui. Picturesque white beaches are lined with tourist filled bars. Music beats and blasts out of each one, blending to create a cacophany added to by the shouts of stall holders and lady boys. The lady boys strut their wears up and down crowded streets, hollering at tourists. The young ones are dresses ala Pretty WOman in tight mini skirts and thigh high boots, but as they age they add head dresses, sequins and sparkles. The older the face the bigger the head dress. The calls melt into the haggling and bartering sounds of the market. We follow a strand of good music, through the thumping base into an Aussie bar called Bondi, where an all Thai band were playing incredible rock covers. Island Rock played everything from Led Zeplin to ACDC, and they played it well. We bopped along for a few hours drinking ice cold Singhas and meeting a rather strange selection of people, until the bar shut ans we were turfed out into the night once more, so sad to leave our new favourite band.

Now if we had been smart at this point we would have headed home with a good night out behind us, but oh no! We poured out of Bondi and into the Chaweng night, keen to keep the party going. This led us to follow the crowd of drunken sheep to the entrance of Sound Club. The beats and lounge furniture outside did nothing to prepare us for what we would find inside - a heaving, sweating beast of a trance party. I was totally floored by the mix of crazy dancing, bumping and grinding, and the hook ups taking place everywhere. There was a host of pretty Thai girls, and an equal number of horny tourists. By this point we were off our faces and trying to aclimatise to the electro thumping out of everywhere, but I am still pretty sure I could figure out what was going on here.

But we closed our eyes and let the beats take us somewhere primal. Perhaps all in preparation for the carnal carnage of Koh Phangan...

One way ticket to Hell and back

Scenery rushing past our train window

I lie awake thinking of Christmas nights passed. In SOuth Africa they are spent floating in a cool swimming pool, drinking with family and friends.In London spent in the warm indoors playing charades and cards, laughing over mulled wine. This Thai one was spent in a 1930s train with the noises of 40 other poor, unfortunate passengers in various states of sleep.

This was not what we had envisaged - we were promised a first class sleeper cabin, know we knew to take this with a pinch of salt but no one had mentioned industrial air con and flourescent lighting, the uncanny resemblance of our bunks to prison cells or the long drop toilet that probably had its last clean when Thailand was still Siam. We were not lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the locomotive, but prevented from it in a cruel form of torture which included screeching, grinding and frequent sudden stops. And so it came to pass that we spent Christmas night eating nachos and haribos, anti bacterialing everything and laughing hysterically at our own misfortune.

In my prison bunk

After finally nodding off in the early hours we were unceremoniously pulled from slumber with shouts of wake up wake upand made aware that we were running 2 hours late... And so we had more time with the cackling staff who were having a party in the seats next to ours.

By the time we got off we were eagerly anticipating our Samui hideaway, the ocean and some clean sheets. But our limbo was to continue for a further 3 hours: Bus, Ferry, Minibus. And so ended the intermeniable journey, with a happy ending like all good fairy tales. Secret Garden is a paradise - palm trees, white sand, a gently rolling ocean. The gardens are humming with butterflies and secret buddahs sit around cool ponds choked with water lilies. We ordered our first real meal since Christmas, a couple of cocktails and everything else dissapeared. Sometimes life is about the destination and you have to do your damndest to forget the journey.

And so later, as we wallowed in the wonderful sea water, our hair spread out about us like mermaids, we saw a plane landing in the distance... Why the fuck didn't we fly?!

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.