End of Lookatchoo Blog

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Three Double Decker Buses

It’s Sod’s law; you wait patiently for a bus, any bus to arrive. This is a popular route and usually means you’ll be lucky and will manage to hop on a bus within minutes. But none comes. As the time passes, you slouch on the bench, waiting, waiting, and waiting. Through pure boredom, you fiddle your mobile and start to delete messages and even flick through the games option. Suddenly, three damned buses arrive in a convoy. Well in this case, four buses actually, but three double decker buses have a more rhyming tune.

Sod’s law has an acute correlation to the dating theory.

Monday mornings are my greatest dread. I simply detest Mondays. I open all my accounts on the net before opening my Outlook Express. Yesterday (Monday) even played 1 hour of online poker, drank 3 cups of tea and smoked 3 mini ciggies before clicking on the horrid tawny clock icon which represents OE. To my complete delight, there were three junk mails (marketing) which I deleted, one email from my agent in Vietnam to inform me that my shipment will be delayed due to production problems (nothing new there), one email from Raja Pack (business packaging supplier) to inform that imputing my VAT number into my online account is not possible (this is becoming a joke (see HM Revenue & Customs post)). Thankfully there were no emails for any payment claims or complaints from clients about delays to their orders.

The other two emails were bemusing; Franz (Austrian client) confirms his order and  at the end of the email writes. “Hope you are well. My thoughts are often with you!” Franz has desperately attempted have a one to one dinner with me when I’m in Paris for the exhibitions. Somehow, I’ve always managed to make plausible excuses. The next trade fair is in January and  he's setting up for another attempt. So, I’m just going to ignore the last sentence of his email and will keep things professionally cordial.

The other email was a link from my business Facebook account. Jerome, has thee French - Oriental fusion restaurants in the most exclusive parts of London, asked me if I could come to lunch in the Kensington restaurant to discuss new design of fine bone china serving pieces he wants for next year.  He had bought bone chopsticks and seashell chopstick rests two years ago, but we have deduced that these products are too delicate for restaurants. My bone china collection on the other hand would be perfect for restaurants. Technically very difficult to make as there are two textures, bisque on the outside and gloss in the inside, containing 50% real bone ash as opposed to the chemical ash. I replied to his email informing him that my supplier in the Philippines has major technical problems with the glaze and until the problem is resolved we cannot supply or develop any other designs. He replied back and insisted that I should come in anyway. I politely answered, suggesting perhaps I will come to one of the monthly champagne evenings he holds. A clever tactic, where I'll be just a wall flower amongst the sea of Sloanes.

Dominic has been logging in his Skype account recently. I met Dominic online last year, but we’ve never met. He’s the sterotypical  guy I would go for; a rock-n-roller, arse kicking producer who knows the difference between  Latour  and Lambrusco... and probably owns a vintage Harley. He suggested that we meet for brunch; dim sum in Soho. What’s with me and dim sum of late?

So what’s happening? Am I emitting telepathic pheromones to announce my availability? A few months ago, I would have been happy to have hitched a ride on any of these buses. Thanks guys, but, I’ve already booked a Land Rover to go fungi hunting in the woods of Richmond this weekend.

HM Revenue & Customs

I went to see Andrew (my accountant) today to sign this year’s 3rd trimester VAT declaration. Discovered that all the things I’d bought online for the business are not valid for declaring. Great, fantastic. So on paper, I actually made a profit! Ah!

I’d bought equipment for a new office; logistical stuff; things for the last trade fair and the shed to use as a warehouse ONLINE and had it delivered to my home. Most online purchases do not offer an option for invoicing, there were no prompts for imputing VAT numbers. Andrew suggested that I should have bought all these things in store so that invoices, with my VAT number, can be issued. Is he serious?

This afternoon, I received a chain email from Sage, Europe’s largest business software company. They made the announcement below in light of the new legislations:

1.VAT Rate
Firstly, on Jan 1 2010, the VAT rate is going to change back to 17.5% and this is set to affect almost every business
2.EC Sales List Submissions
Secondly, from the same date, it won't only be sales of goods to the EC that need to go on all EC Sales List submissions – sales of services must be recorded too. This will affect your business if you're registered for VAT in the UK and supply services to traders registered for VAT in other EC Member states
3.VAT Filing
Thirdly, under Government proposals many businesses will need to start submitting their VAT returns online after Apr 1 2010. This will apply to all businesses that are VAT registered and have a turnover of more than £100,000, as well as those businesses who register for VAT after Apr 1 2010.

Point 1-VAT Rate. Has the government gone bonkers? An increase of 2.5% (from 15% to 17.5%) in VAT would seriously affect most UK business and could mark the downfall for businesses already crippled by the economic crisis. Furthermore, it will mean that the average house hold will have an increase of 2.5% to their annual expenditure on most goods ( foods, books and children’s shoes & clothes are exempt and will remain at their current rates I presume) The affective date is 1 Jan 2010 and not 1 April. Surely it will be  book-keepers’  nightmare come true.

I haven’t heard about the VAT increase in any of the media sources. I receive, on average, two letters per week from HM RC for one thing or another, but nothing about the VAT changes, nor information about the other 2 points for that matter.

I’ve absolutely no doubt that news of the VAT increase will break out in mass media at the onset of the Christmas buys. Dirty ploy by the government to create a massive spending frenzy and utilise New Year’s hang overs to soften the blow. On one hand the extra cash flow will aid to ease the recession, on the other, it will mean more revenue for the government. Still it’s simply deplorable. What happened to all those billions they pumped into the banks? Have you seen any of it? Cos I haven’t! Why don’t they just scrap the Trident Defence, which would release some 20 billion? Why suck the pennies out of the citizens to balance the sheets?

2. Point 2- EC Sales Submission List (ESL). This point has major implications for me as most of my clients are from other EU states. The ‘propaganda’ sprill; reducing fraud; reducing time for submitting for ESLs is simple bullocks.  But there is good news; a brand new electronic system which will be introduced across EU for VAT claims from other state members using a standardise form through the UK Government Gateway, rather than direct to the Member State of Refund as of present. Pure Mozart to my ears! If you’ve had any dealings with the French  Direction Generale Des Finances Republiques, you can share my euphoria. Bastards, still owe me thousands of euros of 19.6% TVA (VAT) that I pay to exhibit at Paris trade fairs.

3. Point 3- Vat Filing. Hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!! I’d almost fell over when I saw this point. Relate it to my online buys. What’s apparent is that the UK administration lags behind the Spanish. My Spanish my accountant had been submitting my VAT returns online ever since I opened the business in 2002.

Is it Destiny?

Some people have asked me why I chose Twickenham to rebase myself. I have neither family nor friends around this part of London. Initially I had my mind set on the SE of London, simply to be close to my brother who has 2 girls of similar ages to my two daughters, also it was close to the East and North (where the majority of family & friends live). In June 2009, I flew out from Barcelona and had spent 1 whole day viewing 10 properties to rent in the SE. After the viewings, I returned to my mum’s home and my gut was churning. Instinctually there was a revolt ion against the idea of living in the SE. I went to university in SE18, and had lived the first year in halls of residence between Sidcup and Eltham. My memories of these areas were anything but fond.

That weekend,  still in London, I searched deep into my psyche to think of another area. Major deciding factors were: good schoolings, greenery with nice parks, nice neighbourhood, easy transport to London and minimal chav (yes, but they’re everywhere aren’t they!). I played some flashbacks with the people I knew or had known in the past and where they lived. Looking back,the best place I've  lived in was on Hornsey Lane in NW with my then partner. The road is laddened with mature trees and grandiose Victorian, Edwardian houses which have been split into flats. Some of the houses had made way to multiblocks with communal gardens and private parking. Our flat was in a purpose built block which backed onto dense undergrowth and trees, in which lies a disused railway track.

From this track, came one of the most memorial images of my time in London. Early one morning, having tossed and turned all night, I awoke at 5am, stood in front of the enormous kitchen window and lit a cigarette. Still half asleep, I saw a large creature emerging from the railway track. It was a deer. It came onto the lawn of the communal garden and stood there silently for a moment or two before disappearing again into the undergrowth. Amazing! It was such an enlightening moment. Hampstead Heath was not far away from Hornsey Lane and obviously the disused railway track provided a safe thoroughfare for deers.

My ideal place to live in London would be the Hampstead Suburbs. Clearly, it was way out of the question. Then came the clink! Richmond! I once visited Richmond Park whilst working as a research entomologist and had spent a wonderful day with my colleague, Dave, collecting deer ticks. Our boss, Nick, lived in Richmond and had got news that lyme disease had broken out within the deer population in Richmond Park. He wanted specimens!

So Richmond here I come………NOT! As I surfed the net for properties to rent, I understood very quickly that a 3 bedroom house with front and rear garden in Richmond is so way out of my diminished budget. St. Margarets which borders onto Richmond was also out. So I decided to go further west, the options were:- Isleworth, Hampton, Teddington and Twickenham. The definitive clincher was Twickenham Rugby stadium! It was the only land mark in the area (apart from Kew Gardens, Hampton court) that I recognised, plus the Osted reports for schools in the area were good or excellent.
I viewed 4 properties and decided on a favourite.

It has been three months since the relocation. The transport is great and shopping brilliant. At Twickenham centre there’s a mix of village feel around the church and the riverside walks. The high street sports a very mix; about six charity shops, Iceland, M&S food, Waitrose, Laura Ashley, fishmonger, other shops are just obsolete. Luckily, Richmond is only a 10 minutes bus ride away and is jammed packed with well know high street brands. There’s a House of Fraser, Habitat, M&S, Waterstones and most importantly for me, Whistle and Max Mara. For Nuria, there’s a Claire’s.

Before school had commenced, we went shopping for shoes in Richmond. Nuria and Maxine find Clarks too tamed, but mummy knows best! Anyhow, black shoes are mandatory in British schools so Nuria's Converse and Vans will be collecting dust on the shelf.
We stopped off at Pitcher & Piano to have some tea. This swanky bar/café sits on the banks of the Thames which overlooks the bridge. It’s such a pretty spot that it’s worth paying the extoroniate prices.
It was a quiet sunny afternoon as we sat on the terrace facing the river. The girls quietly chit-chatting, admiring the view as they slurped chocolate shakes and ate chocolate muffins. Suddenly I hear a voice from the table behind us. The man was talking on his mobile. I’m not one for name or face recognition, but I definitely don’t forget a voice and I know that voice! I swirled round and gasped a whopping great PIP! Having heard his name called out, the man shot a sharp puzzling look. How rude of me to have interrupted his call, but the reaction was totally involuntary.

We ordered more café du crème and commenced a long conversation. Pip (Crispin Burgess) is the son of Dr. Nicholas Burgess, my ex boss of the entomology department at the Royal Army Medical College, MOD. We had met there briefly whilst I was finishing my placement year of my degree. Pip was into his final year and was to set to become a hot shot financial trader, along with all the pin striped suits in the city. But questioned his career path and decided to take a year out. Dr Burgess decided to put Pip to use in the college, basically doing chores and re-designing the archive system. As it turned out, after I’d left the college, Dr Burgess sent Pip to the military base in Borneo for the remainder of his year out.

Dr Burgess retired long ago and moved,with his wife, to the country home in Sussex. Pip had just returned from 5 years abroad and is now living in and managing the family home in Richmond. Like his father, Pip re-directed his career path and became a scientist. He’s a heart surgeon. Though has spent the last 5 years with Medical without Frontiers in Africa. .

What’s ironic is that I fancied Pip back in 1991 and I definitely fancied him now!
Pip and I have become good friends in a short space of time. We have spent some leisure time together with my girls and perhaps I will send the children to their gran’s for the weekend soon!

I’ve never believed in coincidences. Things happen for a reason and that somehow we make the choices we make for some sublimininal reasons.

I cannot help but wonder about the events leading up to my relocation and the three months  being here have made this encounter with Pip possible.
I ponder on key points:

1. Richmond – Before selecting an area to re-base myself when I cast memories of past acquaintances, I had remembered that Dr. Burgess lived in Richmond.

2. Which lead to the tick hunt in Richmond Park. The park and the deers were contributing reasons as to why I picked Richmond Borough to relocate.

3. MOD – my entry on my blog. I had not given the MOD any thought for over 18 years. Why had the war in Afghanistan raked up the MOD when other wars/conflicts failed?

4. Tobin Tax – The last time I heard Tobin Tax mentioned was donkey years ago. My friend, Gary, recently made an entry in his blog entitled Tobin Tax to which I made a comment. It was Pip who had explained Tobin tax to me back in 1991.

Destiny perhaps.

Not sure what will develop between Pip and I. But initial signs are positive. And if he wants do practice heart surgery on me, then I can’t think of another patient who so deservedly needs heart surgery!

Arty Anish

The much anticipated Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Royal Arts Academy opened its doors on 26 September. The show had been highly publicised in the media. Posters plastered all over underground stations. We've been, anxiously, waiting to see the show ever since it opened. Phuc’s visit to London was perfectly timed to plan a rendezvous around the W1 area.

Phuc and I had arranged to meet in Chinatown for dim sum prior to visiting the exhibition. As we alighted at Leicester Square station and turned left into Chinatown, the familiar Chinese food smell whacked us straight in the face. The pavement was blackened with grease from all the restaurants and food stores. The remnants of last week’s Moon Festival celebrations still remained; red lanterns still hung across Gerrard and Lisle Street, speciality food stands were still attempting to flog off the rest of the foods. To Nuria’s delight, the Dragon Beard sweet stand was still there.

I don’t remember the last time I ate in Chinatown, so before meeting Phuc and his friends Anja and Robert, I had consulted my sister as to which restaurant had the best dim sum. It was good to know that most eateries had still retained their excellence and she had named the Jade Garden being one of them. This was  reassuring  as I know the restaurant pretty well.

The meal was excellent. As always, we ordered too much food. Luckily we had Maxine on board and considering she’s only 8 years old, managed to devour a good portion.

After the meal, we rambled back down Gerrard St to get some  dragon beard and went into a handicraft shop. I’ve often wondered why oriental non-food stores all smell the same. It’s a pungent smell of faint incense mixed with the smell of dust, grease and, weirdly, Asian hair! Yes, hair! Some Asians exude this  smell which is pretty much indescribable. If I had to say what it is, I’d say it’s the smell of MSG with a hint of body odour. Repulsive it is not, but it’s not at all pleasant.
We bought a box fortune cookies and I tried on some traditional cheongsam.

On we went down Piccadilly to Green Park. Phuc took us down Dover Street Market, a bohemian arty four storey shop which housed much of Come des Garcons (CDG) clothing with a few bits of accessories, house hold stuff and few branded names. Phuc came to London with a suitcase of black clothes. CDG's autumn/winter 2009 collection is entirely black. Phuc is a conceptual artist and everything he does, or in this case, wears, tides in with a particular concept he has in mind. He combined Garcons’s theme and his London visit: black. Not sure whether Phuc knows, but CDG, rarely design clothes in any other colour but black.

As we whizzed through the store, I was amazed by the high price tags on the clothes. 60 quid for a cotton shopping bag with the CDG printed logo. Flimsy cotton shirts ranged from £250 to £300. Silk knitted grandma like knickers started at £250. Jackets and coats from £1700 upwards.

“Jesus Christ” I said. “Fair enough that the designs are unique, but the qualities of the fabrics were poorer than that of Mango! The finishes are complete shites. It’s what you’d expect of design undergraduates collection not that of an established brand”.

I picked out a to die for Nina Ricci leather jacket, £ 3900!
“Yes, but it’s worth it, feel the quality of the leather and look at the workmanship” I said. Phuc agreed.

I spotted a pair snake skinned high heeled Italian shoes. Wow! The shoes were works of art. On the top floor, there were pairs of shaw- green inlay dainty 1940s shoes and squared toed black metallic coloured high heels. Price tagged……well, lets just say, unimaginable! It was time to exit. This was not therapeutic shopping!

Anja was getting tired and made it very clear that  never in a million years would she go into an art exhibition. So we said our farewells. I liked Anja and Robert a lot. They had an air  humility and an aura about them which draws you to them. I hope to see them again in the near future.

The queue to the ticket office at the academy extended back to the end of the courtyard. We waited patiently in the queue as Maxine artistically took tens of photos of the gigantic sculpture and the masonry work in the square.

The academy was teeming with people. At the entrance of the exhibition we were met by was an overwhelming  rusted metal tubular piece, which I’m sure if we had the time or space to admire would give greater appreciation. Denied of privacy and connection due the vast flow of people, I named this piece Arse Hole.

The first sala contained various cemented sculptures Greyman Cries, Shaman Dies, Billowing Smoke, Beauty Evoked which Phuc aptly named Shit! I absolutely agreed with him. It was cement that had been squeezed through different sized tubes to create differing textures which interwove each other. Yet, walking around the wooden pallets on which these works were mounted, one felt an awe of weariness and familiarity. Phuc beautifully described them as the shapes one makes as a child playing with wet sand on a beach.

We moved onto the second sala which contain the highlight of Kapoor’s exhibition; a giant wax installation titled Svayambh. Maxine and Nuria had been looking forward to seeing this piece which they described as a gigantic moving lipstick. The only problem was that the piece was moving so slow that one could not see any movement. It was like watching paint dry. This was Kapoor’s main attraction, so as you can imagine the sala was almost impenetrable due to the mass of people. What a shame.

Phuc commented how pathetic people are at art exhibitions. They tend to intellectualise and verbalise art when they ought to just to feel. Each piece evokes different emotions in everyone. What we see is different from the other. What we interpret is different. That’s the whole point, pretentious arse holes! In my experience, art exhibitions are best attended in the company of children on Wednesday afternoons. Children's uncontaminated minds and high imagination are so much more receptive to abstraction. Anyhow, art should be fun and not taken so seriously.
Many artists have really nothing to say about themselves or their works. Kapoor has said that “having something to say implies that one is struggling with meaning”. He’s absolutely right! I pondered on this statement and came to the conclusion that art is a perfect paradigm of love. If you can precisely give reasons why you love someone, what it really means is that you are rationising your emotions. You are searching for reasons to love that person. I related my conclusion to what Allison once told me. She fell in love with her greatest, her only love, purely because of the way in which he threw the tea-towel over his shoulder whilst he was cooking!

The piece that impacted us most was Yellow, a huge concave-convex piece mounted on the massive wall. Kapoor attempted to recreate the pleasurable sense of awe that we feel when confronted by vast and threatening natural phenomena such as mountains or glaciers. He suggested that Yellow, drew the same sensation by immersing ourselves within a space in which our entire field of vision is occupied by singular experience of colour. Wow, we were truly awed! Maxine liked this piece best as it was the colour yellow and it reminded her of the sun. Beautiful piece, you really have to see it to experience the awe!

I realised upon exiting the exhibition that the gigantic Slug in sala 3 was quickly skipped by us and many exhibition goers. Personally, this was my favourite piece. I had so wanted to touch the blood red lacquer part but was aware of the  two guards standing nearby. Reading the pamphlet later, I learnt that  this piece deliberately sets up tension between desire and repulsion. Kapoor certainly evoked a strong desire within me to touch the vulva!

Anish Kapoor exhibition is a must for anyone who appreciates simplicity, sensuality and nature. It was just a shame that our experience was diluted by the masses. Though, all in all, it was another almost perfect day and I’m left to question what it means to love. Hmm!

Autumn Moon

Candy flossed clouds billowed uncompromisingly through the blue wondrous skies
Tawny yellowed leaves litter the pathways
Once brightly shone of fruitful promises,
late brambles now in desperate attempt to grasp the last of summer’s rays
Grey squirrels dance joyfully in autumn’s feast
Scented air with hazel wood and freshness of fallen leaves
Aromas of roasting chestnut is just a mere waft away
Logs piled high by the fire place, sheep skin rugs lay
In anticipation of cosy nights with head nestled upon my lover’s breast

------------------------------------------------------------------
To many, autumn brings dormancy and time of re-pause
To some, it’s an emergence of life itself.
I’m the latter, I simply love autumn.

My sister tells me that the 3rd October will be the Moon festival
In traditional times, this is the harvest festival. The new moon marks the new season and moon cakes eaten at this time embodies all that the year’s harvest brings. Made from a concoction of rich masses filled with nuts and preserved egg yolks. Though tiny in size, about 8cm by 8cm, it weighs an absolute tonne and is to be consumed in small pieces washed down with gallons of green tea.

On this night, food offerings are made to the moon.
I remember at 13 years old, sitting on the window ledge, with a tray full of cooked chicken, pork, offal, waiting hours for the moon to appear from behind the clouds. I was instructed to light the incense and bow three times when I saw the moon.

“Why me?” I said as I sat impatiently
“Because you’re the only female in the house who’s not menstruating” my mum said

Right, that’s a perfectly logical reason!
Bloody purity thing again!

Many Chinese would say that they are Buddhist. But they’re simply not. Ancestral worship and superstitions are the main believes. Still, I like the fuss they make during auspicious days. Which involves elaborate food preparations; furthermore some foods are dedicated solely to certain event. Like moon cakes at the Moon Festival. Any excuse I’d say, but it’s good fun and it presents a good opportunity for family gatherings.

Apparently we will celebrate the moon festival with a family meal in my new home.
My contribution to this day will be an attempt to make a first class Peking Duck. Yulp, I’ve decided that I’d like to master this emblematic dish. It will take two days to prepare and two hours to cook. I will even attempt to separate the skin from the fresh by blowing it. No doubt that I will have to consult the master chef: my dad. He's such a perfectionist, especially when it comes to food, that with luck, he may just offer to come and do it himself!

The 3rd October is also my best friend’s birthday. So, I’m going to kill two birds with one stone. My friend is a vegetarian Sikh.

So the menu may consist of something like this:-

Peking Duck
Scallops with Mangetout
Crispy Roasted Pork belly
Steamed Sea bass
Sweet & Sour Pork with Pineapple
Boiled Corn Fed Chicken
Chicken Offal stirred fried with Celery
Pak Choi with Beef
Shark Fin Soup (NOT!)
Vegetable Biryani
Ocre Masala
Cucumber Rita
Chocolate Forest Fruits Gateau

Last, but not least, Moon Cake!

Having just drawn up the menu, it has dawned upon me what I’m letting myself into……..I wonder if Tesco can deliver all the ingredients?

Hmm…… I wonder if they wouldn’t mind me substituting for the following menu:

Soupe a L’oignon a la Lyonnaise
Canard a L’orange
Chocolate Souffles

Hmm…..perhaps I will be accused of blasphemy.

Unknowingly well in doubt

After a deliberate absence of being logged off on Facebook some four months , today I decided to log on. Perhaps due to the fact that I needed diversion from data imputing hundreds of clients email addresses into Outlook Express. Fabiola who now lives in her native home land,Venezuela, was the first to catch me. She is planning a mega fiesta for her 5 years old daughter next year. Faby is always planning parties of some sort and really does spend huge amount of energy in getting it all perfect to a T. I met Faby some 6 years ago in my store in Barcelona. She had spent over 300€ on Kasmiran metallic floral hand painted bowls, serving pieces and to create the epitome theme, threw in some bamboo free hanging dragonflies to dangle on the bushes and trees. All this was just for a garden party she was preparing.

Faby is an extremely gifted artist, but never managed to break into the art scene in Barcelona. It’s a real shame as her scultpures are wonderfully feminine and speaks volumes of beauty and purity. I put it down to racism. But let’s not go down this avenue today.

The theme for her daughter’s (Fiore) birthday party was an Asiatic one. She was having difficulties finding Asiatic props in Venezuela, so she asked me to help. After googling countless sites, we came to the conclusion that she would buy online from US websites, have it shipped to her sister in Miami, who would subsequently bring the goods to Venezuela. Simple!
All that took a mere 30 minutes. After which she asked me about Chinese Astrology. Not only will the birthday party consist of Asian food, props, but she wanted every single guest to know which animal sign they were. This goes to show the extent to which Faby would invest in a fiesta. It’s admirable.

I directed Faby onto the Chinese Fortune Calendar site. We deduced that Fiore is a Brown (earth) Sheep, born in the year of the Green (wood) Chicken, her lucky element is water.
I stumbled on this frightfully flashy site some 4 years ago. At first glance, the site looks tacky, but as I began to read, I understood nothing! After countless hours re-reading most of the stuff, I realised that the site was written by Chinese person/people. The Chinese tend to speak in context; one simple sentence speaks volumes. One has to almost decipher the meaning. Four years on, I still have difficulties understanding the stems and branches.

After discovering that Faby’s daughter lucky element is water, the next click produced a list of things she could do to improve her luck:

When the Water is your lucky element

• Pig and Rat are your lucky animals.
• Years of Pig and Rat are your lucky years.
• Months of Pig and Rat are your lucky Months.
• Winter or cold season is your lucky season.
• 21:00 - 1:00 (9 P.M. to 1 A.M.) are your lucky hours.
• Northern direction is your lucky place.
• It will bring you luck to live a house that faces north.
• You should choose a bedroom on the north side of the house.
• When arranging the office desk, you should sit facing the north.
• A metal or water bed is good for you.
• Your lucky colour is black.
• You should wear black often.
• You should use a black system (dark colours) for decorating your house.
• Take care of your excretory system - also your Kidneys, Bones and Ears.
• Wearing jewellery will bring you luck

There are no explanations to the points; you simply had to follow without any questions. So came an avalanche of questions from Faby:

“Why is black good”?
“Because black is cold”

Why water?
“Because water is deep = cold”

Why north?
“Because North is cold”

“Why the excretory system”?
“Because without consuming sufficient water Fiore is prone to problems in the excretory system”

By this time, I had only managed to type in some 30 email addresses and should have cut the conversation there. But made the error saying:

“Did you know that foods are considered cold or hot, some are neutral?”

We spent the next 2 hours analysing Fiore’s life.

1. Faby: “Fiore is having problems sleeping”.
Me: “That’s because her room is probably in the wrong part of the house”. She should be in a room facing north. If it’s not possible to change her room, her head bed should be on the north side”.
Faby nearly died upon hearing this statement. Fiore is presently in a south facing room, with the head bed pointing south!

2. Faby: “She’s a fussy eater and often complains of stomach pains”
Me: “That’s because she eating too many hot foods. Don’t tell me, she doesn’t like meat, but likes fish. She likes vegetable but hates lettuce and cucumber” ( meat is hot, fish is cold, most vegetables are cold but lettuce and cucumber are hot)
Faby: "OMG, she loves vegetables but there is no way she would even pick up a piece of cucumber"

3. Faby: “what about pasta?”
Me: "Pasta is neutral, but Fiore probably doesn’t tolerate wheat. Try rice, it’s much cooler"
Faby: "OMG, she loves rice"

4. Faby: “what about eggs?”
Me: “The yolk is cold; the whites is hot leaning on neutral”
Faby: "OMG, Fiore only eats the yolk"

Finally:
Faby: “How do you know all this?”
Me: “I’ve absolutely no idea". I suppose the fact that my grandparents were Chinese herbal doctors meant that we grew up unwittingly absorbing the knowledge and developed a natural feel for it.

The final conclusion about Fiore was: change orientation of her bed, let her decide what she eats because her body knows best. Get rid of the pinks, reds, orange colours from her wardrobe. Bring in blues,greens and black.

I was glad that I was able to help Fiore, but the chat with Faby had pulled another cord within me. For some years now I’ve given sporadic thoughts about my career. I’ve always had a soft spot for abandoned or injured animals. During my younger years, I was forever bringing sick animals home and getting told off for it. My store in Barcelona became a free consulation room rather than a home deco shop. I’d been to many homes of clients to give my decorative opinions. More often than not, I advised them not to buy that particular table or chair they had in mind from my shop. Clients cried on me with their life’s stories on numerous occasions. The problem got so severe, that I was banned from being present on the shop floor.

Perhaps I ought to re-direct my career path! Perhaps I ought to do that art therapy course! However, however, perhaps, subliminally, I’m avoiding the forth coming trade fair in Paris. Though I love the fair and excel on the adrenalin rush it provides, I don’t enjoy the indirect aggression that is expected from me. My top client, Mr Ide from Japan will come and hassle me about improving production and quality. Franz from Austria will negiogate a cut throat distributorship deal (and obligate me to have dinner with him), Didier from Belgium will push me to finalise his mega project. I will talk Italian clients into tripling their orders and charm all buyers to my new collection. Petty small French clients will hover over me like flies with a retail buy (which I absolutely refuse). It’s a hard sell and I’m not sure that my heart wants to do it anymore. Anyhow, my once high level of testosterone is depleting. Now, I'd rather bake a cake than chase after that lucrative deal.

By the way, chocolate is deadly hot. So don’t eat too much of it! Personally I only consume dark chocolate for the high iron content after menstruation. There, that’s put you off!

Poll

New Guardian/ICM poll results published today shows the Tories gained 16 points against Larbour 25% drop. Though the poll was based on random sample of only 1004 adults between 21 and 23 August 2008….yes 2008!, it does reflect the enormous loss of faith in the present government. I dare not hasten to think what the results would be if a similar poll was conducted now.
Jeez, I left the UK when the New Labour came into power with a landslide victory in 1997. I return to the UK, undoubtly, to a Tory government. I feel cheated out of twelve years. For god sakes, someone, anyone, pull a miracle out of the hat…now!
My vote in the Tory strong hold of Richmond will be pointless….so I’ll be voting Green on 3 June 2010 ( if not before).

Compassion in Exchange for Fuel

Colonel Gaddafi looks more like a ruthless mafia boss than a world leader. I clearly remember him in the 80s and I must say he looks even dodgier now than ever. Why on earth would anyone engage in any play with him?

I fear that the recent furore of freeing Lockerbie bomber Abdelbaset al-Megrahi’s as a good will gesture to close trade tides between UK and Libya may mark the downfall of Gordon Brown and consequently the possibility of the Labour Party being ousted in the next general election. No doubt the hyena pack, lead by Cameron, will hasten calls for an election.

When news first broke out that David Milliband, foreign secretary, decision to release terminally ill Megrahi on compassionate grounds, the debate centred around whether the decision was right or wrong, whether compassion should be granted to a bomber who was responsible for the deaths of almost three hundred people. It is well know that world leaders by pass legal channels to expedite prisoners to secure trade. However no monetary links were made, not in the mass media at least. Only last week Mr Milliband ardently dismissed claims to any business relations.

The bomb dropped when Gaddafi's son, Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, insisted that the decision to free Megrahi was tied to trade links between UK and Libya. Gaddafi himself went on Libyan television to praise "my friend" Brown and the British government for its part in securing Megrahi's freedom. Further speculation came with the disclosure that the business secretary, Lord Mandelson, met Saif earlier this month while holidaying on the Greek island of Corfu.

Libya is the tenth greatest oil supplier in the world. The Guardian reported:
Libya's greatest importance, however, lies in trade with the UK, which reached more than £1bn last year and could increase exponentially if Libya's estimated £43.7bn of oil reserves can be tapped. In 2007, oil giant BP signed a near £1bn deal to explore part of the Ghadames Basin, an area bordering Tunisia. Last week, just a day before Megrahi was returned, BP said it was seeking companies keen to win contracts to start drilling. British Gas and Royal Dutch Shell have also signed deals. Aerospace firm BAE Systems is eyeing the market closely, while retailers like Marks & Spencer and Next are opening stores in Libya's capital, Tripoli. In the first five months of 2009, UK exports to Libya rose 49%, to £166m

What strikes me is how flippant Gaddafi & Co. have been in publicly revealing the ‘deal’. It’s a no brainer what the repercussions for Brown will be. I cannot help but wonder perhaps there are ulterior motives on the Gaddafi camp. Poor Mr Brown, he has been out played and out witted, again!

We ought to cut Brown some slack. Britain, like many European countries, is suffering from a mayor energy crisis. Billions will be invested in wind energy within the next few years which will supply a meagre amount of energy required. Securing (questionable) supplies from Libya will satisfy some needs. Furthermore, Megrahi is terminally ill and has the right to die in his home land. Compassion in exchange for fuel. Unfortunately, many don’t see the arguments.

The British public are a compassionate bunch , but the Lockerbie bombing may still harbour raw nerves in our psyche. England wining the Ashes may divert attention for a day or two, but this scandal will not be easily forgotten or forgiven.

Singleton......again!

She:-
Today is a good day
the sun shines and awaits the moon
I pass a time, drink wine
And recline
on the slightly stilted chair
whose slow amble outward
makes me want to sing or samba,
move like a Jamaican mama.
The birds wheel and reel an steal tiny pieces of my sun
as the rampantly dance away.
Today is a good day.
Soon to be summer, soon to smell the hay
and Sunday mown grass.
How outrageously the trees flirt in the breeze, so tactile, so tempting
and never relenting
and dreams awake
of Blake
lotharios, signets and sirens,
winking and wanton, not weary of winter.
Ploughs and boughs, biscuits in tea
thinking of summer's the best place to be-
I should say.
Because today is a good day.

He:-
The bloodless sky which hails the warning year
The tearless eyes and green leaf burnt away
And sorrow which is heard in lonely crows refrain
Beneath the bright branch and earth of ice
The fruit of last years joy awaits rebirth
In timeless slumber sleeps those seeds
Which springs love only will mature
The measured time when bright day makes to arm
Against these baleful ides of snow
And silent sea with moon that sleeps below
And as from the darkening wood
loves season start anew.
                                               

Freedom of Thought

 Friday 14th August, blogger Leo Hickman wrote in the Ethical Living section for the Guardian, a blog entry titled Miley Cyprus the environmentalist? Don’t make me weep with despair. Hickman blasted Cyprus & co new single, a contribution to the Disney Project Green, saying that he failed to see what the message was. Readers responded to the blog with an accolade of whish-washed cynicisms, fuelling Hickman’s point.

My point is, not particularly about Hickman’s blog entry or the responses to the entry, but about how society believes that they exercise freedom of thoughts, when in fact they don’t. Vast majority of people believe everything they read, see or hear. Haste to assimilate opinions based only on the information and formulated opinions fed to them. They neither question the facts presented nor seek sufficient alternatives. Quite often following twats like Leo Hickman, who, himself lack sufficient background information to formulate rounded opinions.

Take, Saddam Hussein and the Kuwait & Iraq war. When the Kuwait war initially broke out in 1990, how many questioned on what basis did the US & UK claims of Iraq’s possession of weapons of mass destruction? How many broadcasters explained to the general public the history of the Ottoman emperor then? And what were Hussein’s demands? Did anyone think or say: hang on, why are we fighting over a desert?
Almost twenty years on, how many people know the truths to these questions?

We simply follow the pack, whilst sitting on our over sized arses, gorging ourselves with mis-informed garbage, saying hear hear.

Caruso

It is said that music is the highest form of art. Music touches all souls, even the hardened spirits. Every one of all ages and has a defining song, which evokes emotions. In times of happiness, we rejoice with music. In times of sadness, we seek solace from music. Where would we be without music?
Differing taste in music is another interesting subject. Basically, it is very much okay to say; ‘I like the Bee Gees, George Michael or even Rick Ashley’. We may cringe upon discovering someone’s musical taste, but cringing is taken light heartedly. It is s hilarious to discover that your partner’s, all time favourite song is Waterloo by Abba! Personally, I loved the Bee Gees. Their songs always managed to uplift my spirit and make me want to boogey.

One of the first twenty first century icons has passed away. The world mourns. Michael Jackson touched everyone’s lives, from young children, grandparents, every day Joe Blogg, house wives, executives etc. You cannot spot a MJ fan in the street.
Most people have grown up with some sort of influence from Michael Jackson. Everyone has a defining MJ sound track which had marked a part of our life. I grew up in the 80s, arguably the best musical period in pop history. Thriller and Billy Jean marked my life. The Earth Song video made me cry and still brings me to tears every time I see it.
We had tickets for the ‘This is it’ tour. It was to be my daughter’s birthday present.
She will be only twelve years old but had grown to love MJ through dancing and had memorised some of his songs. We have watched all his videos and shared special moments singing and dancing along. We still can’t believe he is gone

Today, I played Caruso by Pavarotti & Dalla on You tube. I play this song in times of silence. This song (only this compilation by Pavarotti & Dalla) speaks to my silent soul, carrying me to a state of total serenity. It’s also ironic to say that I play this song in times of great achievement or event. There were days in my apartment in Barcelona when I would set this song in constant auto-replay. There were days when the song was played more than 20 times consecutively. My poor neighbours.
One does not have to understand Italian to appreciate the perfection of musical lyrics and instrumentals, though understanding the lyrics would add much depth. For years I had attempted to understand the lyrics. Plucking a few words here or there and had understood the song to be a history of departure from Italy to America during the mass migration during the 1890s. One premise was, a son saying goodbye to his mother. Obviously I mis-took mare for a deviation of mother! The actual translation is sea. Jeez, I had always managed to communicate in Italian with clients on the trade fair grounds with a concoction of Spanglishfied Italian, but got the lyrics of this song pretty wrong. Today, I googled for the Italian and English translation. I am not sure how accurate the translation is but reading in English dilutes the intensity and passion of the song somewhat. The story line is about going to America, but no mama in sight. The ending is so sad: he never made it to the land of promise. I will not even attempt to sing-a-long in Italian, as this would be an act of sacrilege.

http://www.oneloveandrina.com/journey2004/caruso.html

Match Making

We are in the first decade of the 21st century. Perhaps it was my mis-conception, but surely the new century, along with the fastly developed communications and technology, should be accompanied by a new era in liberalism, thinking and attitudes. This is not the case apparently. Attitudes and values are so deeply embedded in our psyche that it may take hundreds more years to change.

Marriage is a concept entrenched with this ancient value.
Life is simple: boy meets girl…..get married……and they live happily ever after!
Not so, as it would seem. What are the attributing factors that makes or break the bond? Difficulties to change are probably the main reason. We are so comfortable in believing we are right, in not seeing our selfishness. Our thinking is rigidly contained in our believes of rights and wrongs. List of other factors are endless, which will not be raised in this entry as it would take far too long.

What is apparent is that in today’s fast paced world, that the butterflies and the bees are finding it difficult to cross paths. Communal activities are limited, high tech gadgets mean we can exist without ever leaving home. Everything, including your sexual partner, is just a click away.

Recently I discovered that someone close to me has resorted to the traditional match making methods. Baffling concept as I thought the customs of match making had truly died, at least in the west. The reunion would be, for love, though conveniently contrived; the girl would be promised asylum and a comfortable life. The man would in turn have the perfect non-betraying wife, who, still retains the values one would expect from…..a wife! A curious premise, but everyone has the right to do as they wish.

The first meeting was with a girl 15 years his junior. What a disaster that proved to be. She was more interested in sending texts from her mobile phone than examining her potential mate.

The second girl was 8 years his junior. A more mature and weathered girl, who may have lived out her wild younger years and may be ready to settle down.
As I watch the behaviour of the couple in question, I actually began to see that this could work! My initial thoughts were that my pre-conceived views were quashed.
Why not? I said. We all accept that marriage implies compromises, this reunion only differ in that the compromises are clearly marked before any steps are taken. Everyone goes into the game with open hands.

However, as the day went by, I became sceptical. The couple could not communicate in their first language, surely this is the most fundamental fact for a happy reunion. This is not so as it may seem. Good verbal communications does not necessarily guarantee a long lasting relationship, at least for some people. One argument is that 70% of communications is done by body language, so perhaps verbal communications is not so important.

Another thought was how these two would conduct their daily lives. Well, on average couples spend 2-3 hours daily of quality time together, most of which is taken up by trivial chores and/or watching TV.

In olden days, an eligible man was more marriageable if he has a sizeable asset. Women are still seen as the weaker sex and for the older generations, or people who are stuck with this view, women will always be weaker. The idea that a man serves no more than to provide material wealth and do manly things around the house.
How can people still adhere to this idea? One could argue that if roles are clearly defined and the couple happily accept their role, then all would be well.

My scepticism is unfounded as I sit on my high pedestal voicing my disapproval.
I, myself have dabbled with online dating. Surely it’s the same. We sieve through potential candidates, subconsciously ticking or crossing points against certain fact. We spend time in seeking the truth about the other person, we spend months & years ‘getting to know’ the other person. And at the end of this time, can we really say that the fact are true or that we really know the other person? Why not get a match maker to do all the home work for you before the first meeting. Their emotional impartiality would result in a much more objective conclusion.

Food for thought!

Noticias de Mi

No tengo conexión a internet aun, entonces contestando los emails recibidos es difícil ahora. Por eso, he escrito la entrada en mi blog abajo para explicar todo. Pondré mis números de contacto en Facebook.

Llevo cuarto semanas en Inglaterra. Estoy súper bien. La casa ya esta casi preparada. Tenia que comprar muchas cosas nuevas: camas, muebles, plantas etc. Tenia luz, gas, agua desde el primer día, solamente me falta internet. Parece que todas las empresas de comunicación son iguales, sea el país.

Las niñas ya tienen plazas en las escuelas cercanas: Maxine estará en una primera pequeña, y su profesora se llama Ms Ahmed. Según otras madres, Ms Ahmed es una encantadora. La escuela lleva 104 anos aquí y me gusta su política. La escuela tiene una huerta pequena y un sitio con aqua con peces y ranas. Creo Maxine estará muy bien aquí.

Nuria entrara segundario en Setiembre. Su escuela es especialista en los artes, tienen de todo: teatro, escenario, sala de música, vestí bulario etc. Nuria flipara, como ella quiere ser famosa, esta escuela es perfecta para ella.

Estamos en suburbia. La calles largadas con casa en los dos lados. Cada casa tiene su propio jardín delante y detrás. El jardín detrás es de unos 80m2; hay 4 árboles de mañana, 3 de prunas, arbustos de frutas rojas, moras, rosas, gigantes y lo mejor de todo: hay césped! Nos visitan muchos animales: pájaros y gatos, otra día había un zorro!

Esta súper tranquilo. Nuestra calle es un cu-de-sac, casi no hay coches, y poquísima gente. Al principal, el silencio me molesto! Llevaba un fin de semana sola, escuchando al silencio. Llueve casi cada día, me encanta! A veces, me siento lado la ventana escudando la lluvia. Que diferencia a Barcelona. Domo con un ededron de plumas ligera, domo en paz como un bebe.

Tendremos nuestro primera BBQ el domingo que viene. Oh! Tengo una hamaca en el jardin.

Finalmente, el autobús numero 490 va directamente a Heathrow aeroporto! Por se caso queráis venir a visitarnos.
Besos a todos y nos vemos pronto

Couch Potato II

In the previous blog I had mentioned the Dragon Den being a new favourite programme. Well…….. by pure coincidence, four of the five dragons were guests on the Friday Night with Jonathan Ross. Other guests included my cult favourite Quentin Tarantino and the highly respected actor Denzel Washington. And as a grand end AHA singing ‘The Sun Always Shine on TV’. What a line up! What a show! This is entertainment at its best. In the past, I had not given Ross much credit, but he’s actually quite witty, cleverly anticipates cues and provides perfectly timed antidotes. Though I suspect much of it was scripted. With such great entertainment, who would want to go out?

I had probably jumped the gun on this one. As I flicked channel to ITV1, the iTunes Festival 2009 was starting. This is entertainment at its worst! Let’s just say the presenters were……. basic. Dave Berry wore a badly coordinated The Smiths type outfit. Music was the worse of Brit Pop and to fill in time slots there was a competition: they had pop ‘stars’ throwing a TV out of a window to see who can throw it furtherest. Noel of Oasis came on, I dislike Oasis so much that I decided to switch off the TV.

Right, tomorrow night, I will definitely have to remove my oxidised potato arse from the couch and seek proper entertainment. Possibilities include a poker game with the boys, Mah Jong with the family or meeting Tish for drinks. Though, I will pick up the Guardian Guide before deciding, just in case there is a programme that I really really want to see.

Couch Potato

The quality of Spanish TV, whether it is documentary, reality TV, soap, drama, films are dire. The commercial advertisements are shockingly lengthy. I once timed the adverts: 22 minutes. The government has intervened by regulating commercial adverts to maximum 20 minutes per hour. That’s still a staggering length of time, but it’s better than what it was. Commercial adverts are so cheesy that one ends up abandoning watching TV altogether.

Luis owns a production company and often makes TV commercial adverts. He explains that the budgets for commercials are often so small that it doesn’t give much margin to do anything decent. Furthermore the clients’ criteria are so conservative and bland that there is no room for creativity or intelligence. A typical advert would be the owner of the company telling you that his tasty his/her product is yummy.
Sebastian is a scenographer for theatre, films and TV. Just before I left Barcelona, Sebastian came round to my house scouting for oriental objects for a TV commercial for Pescanova. This is well known frozen fish company which regularly advertises on television. Sebastian borrowed my enormous bamboo free standing lamp. The same night, he fanatically called me again and asked if I had anything oriental to put on the walls. We ended up, at 12pm, going to my warehouse to dig out two large lacquered plates. The poor guy was maniac as the shoot was scheduled for the next morning. I asked him what the given budget was: one thousand five hundred euros (£1100)! For that reason, he said, he had to borrow props and raid my warehouse at midnight. I just can’t believe that such a gigantic company can justify a peanut size props budget for a televised commercial advert. It’s criminal! I dare not hasten to think what Pescanova are paying Sebastian.

The only programme I watched in Spain was the nine o’clock news on TVE1. The main reason for watching this programme was for anchor man Lorenzo Mila. The journalistic reporting is complete shite, but Lorenzo is such an empathic and professional news reader that it makes it all more bearable.

I had always managed get some sporadic TV viewing in during my visits to UK in the past 12 years. Gardener’s World is one of my all time favourite and has somehow managed to follow East Enders. Perhaps due to the fact that the cast and the story lines never really change. I’ve been back in London for 18 days and have watched hours TV. Firstly amazed that so many familiar soaps and programmes are still alive and kicking: Emmerdale, The Bill, Top Gear, Panorama, University Challenge and tonight’s special treat is Rick Stein tasting Hanoi’s street food. But ‘Who’s Line It Is?’ No longer exists. This shows you how long I’ve been away! The good news is that some satire will come from ‘Have I Got More News For You’.
Other than the daytime TV which consists of mediocre programmes and well dated series such as Murder She Wrote, but in general British TV has still maintained its excellence. One of my already favourites is Dragon’s Den. Last night’s programme included a proposition by a poker player, a single mum with a self invented product which is set to make her a multi-millionaire. Hmmmm…perhaps I should go on the programme with ideas of my mushroom farm. Hmmmmm…I risk becoming a couch potato!

Lastly, it will be revelation to watch TV where there are no advertisements!

Wild life in Your Back Yard

Someone, or should I say an animal has been shitting on my lawn, literally. The excrement is too big for a cat, though could possibly be that of a massive tom cat. I've ruled out dogs as the garden is completely fenced off. So who/what is the culprit?

The other night, whilst taking out the rubbish I came face to face with a fox which was rummaging through my neighbour's bins. I don't know who was more startled, me or the fox. WOW!!!!!!!! a fox!
I've missed the British wild life so much. So you cannot imagine how amazing this sighting is for me.

I can't wait to discover what else lies in my garden and the surrounding area. A ramble in Richmond Park with the children will be a must to catch glimpses of the fallow deers. Last time I was there was back in 1991, when I was working in the entomology dept at the MOD. There was an outbreak of Lyme disease and we were looking for ticks!

Changing Chip

My Espanglish is slowly disappearing after only being back in UK three weeks. However I will hope to retain some of the Spanish expressions and phrases which aptly describes situations or expresses meanings better. Examples that comes immediately comes to mind is:-

" Me voy!" ( I'm going). When used in situation when a man or a woman walks away from a relationship, the impact is tremendously strong. The English equivalent would be " I'm fucking off" which makes no sense nor does it contain the same subtleness when said in Spanish.

Another is " Cambiar del chip" ( change of chip) . Chip obviously is an English word. I've no idea how or when this phrase got into the Spanish culture. There is no equivalent in English.

Well, I definitely need to apply the latter expression to my present life. Changes all around, and today's meeting with my future accountant hit home that I need to change my mummsy, apathetic chip for my business chip. The rescue plan I had outlined for this year has been terribly neglected and with the forth coming trade fair in Paris, time is running out.

Mentally I have put on my business suit, my hair in buns and tomorrow morning I will be whipping arses. To start: the French trade fair administration.

MOD Advert

This week’s media is covered with the exhaustive debate of the war in Afghanistan. The government on the defensive and military generals deploying political tactics to attack the government. In the meantime, the death toll of British soldiers in the past three weeks is 16 deaths, almost one third of them 18-years-olds.

Whilst watching TV last night, I repeatedly saw an advertisement by MOD for new recruits. Broadcasted on prime time, with a starting salary of 16K to lure contenders.

I find the timing to launch a televised publicity campaign for new recruits pretty insensitive, vulgar and damn right stupid. I have three questions:-

How do the families and loved ones of those killed feel when they see the recruitment advert?

Does the MOD hope that the incestuous media coverage of war will increase interest to join the Army?

Who in the right mind would contemplate joining the Army when soldiers are being killed daily? (Ok, don’t answer that! As no doubt there will be hundreds of young lads who may be encouraged to join at times like these).

War is a game of chess: the prawns are at the front line with the higher ranking officers behind. Fallen prawns are easily replaced, for a mere 16K. It’s simply disgusting.

This week’s proposed ‘shopping list’ for the armed services is over £100 billion. God knows the exact cost of Britain’s defence, though having the world’s second largest defence budget; I cannot even guess the number of zeros. .

At the same time, a fraud squad is investigating 300 war injury claims for compensation from serviced men & women.

It doesn’t make sense.

Riches to Rags

The Chinese say that people born in the year of the dog are prone to ups and downs in life. The will be periods of good fortune mixed with bad.
The British expression: ‘It’s a dog’s life’ is all in all a negative statement.
I’m a dog, but I consider to have had a comfortable life, even though my family are not at all well off. I have always had good fortune when it comes to money. Perhaps I live by the Chinese proverb which says that money must flow; it must go out before any more is to come in.

Even as a poor student I never went with out.
Once spent 6 months paying for a coffee table which I wanted. One Christmas, spending a staggering £500 on family presents back in the early 90s. Though I do remember the time when my friend Emma & I survived the 3 weeks purely on potatoes. We couldn’t afford to buy cigarettes but had sought for loose change and managed to buy a pack of 10 ciggies. We wrapped every single ciggy in cling film and hid them around the house. The idea was that when we had reached insufferable level we would look for the ciggies. To our horror, one ciggy was placed in an empty wine bottle which had residue wine at the bottom. The wine soaked through the cling film and the ciggie. Arhhhhhhhh! We pitifully dried it in the oven and smoked it.

Since then, life had always been good. I’m a kind of a person who would feel comfortable in a super luxurious 5 star hotel, or in a dingy guest house. When I have money, I will spend spend spend. When I don’t….I wait. And will spend at the first chance.

You would expect that having kids would make one more responsible. This is true. In many sense I have, but when it comes to money I’m just not capable of saving. My kids have never gone without. They have had more than most kids. Few years ago, little Maxine said that we never stay in hotels when we go on holiday, even though she did not realised that I had spent £1500/week to rent a beautiful Dorset cottage that year. So how did I react to Maxine’s comment? I splashed out on a luxurious weekend in 5 star hotel in Venice. That weekend cost me over 3000€. Money well spent I’d say.

Business was booming before 2008, and I had no reason to economise. Suddenly sales went into free-fall. March 2009 I started my first ever finanical forecast! I needed 27,000€ in the next 5 months! Two years ago, 27,000€ didn’t seem to be a huge amount of money. But when you have no money, it appears to be mountain.

So having moved back to the UK, I have mentally trained my brain to economise. First call was getting some furniture. I splashed out on 3 new beds and mattresses, justifying that sleep was important and one should never compromise on a good quality mattress. Next was the furniture. I expected to buy decent solid wooden second hand furniture, but getting around to see them was a hassle. So the port of call was Argos, Tesco Direct or Ikea. I spent hours flicking through the catalogues and websites. Adding things to my shopping basket. But my soul revolted in protest. I’ve never bought anything from Argos, and I thought Tesco only sold food and cheap apparels. Cheap and not cheerful came to mind. Yes, but I’m on a budget. I’m now resigning myself to Ikea, though have now in two minds as to which collection I should go for. Few days ago, to my delight I found a Laura Ashley shop down in my high street. I walked in, browsed, picked up 2 leaflets and walked out.
I confessed my achievement to a friend; she congratulated me on resisting Laura Ashley. But in one of the leaflet it says 0% interest credit......and they have half price sales. Ah!

The other day, I went shopping in Tesco for food. My brother in law drove me and I took advantage of the car to buy more than usual; I spent a staggering £145. Upon returning home, my younger sister Dong asked me if she could see the receipt. Total to pay £145.45, Total savings £2.38.

‘Oh Van, you’re so crap’ she said.

I realised that I had a lot more to learn and really had to drum into my head the words:

‘I’m poor, I’m poor’.

Twenty Three Hours Service

I’ll come straight to the point; I have been through the unimaginable nightmare of spending twenty three hours in a motorway service station, in France!

I was moving country, from Barcelona to London by road. I had contracted a 19 cubic meter van and driver. We had loaded all my household and stock the previous day in Barcelona, which had taken over 6 hours.

As we crossed the windy Pyrenees borders between Spain and France, I looked forward to going to cooler climate of France. We were half way through France when we had decided to stop off at service station La Fayette Loranges, 40km from Clemont.

After the usual visits to the loo and coffees, Richard, the driver pumped up the wheels of the van with air. We drove onto a quieter spot, where Richard said that he wasn’t happy about the wheel. It was leaking air. We had to change tire.
Richard pulled out a jack with maximum capacity 1.8 tonnes. Our van and its contents totalled over 3 tonnes.
After exhaustive attempt to jack the van, Richard failed. I subsequently went to a nearby parked caravan and asked for a jack. A German gent in his mid 50s came out with his jack and offered help.

Whilst waiting for the men to sort out the heavy stuff, I spread out on the grass with my pet cats, Sam & Tinky. Sam had no interest in the world outside his cat carrier. Nothing could bulge him. Tinky was more curious, and I had to put her on a leash. I attempted go walkabout with Tinky with pathetic result. These cats had lived all their lives in a flat in urban Barcelona. The balcony is the nearest thing they got to the great out doors. Tinky perplexed her body into a crouching position and attempted to walk along the grassy patch. Walking on grass was completely alien to her as she uncomfortably crawled across .

Thanks all round and the German family went on their way with their caravan.
Richard and I did a test run around the service station complex. According to Richard the revolving wheel made a noise that he wasn’t happy about. The right back wheel looked more like a doughnut due to all the weight. We could not possibly continue as there would be high risk of the wheel exploding on the motorway.

After a while, Richard decided that the only action, though drastic, was necessary: he would have to distribute the weight of the contents of the van, so that the bulk weight lay between the front two wheels and back two.

It was going onto 9.30pm, so we moved to a long stay car park lower down amongst the articulated gigantic lorries.

Richard commenced to unload the boxes, one by one. Laying them on the tarmac car park. Every so often, Richard would inch the van forward, making space for more boxes from the van.

By the time we had emptied some 75% of the contents, when Richard spotted that Sam the cat was sitting by the van observing us.
“No worries” I said, he will be fine.
Just as I finished my sentence, an enormous lorry pulled by along us. Huffing and puffing tremendously loud noises that articulated lorries do. At this point, Sam was spotted diving under our van and disappeared.

My heart dropped! For one second, I feared Sam had ran under the huge wheels of the lorry. I ran across the newly parked lorry and began to look for Sam. I scouted under our van and all the neighbouring lorries. Each wheel was so enormous; I had to check frontal and back. Sam was could not be seen. The car park was divided into 3 sections on a slope. We were positioned on the lower car park, the most furthest from the service station and fuel station it self.

I roamed the three car parks and service station grounds, covering every inch, calling Sam’s name without avail. I even walked Tinky around the complex, in hope that she would lure Sam out from where-ever he was. I incestuously did this for 5 hours whilst Richard worked alone re-loading the van.

I thought of loosing Sam in a service station brought me to tears. I slouched on the grass exhausted. There was nothing more I could do to find Sam. I had to help Richard with the loading. However, I just wanted to check around our car park again. I walked again between the parked lorries calling Sam in a desperately low voice, when suddenly the bastard jumped from one of the wheels onto the tarmac. I could say that was one of the happiest moments of life!

So on with the re-loading. Richard hadn’t got very far as he had worked through the night in darkness. I suggested that we take a nap and await day break when the lighting is better. However, because Richard and I had survived the last 10 hours on coffee, it was difficult to get some shut eye.

We re-commenced around 4am and were making great progress. By the time the van was three quarters loaded I noticed that the right back wheel was again sinking. It wasn’t as bad as before, but we still had the rest of the van to load. We shifted the remaining heavy boxes onto the left hand side of the van.

By this time, more vehicles were coming to and from the service station. By 7am, the place was teeming with holiday makers, and other travellers. It was bizarre; it was as if the entire A75 traffic stopped at this service station. The good news was we were almost finished.

After closing the back door of the van, we immediately went to inspect the right back wheel. Jesus crist, it was exactly the same as before: a doughnut.
We had wasted 10 hours on physical and emotional pain.

We had to loose at least half a tonne of weight if we were to continue our journey. Richard being the contracted driver was not responsible for the contents and had no suggestion. It all laid on me to find a solution. I was pretty pissed off at this point as Richard had noticed the van was well over weight before we left Barcelona, in which case he should have said then. Now in the middle of no where and he expects me to off-load half a tonne! How the fuck did I place myself in this predicament? Still, it was a reality and I had to work with Richard to get us out.

I remembered two years ago, I was in a similar situation when my two workers and I drove from Barcelona to Paris for a trade fair at the end of January. We were caught in a snow storm near Limoge. The motorway A20 and main roads were cut off and traffic diverted to country roads where we got completely lost and were on the brink of truly being stuck in the snow. After driving 3 hours to nowhere, we risked running out of fuel and possibly freezing to death. Luckily we found the closed A20 again, which was conned off. I kicked the cones out of the way and we proceeded down the snowed covered A20 to Limoge at 10km/hour. The motorway was filled with abandoned cars, lorries. Some had even skidded into ditches. We had been very lucky. Only the French could have closed a major motorway, the A20 being a vital link from south to north. Instead of gritting the motorway with salt, they decided just to cut it off. The salt trucks were exiting Limoge when we were entering at 11pm. This is some 9 hours after the first snow fell.

I swear I’m jinxed in France.

Anyway, I put my thinking cap on and thought how we could resolve the half a tonne. First call was the many lorries parked. Surely one of them would have space for my boxes. I called upon every driver. I didn’t care where the boxes went, any European city would do. Many drivers where sympathetic as they had watched us all night un-loading, re-loading and looking for Sam. But for what ever reason they could not help us.

I rang Eva who works for Schenker, a logistical company in Paris. She advised that they had a sister company in outside Clemont, about 35km from the service station. Perfect! I selected 34 boxes which were least valuable, total weight over half a tonne. Richard was to drive to this company, unload the boxes onto the pallets and the logistical company would send them to UK. The only problem was that it was a Saturday, and the office would be closed. However, the security guard would let us in for sure.

Richard left for Clemont. I sat on a grassy area next to the car park watching all my personal belongings and boxes of stock. The sun was beating down, and all I had was a base ball cap to protect myself. Hours and hours went by. I watched the cars, caravans, trailers come and go. Most were holiday makers taking regular stops.
I timed that single male adults would stay on average 20-30 minutes at the service station. Whilst families with children took on average 40 - 90 minutes.
Most would arrive with exhaustive or pissed off faces. Only one car, with a couple had joyful faces. The others were so damn miserable. Most were going on holiday by the look of the contents of their car, trailer, roof boxes, bikes. Why do they choose to start a holiday with a stress filled journey by road? You can see that couples had already lost their patience and were getting on each other’s nerves. Mums stressed out with the young kids. Teenagers were so wishing they weren’t there. Dads either in rants with their partner, stormed off, fiddled with the vehicle or took dogs for walks.

A young couple parked their car by me and proceeded to lay a picnic on the grass. The boy took out a beach parasol, opened it and looked at the floor. Ah! No sand to plunge the parasol into. He stood there quite lost whilst his partner snapped at him to unleash the hinge in the middle of the pole so that the parsol could be placed at 45 degree angle on the grass. She was so pissed with his lack of simple intelligence. Road travel can certainly make or break a relationship. You can see that this relationship wasn’t going far.

Another two cars pulled up in front of me. Two families were travelling together. And from the look of the roof boxes, they were going on holiday. The men, in their over sized T-shirts, teenage children who couldn’t give a toss, and the wives hot and flustered. The men went off into the fields to piss. Nice! The women went to the grassy area to eat and drink, whilst the teenage girl laid herself down on a blanket to sunbathe. There was no nice exchange of words, just snatches as they got things out of the car.
Then snatches and sneers as they all got into their respective cars.

Inside the horrid service station, which served no hot food, only skimpy stale sandwiches and coin operated hot drinks machine, it was teeming. It was like a congregation of beach holiday makers and campers. Ladies toilet queue went beyond the entrance of the WC area. Children crying, moaning, teenagers browsing the chocolate and drink shelves. Everyone else, on a buying frenzy, as if this was the last chance they had to buy…ever! Why didn’t they travel by train, fly or stayed at home?

Sam and Tinky were out of their boxes, sitting by my feet in the shade. They hadn’t eaten or drank since we left Barcelona and that was about 30 hours ago. I was desperate to get them to at least drink. I tempted them with super lux canned food. Tinky licked the jelly and then drank some water. Sam refused. Perhaps the fright last night had been too much for him.

In the distance, I saw a black collier dog, unleashed and was wandering around. I placed the cats back into their boxes. The collier sniffed his way around the picnicking people and bins. He looked scruffy with his head down on the floor at all times, sniffing out food. As he neared us, I saw much sadness in his eyes. No life, no joy. Not like the other travelling dogs when they leap out of the cars.
As I watched the collier, I realised then that he had no owner, he was on his own. How did he end up here? Had a traveller forgotten him, lost him or abandoned him at this retched service station? Poor thing, he looked so miserable. I realised then, it could have been Sam. If this had happened in the UK, I surely would have taken him home with me. I placed the food that Tinky was eating out for him.

It was now 2pm, with the sun at its highest point. I was burning, and attempted to find some shade amongst the parked lorries.

The plan to offload the extra weight at the logistical company failed. I wish not to recall the event. Just like to say that I find the French obstinate and the most inflexible race I have ever come across. So Richard came back with the boxes.
On his way back to the service station he saw a hotel before turning into the service station. Suggested that I could ask them if it would be possible to leave 2 pallets with them for 2 days before the transport company can pick up. Great! I went to see the manager. After much begging, the manager agreed for me to leave only 1 pallet as the space was limiting. Not wonderful, but the best option I had at the moment.
On my way back to the car park, I saw a lorry marked Romania – Spain. I asked the driver where he was going; he spoke no English or Spanish, but pointed to another lorry nearby. I ran to the lorry shouted “hola, hola, hola”.

The Bulgarian driver spoke perfect Spanish and was on his way to Barcelona. Bingo! And between us we’d made a deal. It cost me a mere 100€ to have the 34 boxes taken to Barcelona.

As we loaded the 34 boxes onto the lorry and the rest of my things into the van the heavens opened. I didn’t care, the down pour was a welcomed relief from the blazing sun.

By 5.30pm on our second day, Richard and I were back on the road. Paris was signed posted 450km and we were happy.

It would take us another 21 hours to arrive to London. But that’s another story altogether.

Horchata de Chufa

When the thermometer reaches 25 Celsius in the sun at 8.30am, you just know what kind of day lays ahead.
It’s actually too hot to anything. Too hot to even masticate foods. Salads, fruits and anything liquidly is the only alimentation I can bear.

A few years ago, I discovered horchata, the prefect summer ‘food’. Technically, it’s not a food, its refreshment. But for me, it’s my elixir of life during the hot summer months.
Horchata is tiger nut milk. High in calories, carbohydrates, fat content, protein rich, jammed packed with vital vitamins and minerals. It is the perfect alternative food.

Yesterday's breakfast & lunch consisted of 1 litre of fresh horchata. Though after exhaustive packing heavy boxes in the warehouse, I resigned myself to pass by the supermarket on the way home. Dinner was an improvised occasion but turned out to be quite an affair. Thinly sliced pig’s liver swallow fried with abundance of onions with turmeric, paprika and pine nuts. And just to add a bit of bite to counter-balance the liver, few drops of balsamic vinegar & ½ teaspoon of brown sugar. Served on a bed of spinach and rock salad. All nicely garnished with a handful of cherry tomatoes. It was worth half a Michelin star if I say so myself.

Today’s lunch was ½ litre of horchata and 1 kg of cherry. Dinner was some what poorer than yesterday: mixed tuna salad, and 2 glasses of gazpacho.

Right now, two heavenly peaches are sitting on the coffee table awaiting my first bite. But I fancy a nibble of dark chocolate.

Don't Push Me

The baby decides when it wants to be born. How the baby decides is a complete mystery. It’s probable that they emit signals that says: ‘I’m mature. I’m ready. I want to be born’. This would explain why in induced births, even though the baby has reached full gestation period of nine months, some babies adapt badly to life. They have difficulties breathing.

In premature births, the baby who didn’t want to be born will not emit these signals. Even if the mother suffers complications which forces an induced birth, before exiting, spontaneously the baby will choose to die in the womb. It will not be born.

However, 7% of all births are premature. A 40% increase in the last ten years. Eighty percent of babies omitted to neonatal are premature. This is a consequence of mature mothers on fertility treatments resulting in twins, amongst other factors like poor diets during gestation.

The less the gestation period, the greater the risk of suffering in development, specially that of the nervous system. A premature child with gestation period of 23 to 25 weeks usually has learning problems at school, cannot follow the level which corresponds to his/her age, and is slow.

New borns have inflamed eyes and lips, covered in sebaceous fat, wet, red and sometimes slightly bruised. If it’s very premature, it’s born immobile.

At the moment that the baby opens the lungs and starts to breathe launches an indescribable ahhhhhhhhhh. It’s an immense sensation of life, powerful, exciting, and energetic. The new born eagerness to live is tremendous.

Eighty percent of mothers cry at birth. The moment of stress and happiness. Humans are like that: what gives us happiness makes us cry. We like this combination. The birth produces great release of endorphins, leaving mother feeling like she’s on a good trip. The baby also hallucinates. Magic!

Butterfly

I’ve always described love as a butterfly. It flutters in; you pause, hesitant, where it will land? if it lands at all. If you’re lucky it settles a short distance from you. If this happens, your astonishment is followed by an up lift of well being. Nervously you tip toe towards it, initially to observe it, to marvel at its beauty and instinctively for some innate urge, you want to touch it.
As you close in………….it flutters away.

Off My Bike

I didn’t blink an eye lid. My heart didn’t miss a beat. No expression on my face. This was the moment when I discovered that my bike had been stolen! I simply turned the corner and went on my way, by foot.

This is the seventh or eighth bike I’ve had stolen, I’ve lost count. I’m immune to being upset or expressing any feelings normally associated to being robbed. Bike robberies are a natural phenomenon in Barcelona. I’m just a just another victim.

As I walk to my destinations, I reminisced about all my previous bikes. My first bike was a present. A yellow dual mountain/city bike. I still recall the childlike happiness when I received the bike. It was 11.30pm, and I couldn’t wait to test it out. I bombed down the Gran Via and then all the way to my friend’s house. I pounded the buzzer from street level, and hysterically called my out to my friend to come down and see my bike. I was like a kid with the best present ever and wanted to share my happiness with my friend. We rode in the plaza in front of the Macba museum, taking turns on the bike, riding with wide smiles on our faces. It was pure bliss.

The yellow bike lasted eight months, before the chain to which it was locked up with was cut and the bike stolen. I had reacted violently to having my first bike nicked. I reported the theft at the local police station. They laughed at me, and advised me not to buy brand new bikes as they would be stolen in matter of minutes. Defiant that I will not contribute to the racketeering market of stolen bikes, I continued buying new bikes. Usually the best I could afford at the time.

By the time I was onto my fourth bike, I decided to invest in a Monty micro fold away bike which fitted nicely in the lift of my building. I never let the bike out of my sight. It slept in my flat and not in the street. As fate would have it, my apartment was robbed, and my beloved micro red stolen. You just can’t win.

Convinced that I was jinked or that I’m not destined to own the same bike longer than a year. I resisted buying a new bike. However, after some three months, impracticality of not having a bike persuaded me to invest in another one.
I bought my most expensive ever bike costing 650€ and a guaranteed thief proof lock of 65€. It lasted 10 minutes!
So the story of stolen bikes goes on.

After discovering my latest bike had been stolen today, I walked to my three destinations, all within some 2.5km from my home. First stop, my bank. I told the cashier that my bike had been stolen.
Second stop, the concierge of my lawyer’s office to pick up some documents. I didn’t tell the concierge about my bike, only because I knew she was a miserable old bag and didn’t want to share my sorrow with her.
The third stop was at the notary office to complete the sale of my apartment. To my horror, I couldn’t help but tell the buyer, bank manager and notary that my bike had been stolen that very morning. The statement slipped out of my mouth,without warning. I think they were all so stunned that such an insignificant piece of information was broadcasted at such a serious proceeding.

After signing of documents had finished, I walked away, lit up a ciggie. Instead of celebrating the sale of my apartment, which I had fought hard for over the past eight months, I actually thought about how nice it would have been to get on my bike and bomb down the streets, with a big smile of my face. It hit home then that my blue bike was gone and how much I was going to miss her. I snail paced home in the baking sun. Boohoo.

Fear

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light".

Plato

Nit-Picking

My eight years old daughter has head lice, again! This is the second time in about six months.

My immediate reaction is of disgust. The mere thought of the parasitic creatures sucking my beloved one’s blood is just a cry for hasty extermination. This is war; every louse will be eliminated, every nit will be physically rooted out and destroyed. As soon as I had discovered the infestation, I start scratching my head like a mad woman. Paranoid that I too may be infested. Disgusting.

I start to browse through my child’s hair, meticulously removing nits with my fingers and then squashing them between my thumb nails to deduce if they are life or empty eggs.

My daughter is slumped horizontally along the sofa, her head nestling upon my thighs; she jerks her head slightly in accordance as I systemically sweep different areas of the head. She’s relaxed and begins lapping up the attention that I’m giving her head.

“Mummy” she says. “I like getting nits, because you touch me a lot”.

Awwwwwwww…. At this point, the lice and nits are no longer enemies; they are welcomed visitors. Serious quality bonding time here.

Suddenly, my fingers fanatically scramble around a specific area. I have just stumbled upon a louse and I try desperately to tramp it but the bugger is too fast.

Spotting a louse on the head send alarm bells. It raises the disgustingness ten folds. If I’m to win this war, I need super fighting power which will penetrate every notch and cranny: Pediculicide shampoo.

I prepare the shampoo, towels and comb. My daughter sits patiently with a ponderous face. I section her hair into different batches. Vocalising my actions, and announcing that the sections will be treated in chronological order; from left to right, bottom to top. The shampoo bottle at hand almost ready to inject the first few strands of hair. When my daughter asks:

“Mummy, when you put the shampoo, do the mummy and daddy lice go back to where they had laid the eggs and pick the eggs up and run away, with the eggs”.

Woooooooooe…………
“No, the mum and dad do not have hands and therefore cannot pick up the eggs”. I reply
She grabs hold of my bottle held hand and lowers it.
“That mean the eggs will be die too!”
“Yes darling, the whole family will die!”
She pulls an uncertain face. A face that says ‘I don’t think this is right’.
I hesitate. She tilts her head in downward silence.
I’m lost as to what to do next. Then suddenly she says:
“Why can’t we take them all from my head and put them in a box so they can live together”

Ouch ouch ouch.

Now I’m going to be labelled as a mass murderer who wipes out entire families. Alternatively, I could leave the infestation as my daughter likes the idea that she providing a home for these creatures. I could intermittently control check the population by nit-picking. The rewards of the latter option; quality bonding time, makes me ponder as to what a good caring mother should do!