I fantasize about ducks, not so much those that paddle around in filthy municipal ponds back home, chasing chunks of bread thrown by bored children... They sort of disgust me, those ducks.
I'm more thinking foie gras, duck confit, magret. I'm addicted. Yet, with all that goodness and fat, eating them makes me ache with guilt sometimes. Its not guilt because I feel like I should go to the gym, but guilt because it can be too much of a good thing. Too much of things that are only mediocre make me feel that way too.
Oxford street in London makes me insane. I swore, after my first trip to Oxford street that I would never go back but somehow I find myself there regularly now. I've sort of gotten used to it, I wish that I hadn't.
Back to ducks. I imagine myself raising them, being followed around by ducklings on a daily basis. Somehow, the unglamorous task of raising them, having them shit on my boots, and then the gut-wrenching job of killing, plucking, dissecting them might make up for my indulgence. That is my fantasy.
Is this a mere canard?
ca⋅nard:
1. a false or baseless, usually derogatory story, report, or rumor.
2. Cookery. a duck intended or used for food.
3. Aeronautics. a. an airplane that has its horizontal stabilizer and elevators located forward of the wing. b. Also called canard wing. one of two small lifting wings located in front of the main wings.c.an early airplane having a pusher engine with the rudder and elevator assembly in front of the wings.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Colombo
I'm bored to death of trite travel writing with descriptions of foreign traffic jams, toilets and cultural misunderstandings. But here I go....
The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a stark contrast to the world outside: trucks spewing fumes dodging eachother, tuk-tuks and daring pedestrians; limbless beggars and half-constructed buildings. It was built by one of Ceylon's English governors, for his local mistress. Bits of "The Bridge Over the River Kwai," were filmed here. It’s nothing, if not a nice place to rest your head after a long flight.
A train heading straight to the city leaves from just outside the hotel, taking it costs about 10 cents. Of course, we missed the train, and grabbed a cab. This was the first in a series of confrontational business transactions. Of course, once we got through that, we learned the cabby had four kids--two boys, two girls. He dropped us off at Majestic City, one of Colombo's biggest shopping malls. The smell of sweet-popcorn wafted through the air-conditioned atmosphere alongside club-volume techno-music. Teenagers and families alike strolled through. As a rule I hate shopping malls, but this one had its own special charm.
Our first tuk-tuk ride took us to Colombo's fort, and to a travel agent that didn't exist. So on foot, we searched the city for an umbrella and walked to the "World Trade Centre" to make some adjustments to our return flight. The agent we spoke with sat in front of a computer but sent our request to London via "telex," which is apparently the thing before email.
Our second tuk-tuk driver proved to us that traffic laws do exist in Colombo, and that they are enforced. The traffic ahead of us seemed never-ending, and if I'd had the chance, the balls, I would've skipped ahead of it too. I guess he thought he could get away with driving on the wrong side of the road, but I think his near-collision with a motorcycle cop was the first mistake. Eventually, the cops did manage to make him pull over. They peeked in the back and informed us, the passengers, "He dangerous."
After a long chat, the driver came back and drove us to the train station. He said something about going to court…
The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a stark contrast to the world outside: trucks spewing fumes dodging eachother, tuk-tuks and daring pedestrians; limbless beggars and half-constructed buildings. It was built by one of Ceylon's English governors, for his local mistress. Bits of "The Bridge Over the River Kwai," were filmed here. It’s nothing, if not a nice place to rest your head after a long flight.
A train heading straight to the city leaves from just outside the hotel, taking it costs about 10 cents. Of course, we missed the train, and grabbed a cab. This was the first in a series of confrontational business transactions. Of course, once we got through that, we learned the cabby had four kids--two boys, two girls. He dropped us off at Majestic City, one of Colombo's biggest shopping malls. The smell of sweet-popcorn wafted through the air-conditioned atmosphere alongside club-volume techno-music. Teenagers and families alike strolled through. As a rule I hate shopping malls, but this one had its own special charm.
Our first tuk-tuk ride took us to Colombo's fort, and to a travel agent that didn't exist. So on foot, we searched the city for an umbrella and walked to the "World Trade Centre" to make some adjustments to our return flight. The agent we spoke with sat in front of a computer but sent our request to London via "telex," which is apparently the thing before email.
Our second tuk-tuk driver proved to us that traffic laws do exist in Colombo, and that they are enforced. The traffic ahead of us seemed never-ending, and if I'd had the chance, the balls, I would've skipped ahead of it too. I guess he thought he could get away with driving on the wrong side of the road, but I think his near-collision with a motorcycle cop was the first mistake. Eventually, the cops did manage to make him pull over. They peeked in the back and informed us, the passengers, "He dangerous."
After a long chat, the driver came back and drove us to the train station. He said something about going to court…
Monday, 17 November 2008
Long Overdue
I haven't written anything in ages... in part it's because I've been pre-occupied with other things. In part, it's because it's been a long time since I've felt like I'm on vacation, and I guess that despite my lack of feeling settled, I'm living real life now. Maybe feeling unsettled is part of that. In any case, it is somehow easier for me to process events when they are new, when they are temporary. This posting I actually wrote in September, a night out with friends but on my own at the same time. If you manage to make it through, I can tell you what the next one will be about. In any case, the posting is long overdue:
Head.
What?
La tete.
Excuse me?
How do you say it in French, giving head?
Ah, I see, la pipe...
I'm standing in line at subway and it would be fabulous if my night were already over. I'm sure I wish that less than the guys standing behind the counter. I've just come from a children's psychiatric hospital. Well, it's not that anymore. Now there are adults living there and no doctors. The adults pay £80 per week.
A new crop of drunkards has walked into the restaurant--if you care to call Subway a restaurant. One of them tries to butt in front of me but the guy behind the counter knows I was there first, so ignores him and takes my order.
A WHOLE SIX INCHES!!!
That's the drunk guy.
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN TAKE ALL THAT??
Wow, so charming. It's easy to ignore him, but his friend manages to be even more obnoxious. The friend walks behind me and touches my head. I politely ask him to not (fucking) touch me and he repeats my words in a mocking tone, because what else could a drunk guy with a limited vocabulary actually say?
At times like these I start to think laws that limit alcohol consumption (Thank you Boris, for your first law in London) are a good idea. Would religion help? Some might.
Now back to the mental hospital. I can't decide if I find it creepy or not. The railings and flooring are made of wood and the windows are big with nice curtains. It's not institutional, in the way modern hospitals are. There are still kid's books lying around though and thats a bit weird. One is about lions eating little boys or something, how can that be good for psychologically disturbed children? Still, if I weren't so intent on getting a "real home" this might be a good place to move into.
The bus home is filled with more drunk people. I had to wait ages at King's Cross to get it. There was a group of men wearing bright orange vests huddled around the entrance of the station and as I watched them, I wondered if their presence had anything to do with today's evacuation. I wasn't in the station, but outside. The sidewalk was jammed with people, some of them freaking out. One lady was shoved up against a news stand and loudly saying to no one, everyone, "One minute you're just standing there and another, there are so many people you can't move! What is going on here???"
I heard someone say something about a bomb scare.
But it was actually another evacuation that put me in the mental hospital.
Earlier in the evening, I was standing outside a pub, freezing and hungry while Bruno rolled a cigarette and Lili tried to convince a carpet layer that his views on immigration were misinformed. I ditched them to go home, so made my way down to Oxford Circus and the Central Line. When I got to the bottom of the escalator, sirens started blaring. I kept walking with the crowd for a moment and then everyone stopped suddenly, collective delayed-reaction. Then someone said, "There's an emergency, we have to evacuate."
Some people tried to go up the escalator that was the still rolling down. Then we all
started walking forward, through the maze of tube-station hallways.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... ALL PASSENGERS ARE NOW BEING ASKED TO EVACUATE DUE TO AN EMERGENCY.
I walked in the crowd and turned a corner and then another. I half expected a cloud of black smoke to be greeting me around each one. Then I heard someone say, There's a body on the tracks... But who knows if that was true?
I wondered if maybe that lame goodbye to Lili and Bruno would be the last anyone ever heard from me. Then I told myself to just calm down, the exit would be right around the next corner. It was. Then I went to the mental hospital.
The next posting will be about finance. It's as if I'm learning through osmosis, just by being here...
Head.
What?
La tete.
Excuse me?
How do you say it in French, giving head?
Ah, I see, la pipe...
I'm standing in line at subway and it would be fabulous if my night were already over. I'm sure I wish that less than the guys standing behind the counter. I've just come from a children's psychiatric hospital. Well, it's not that anymore. Now there are adults living there and no doctors. The adults pay £80 per week.
A new crop of drunkards has walked into the restaurant--if you care to call Subway a restaurant. One of them tries to butt in front of me but the guy behind the counter knows I was there first, so ignores him and takes my order.
A WHOLE SIX INCHES!!!
That's the drunk guy.
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN TAKE ALL THAT??
Wow, so charming. It's easy to ignore him, but his friend manages to be even more obnoxious. The friend walks behind me and touches my head. I politely ask him to not (fucking) touch me and he repeats my words in a mocking tone, because what else could a drunk guy with a limited vocabulary actually say?
At times like these I start to think laws that limit alcohol consumption (Thank you Boris, for your first law in London) are a good idea. Would religion help? Some might.
Now back to the mental hospital. I can't decide if I find it creepy or not. The railings and flooring are made of wood and the windows are big with nice curtains. It's not institutional, in the way modern hospitals are. There are still kid's books lying around though and thats a bit weird. One is about lions eating little boys or something, how can that be good for psychologically disturbed children? Still, if I weren't so intent on getting a "real home" this might be a good place to move into.
The bus home is filled with more drunk people. I had to wait ages at King's Cross to get it. There was a group of men wearing bright orange vests huddled around the entrance of the station and as I watched them, I wondered if their presence had anything to do with today's evacuation. I wasn't in the station, but outside. The sidewalk was jammed with people, some of them freaking out. One lady was shoved up against a news stand and loudly saying to no one, everyone, "One minute you're just standing there and another, there are so many people you can't move! What is going on here???"
I heard someone say something about a bomb scare.
But it was actually another evacuation that put me in the mental hospital.
Earlier in the evening, I was standing outside a pub, freezing and hungry while Bruno rolled a cigarette and Lili tried to convince a carpet layer that his views on immigration were misinformed. I ditched them to go home, so made my way down to Oxford Circus and the Central Line. When I got to the bottom of the escalator, sirens started blaring. I kept walking with the crowd for a moment and then everyone stopped suddenly, collective delayed-reaction. Then someone said, "There's an emergency, we have to evacuate."
Some people tried to go up the escalator that was the still rolling down. Then we all
started walking forward, through the maze of tube-station hallways.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... ALL PASSENGERS ARE NOW BEING ASKED TO EVACUATE DUE TO AN EMERGENCY.
I walked in the crowd and turned a corner and then another. I half expected a cloud of black smoke to be greeting me around each one. Then I heard someone say, There's a body on the tracks... But who knows if that was true?
I wondered if maybe that lame goodbye to Lili and Bruno would be the last anyone ever heard from me. Then I told myself to just calm down, the exit would be right around the next corner. It was. Then I went to the mental hospital.
The next posting will be about finance. It's as if I'm learning through osmosis, just by being here...
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Job Hunting
Yesterday I had my first meeting at a London employment agency.
Considering how hard its been for me to get these people to open their doors for me, it makes my desire to work for the BBC look like the equivalent of aspiring to walk on the moon. In any case, I was finally allowed in to one of these places. They sat me down at a computer and asked, "Do you audio-type?" I said sure, I guess so, and I've always considered myself a pretty good typist.
"Don't curse yourself!" The lady replied.
Then, at that moment, I actually developed a sense of nervousness.
What if I really am a crap typist and have just been deluding myself all these years?
And if I fail these tests then... I really should just go home and desperately thank the CBC for allowing me to sit at their desks and bang out the notes I take while on the phone, be glad to not work at McDonald's or Marks & Spencer... (I am glad anyhow, every day.)
When I was finally brought back upstairs the interview process began. This is the part where they determine whether or not I have a personality, whether I bathe regularly, whether I pick my nose in public... I asked to see the test-scores.
The results? Well, lets just say there's hope for me yet. I wouldn't want to brag....
Considering how hard its been for me to get these people to open their doors for me, it makes my desire to work for the BBC look like the equivalent of aspiring to walk on the moon. In any case, I was finally allowed in to one of these places. They sat me down at a computer and asked, "Do you audio-type?" I said sure, I guess so, and I've always considered myself a pretty good typist.
"Don't curse yourself!" The lady replied.
Then, at that moment, I actually developed a sense of nervousness.
What if I really am a crap typist and have just been deluding myself all these years?
And if I fail these tests then... I really should just go home and desperately thank the CBC for allowing me to sit at their desks and bang out the notes I take while on the phone, be glad to not work at McDonald's or Marks & Spencer... (I am glad anyhow, every day.)
When I was finally brought back upstairs the interview process began. This is the part where they determine whether or not I have a personality, whether I bathe regularly, whether I pick my nose in public... I asked to see the test-scores.
The results? Well, lets just say there's hope for me yet. I wouldn't want to brag....
Friday, 9 May 2008
Thursday, 1 May 2008
An Obituary
Born in a Chinese factory, made with bits of plastic and silicone from around the world, my Nokia cell phone died quickly and painlessly at approximately 4:30 pm yesterday--April 30th, 2008.
I turned on my bike near Angel Tube Station in London, when the phone flew out of my pocket and directly under the wheel of a bus. A kind passer-by attempted CPR, but several important internal organs were crushed during the accident. There was no hope.
A public memorial service will be held in Abney Cemetary, Stoke Newington, at 2pm on May 2.
I turned on my bike near Angel Tube Station in London, when the phone flew out of my pocket and directly under the wheel of a bus. A kind passer-by attempted CPR, but several important internal organs were crushed during the accident. There was no hope.
A public memorial service will be held in Abney Cemetary, Stoke Newington, at 2pm on May 2.
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