1. There is something awfully disturbing about lathering up in the shower using soap in the shape of a teddy bear. Whoever thinks up these gifts ideas is a little deranged. Especially when teddy’s legs fall off.
2. Does anyone here eat smoked cheese, or know of anyone who does, or has even heard of smoked cheese?
3. It’s a known fact that some people look like animals. I have a distant relative who looks like a duck and I knew a boy who looked like a dog.
4. Why is 4 am the witch’s hour and how can one be rid of bizarre anxiety dreams?
5. In the space of two days, I’ve had one man adjust himself while looking me straight in the eye, another cup his crotch as he got into the cool water right in front of me, and another lower the waistband of his shorts and scratch himself in a way I could see his tattoo and pubes. What gives?
“An Irishman never goes back on his word,” Conor said to me as we bolted out of the quarterly company meeting breakfast and made a dash across the CBD to the head office. It was St Patrick’s Day and as much as we were both expected at different clients, he was determined to make me his famous Irish coffee, because a few weeks earlier, he had given me his word. And who was I to argue with the boss?
Back in the galley kitchen of our office, I could smell the aroma of the brewing coffee. I watched him as he emptied a generous shot of whiskey into the tall glass, poured the coffee then stirred in the brown sugar.
“Now watch carefully,” he added with the zest of a master educating his pupil. I looked on as he skilfully poured the cream over the back of a spoon, ensuring it floated smoothly on top of the dark liquid, forming a thick layer through which the coffee is to be sipped.
We clinked our glasses and took a long slow sip that drew big smiles of satisfaction.
“Was that a double shot?” I asked Conor on our way out. My knees had started to wobble and I was already wishing I hadn’t worn heels that day.
“To be sure, to be sure…”
I made it at my client almost on time. Then I spent the morning masking my light-headedness by looking very busy, hunched protectively over my laptop emailing my colleagues drunken antics.
In honour of Saint Patrick, BeMused, the blog has been cloaked in green for the day. As for me, I’ll be making sure I get a little Irish in me tonight.
The beach is scantily clad with locals. A sense of welcoming familiarity washes ashore with the unexpected wave that disturbs the plump seagull from the sunken footprint it has made for a bed.
It feels good to reclaim the beach.
The wooden spoon man takes his place near the shore and ingeniously uses the implement to apply suntan lotion to his back. The thin man in old leathery skin and dark Speedos makes his way to the crystal waters. The bald dark bouncer with his solid thighs and upper chest clumsily dries himself, always in a long-sleeve swim top to avoid more colour. Two European gents with white chest hair and gold necklaces stop and gesticulate their animated discussion, later calling it truce over green olives and red wine.
The look-at-me bloke of three yester years struts by, stopping and posing to show off a body now beefed up on too much gym and steroids.
The Northern European couple in their 50s arrive looking rather striking as usual. They strip down to a one piece, bikini bottoms for her and a thin g-string for him, in matching fluoro colours.
A perfectly sculpted bare chest emerges from beneath the turquoise waters, long enough for the water to glisten down its bareness then he goes under.
The midday shadow floats lazily across the stretch of powdery sand. It stops at its usual vantage point and disappears over a carefully laid out towel, notebook and pencil in hand.
I love the British. I love the way their accents, inflexion and idioms give them a delightful air of friendliness. From plummy accents that hint at gentry and lineage, to the rugged warmth of the cockney dialect, which admittedly I don’t understand very well, there’s a plethora sounds, an aural seduction that is ever so charming even when they’re giving you directions to get around London by tube.
But make no mistake, as I have on numerous occasions, when I innocently blurted, “What language is he speaking?”, only to be met with a raised eyebrow, a stifled chuckle followed by a prompt and stern correction, “English!” Ah… I could never discern a Scottish accent from an Irish one or a northern English one. Yet I can listen, nod, smile and be totally enchanted like a teenage school girl.
On my first visit to the Great land of Britain, I hated London and its environs. I wasn’t impressed by the locals or their attitudes as if their grey drab skies cast a dull veneer over their personalities. They evoked in me expressions often reserved by them for their counterparts across the Channel. Yet it made no sense when I had many English friends, colleagues and relatives whom I love dearly. Even a major crush of mine was English, Welsh actually, with a seductive Londoner accent to accompany that natural charm and eyes that glittered when they looked at me. Captivating, he was. And I am digressing.
Therefore it came as no surprise that during my last sojourn in Britannia to visit friends and relatives, I chose to make it brief. And it was much to my disappointment again, as it had turned out, I loved London. I witnessed a shift in attitudes and a general bonhomie among its people. Laid back is not a term usually reserved for Londoners but it was one to which the locals themselves have attested.
London has been calling me of late. I shall return again for a longer stay. Even if I have to ask some charming locals for a translation.
– A photographic tribute to London
There is a common perception that when a tragedy of sorts hits, we discover who our real friends are. Unmet expectations from close ones can shatter us while new friends emerge to support us and become our lifeline, diffusing much of our angst and fears. But once we have overcome that life-changing event, and our lives are on the mend, it is not uncommon for those friendships to fade, and consciously little effort is made to restore them.
It’s not that we are ungrateful or selfish. We often hold them in high esteem and always remember them for their kindness. But in essence, they serve as a reminder of a time best forgotten. They may have seen us at our worst and know our deepest vulnerabilities. Although they have played an active and key role in supporting us, we no longer wish to be reminded of those times.
These friendships wane. And we knowingly let go of them as we have let go of those turbulent times. More often than not, we remember them with wistful nostalgia yet we know beyond doubt that we were responsible for the denouement.
I could cite examples of renowned people who have lived through it, relationships that have survived serious illnesses to see a person into recovery yet the glue that held them together has loosened and come undone. It is ubiquitous to life if we take an honest and examining look around.
I have relinquished such a friendship for similar reasons. I could unconvincingly say that our interests had diverged but I know that she will always be a reminder of a time I must file in the archives in order to live a brighter present.
Yet despite my valid reasons, it leaves me with a little sadness.
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Have you been in a friendship that you have let fade away because it triggers memories of a past best forgotten? Have you relinquished a relationship (or potential one) because the person may have seen you at your worst? Your opinion…
Snippets of life, whimsical thoughts, and naughty observations as seen through the mischievous eye of a woman who is just at home with Martinis as she is with Caffè Latte.
Martini Moments…… While Contemplating Oddities
“An Irishman never goes back on his word,” Conor said to me as we bolted out of the quarterly company meeting breakfast and made a dash across the CBD to the head office. It was St Patrick’s Day and as much as we were both expected at different clients, he was determined to make me his famous Irish coffee, because a few weeks earlier, he had given me his word. And who was I to argue with the boss?
The beach is scantily clad with locals. A sense of welcoming familiarity washes ashore with the unexpected wave that disturbs the plump seagull from the sunken footprint it has made for a bed.
I love the British. I love the way their accents, inflexion and idioms give them a delightful air of friendliness. From plummy accents that hint at gentry and lineage, to the rugged warmth of the cockney dialect, which admittedly I don’t understand very well, there’s a plethora sounds, an aural seduction that is ever so charming even when they’re giving you directions to get around London by tube.
There is a common perception that when a tragedy of sorts hits, we discover who our real friends are. Unmet expectations from close ones can shatter us while new friends emerge to support us and become our lifeline, diffusing much of our angst and fears. But once we have overcome that life-changing event, and our lives are on the mend, it is not uncommon for those friendships to fade, and consciously little effort is made to restore them.
