HomoSimian

Its the most wonderful time...

2011-12-14T04:35:00.000-08:00

And suddenly its that time of the year where everything is all wintery and the streets are crammed with people armed with bags and bags of presents as well as even more determination, pushing past others trying to reach for that last object that would complete the list for the year.

OH and I have taken a pretty relaxed approach to shopping for each other. Internet shopping has made things so much easier, and we can order in advance and have things delivered to the in-laws, all wrapped up so we don't even have to make much of an effort, apart from last weekend when we went shopping for Christmas baubles, and Secret Santa presents for a lunch we were hosting the next day.

The premise was simple: each person would buy 2 gifts of 10 francs each, then there would be a ballot, and then each corresponding number would be given to the person who held said number. Simple! Although, the reality went along the lines of something more like this:

"Draw lots, determine order of person, open a present, then either open another present but then you could 'steal' someone else's present. Said present can only be stolen a maximum of 3 times, and it can be stolen back, but not in the proceeding round. Next person can 'steal' the previous person's present, and the previous person would then have the option to open another present, or wait the next round to open 2."

For my part, I paid scant attention and just kept refilling my glass of wine, lamenting the 2 expensive baubles I suspect OH had broken deliberately because of the Swarovski crystals on them. For not paying attention, I ended up with a pen with a naked man, some magnets and some pretty cool ice shot glasses. OH ended up with some delicious chocolates which everyone finished before the game was over.

The aftermath of that Christmas lunch is still reliving itself through random discoveries of an empty glass here, a greasy tray there. Hopefully, when we go away, the fairy on the top of the tree will wave her wand and make it all disappear. Or, since we couldn't find a fairy, and all Swiss top of the tree ornaments look like minaret covers (ironically), another fairy will be certain to be doing it instead.

Merry Christmas you jolly lot.

Long overdue

2011-10-25T10:32:00.000-07:00

Blogging, is dead, according to my secret online hero North Morgan, or more commonly known to those out there as London Preppy. Yet he continues, less for the growing following of those who 'come for the pictures, and stay for the words', but more because he wants to, and does it very well. He seems shy and retiring, but looks like he should be a model, and at the same age as myself, already has a book published, touted to be the next Catcher in the Rye.

He is one of those impossibly good looking people (in the sense of the gay asthete) who you wish you could meet, and dazzle them with your words of wisdom, or your (apparent) weariness in the world, coupled with anecdotes or throwaway comments (and have them adore you in return). Yet you realise that it is all an act, not just because you want someone else to find you interesting, but because you secretly hope to be interesting yourself.

In this case, myself.

Today I have come back from work after a weekend interlude in Venice with OH. It was nothing short of perfect: the scenic approach into Venice, the unstaged drop-off in front of lots of tourists at one of the busiest stops in Venice, the nonchalant strolling off the pier towards the hotel.

Together, OH and I had a wonderful weekend visiting the Biennale, catching exhibitions and dining out sumptuously. Good conversations were had, and laughs aplenty. However, at one point, amongst all the creativity and beauty and love, I felt a bit lost. I'd been carrying on towards my goal of success for such a long time, and now that I felt that I was almost there, I wondered if I'd actually lost focus on what I wanted to do ultimately. That, however, opened another can of worms, in no particular order:

1. Many moons ago I wanted to write, then the blog came along to indulge my fantasies. The vanity accompanying self publication, read by a few of your closest friends, and if perchance, someone else online, was euphoric. I'd sacrificed close friendship developed in the latter years of university with thinly concealed personas of my housemates, which led to some uncomfortable exchanges, especially the description of 'Medusa-like' hair. Words were had, the blog assumed a new form. It's had a few incarnations since, but nevertheless, its never really encapsulated what I really think or feel given those out there who do know me.

2. A restaurant has always been an interesting angle. Being, however, the control freak that I am, does not necessarily translate well. I want full control over front of house, and the dishes I create which, honestly, only my acquaintances know of and despite the exaltations, I am aware that taste is subjective. This leads to a memory of a situation where once I cooked paëlla for an ex, who declared it horrible and proceeded to make himself a ham sandwich. I threw the entire pot, including contents into the bin, and continue to regret throwing a thoroughly practical pot away. It was an indication in hindsight that the pot was a metaphor for the relationship, and that I should have jacked it in a long time ago.

3. I have in my apartment a number of black and white photos which I'd taken with an old manual camera, and developed myself. This was probably the earliest vanity project I'd ever embarked on, and to date has the most lasting presence. The grainy pictures staring back moodily, the subjects staring at me through non-focussing stares, the paper yellowing gently as a reminder of time. A friend once asked me why I'd stopped taking pictures. My reply was 'with a digital camera and photoshop, anyone can do it.'. This is the most defeatist statement to date but I still cannot get myself to combat the apathy surrounding it.

To rectify this dilemma, I have taken a quarter of a Xanax, which will provide me with vivid dreams, and no answer. I feel, however, that I will be lucid enough in the morning to focus on the pile of shite known as work to get me through the day, and the promise of more alcohol to get me through the rest of tomorrow night.

Rinse, and repeat.

Apologies for the disruption in service

2011-09-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

It has been quite full of happenings in the Simian realm, but service will resume in the next few days with a post on food and friends.

On micro-scooters

2011-05-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

I remember back in 2000 these micro-scooters became all the craze in London. My ex boyfriend suggested that he get one and wheel around on it in the city to get to work so as to be environmentally friendly. That he lived on a hill and would only have to roll down seemed like quite an easy way to get places until I pointed out that he would have to hunch over to grab the handles, and having to lug the thing back up the hill would soon see the contraption consigned to the back of the closet.

A year later, the micro-scooter reached a new pinnacle of cool when it was immortalized in Zoolander as used by Hansel (he's so hot right now). There is a scene where he kicks off on his micro-scooter, and somehow when dismounting manages to snap the whole thing together and slung on his back in one cool, deft movement. Cue: a legion of copycats, few who succeeded, even more failing and breaking fingers, sustaining bruises, taking out anyone in a 30m radius, and generally looking like twats in the process. Thus, the micro-scooter gradually disappeared from the streets of London.

Fast forward to 2007. I arrive in Geneva, and see a whole new legion of micro-scooter users. These range from the children all the way to the 74 year old granny who scooted into the post office on one. I discussed this with OH at the beginning who confidently told me that the Swiss were a bit behind in some trends and fads, and we would soon see the back of these pavement menaces. I sincerely hoped so as it seemed to be an infestation of micro-scooters everywhere, rolling through the parks, by the lake, down the hills, across dog-shit. Even the clientele using these seemed to encompass the whole section of society, from hookers jumping onto one to race after a potential client, to bankers stepping onto one impassively to get to a meeting. It seemed an unstoppable craze.

Now, 4 years later and I'm in Zurich. The micro-scooters are still going strong. There are shops that dedicate themselves to selling these contraptions, as well as a variety of accessories to go along with them. Hot men turn into idiots in my eyes as soon as I see them clutching onto one, elegant women just look stupid in their Louboutins, on a micro-scooter.

Maybe we need a re-release of Zoolander, or a movie that has such cool micro-scooter tricks that will shame anyone owning a scooter to quietly leave them in their basement and carry on as nature intended, to walk.

Oh, wait a minute, there was a movie with some micro-scooters that perfectly describes the legions of micro-scooter fans: Jackass.

Carnivale!

2011-03-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

Every year, on the 11th of November, at 11:11 in the morning, the whole world comes to a standstill, and a two minute silence is observed in respect for those who lost their lives in the Second World War. The Swiss chose this moment to begin their Fastnacht celebrations, culminating in multiple parades and street parties to mark the beginning of Lent at the end of winter.

Normally a restrained and discreet people, these celebrations are an excuse to drink on the streets, greet everyone and dress up in gay colours and to get up to mischief, safe in the knowledge that you're hiding behind that macabre mask, intending to 'scare' the winter away.

Sunday Brunch Recipes: Baked Eggs

2011-03-08T07:23:00.000-08:00

I am quite frankly, as OH never ceases to point out, obsessed with eggs*. I like all sorts of preparations of the versatile object, and apart from pickled eggs which I will endure, I am on a mission to prepare and/or eat all forms known to man in a bid to gather enough inspiration and recipes for the ultimate brunch place I will launch some day. OH has even come up with some names that have kept us amused for a while until the novelty of making up names with the word 'egg' in it wear off.

Eggs have always had a special place in my heart, as I was being plucked from one continent to another when I was young, eggs remained the most staple food that I could recognise in my young food repertoire. From fish and chips, pies, and stews, I was transported from the bland British offerings at the age of 5 and plonked into foreign surroundings with curries and duck tongues being staples of the daily diet. For the best part of my early days in Asia, my relatives were at a loss to what they should feed me when I went to visit. Sure, I looked similar to them: dark hair, eyes, complexion. However, when I opened my mouth I sounded like the television shows from the UK. Tweak me a little and I'd sing 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' in estuary Cockney, but for the most of it I sounded like a parrot of the BBC, and so they were baffled with me, and consequently assumed that my diet would be different too.

It started off with potatoes. Asians have this assumption that Brits only eat potatoes, just as Brits of yesteryear imagined Asians only ate rice. For three months after I arrived in Asia, my staple breakfast would be a solitary boiled potato, with the Asian influence of a dipping dish of soy on the side. Later, once or twice, out of curiousity, the maids decided to give me raw potatoes to see if I would still eat them: I did (until I had diarrheoa and it was back to boiled potatoes).

One day, instead of a potato (I imagine that the supply had run out) I was given a boiled egg. Words cannot even being to describe the ecstasy I experienced then, but my grandmother must have seen the joy on my face, and started to give me a boiled egg every day instead of a potato. Later, when I went to live with another grandmother who accidentally poured boiling water down my back while attempting to fill up the egg boiler, I took it upon myself to work the stove and so from the age of 5 (nearly 6) I began my lifelong love affair with eggs.

Anyway, while I am proficient in most ovo delights, it has taken me a while to attempt poaching after a few false starts in methods (spinning water vortex, lots of salt, tie in clingfilm etc). OH however makes mean poached eggs, and now, while I am now able to do them well, I still rely on him to be Chief Poacher to spare myself the aggravation.

This weekend just gone however, we'd been for a long run, and while I was waiting for OH to finish in the shower and commence the egg poaching for Eggs Benedict, I looked at the clock and realised we had to be somewhere else in less than 30 mins. Thus, I had to take charge of brunch. What I whipped up was so simple that I intend to do this everytime we have people over for brunch as the eggs can be served all at the same time which is not often the case with poached eggs and large groups. (For some reason I had my friend Hillary in mind when I prepared these, perhaps in anticipation of her upcoming visit.)

The eggs are baked with Hollandaise sauce, which when freshly prepared, fluffs up ever so slightly like a soufflé. This also means you can serve up the bacon/smoked salmon/spinach/anything else on platters for guests to help themselves to, so there's no vegetarian/carnivore aggravation at the table. The sweetness of the paprika lends itself a smokey quality after being in the oven, and poppy seeds gives it a slight crunch and adds texture.

Baked Eggs in Hollandaise

Eggs (2 per person)
Homemade Hollandaise (recipe to be posted soon)
Butter
Sweet paprika
Poppy seeds
Parsley to garnish (optional)

Method

Grease the ramekins slightly with butter, crack an egg into it (or if you have larger ramekins, crack 2 in per portion. Gently spoon the Hollandaise sauce over the egg(s) to cover. Add a sprinkling of paprika on top and a pinch of poppy seeds.

Place the ramekins into a baking tray, and add hot water from the kettle so the water level comes up to a third or half of the ramekin. Place immediately into an oven at 180°c (356°F) and bake for 6-8 minutes. The whites of the egg should be just about to set when removed from the oven. Bear in mind the egg will continue to cook in the ramekin so those who like more thoroughly cooked eggs can wait a couple of minutes for the egg to firm up, or those who like it runny can attack immediately with a fork to break the yolk.

Serve with toasted bread (we use warmed milk bread which is similar to brioche) and platters of smoked salmon, bacon, mushrooms or anything else you fancy.

*(I tried to look up the proper word in latin to be more precise, but 'ovophile' churns up results for some 'egg in mouth breeding Cichlidae' which just sounds wrong).

The countdown begins

2011-03-04T02:11:00.000-08:00

Since OH proposed back in December, its taken a while for the news to filter through to friends. It has also taken a while for it to filter into my consciousness, and finally updating my Facebook status to 'engaged' prompted a flurry of messages and well wishers. I'm almost tempted to remove my relationship status just so it shows up as 'Marmoset is no longer in a relationship' just for the drama of it. My family, ie Mother and Father have yet to find out, but my siblings are eagerly picking out colours and dresses for the occasion.

We have now decided that the celebrations will take place in the North of England, around the Scottish borders. We have also decided that it will be in autumn, because frankly, apart from asparagus in the spring, we couldn't really think of anything else that was exciting enough for us to have at the meal. Autumn however, provides us with a variety of exciting things: scallops, truffles, game, and whisky. I know that whisky is not strictly an autumnal product, but for the sake of it, lets go with it.

Immediately following the proposal, OH launched into full planning mode, which with almost 20 months to go, was a bit of an overkill. Since then, we've been speaking about small elements of the big day, and together we're approaching it from very different views, apart from the food angle.

Many years ago I was at an event and speaking to the Chinese Ambassador, who was recounting the way the world works. I remember the analogy of the world climbing the same mountain, and the different views that people had. The closer to the pinnacle, the more the view started to be the same. OH and I have started the climb, but hopefully, we'll have the same view when we get there.

I've been thinking that I'm going to start documenting the events in the lead up to this Big Day. There will be tantrums, and there will be laughs, but there will definitely not be a Bridezilla moment.

I hope.

Someone like who?

2011-02-17T04:59:00.000-08:00

I started thinking of the past when I first heard this, and missed opportunities, but however much I tried to lament, I couldn't. That is because I don't have to find someone like you, because OH, I have you...

Baby its not so cold outside...

2011-02-04T04:14:00.000-08:00

OH got back from a work trip the other day and brought with him the box set of Glee, Season 2. We're totally hooked on it, OH obsessively so.

Anyway, after Season 1, we were left wondering what would happen to Kurt, the openly gay character, and it turns out he features a lot more in Season 2. Just as an insight, here he is with Blaine, the other new gay character, doing a wonderful duet.

And just so you know, Blaine, I so would.

How to solve a problem...

2011-01-20T07:18:00.000-08:00

SCENE: Downstairs hallway, by the shoerack

MARMOSET (M) AND OH (OH) ENTER, DOWN THE STAIRS

M: Oh dear, we do need to get a new wardrobe so we can store all these shoes

OH: Well, why don't you give some away to charity?

M: I've given a load away already, nothing more I want to shed at this moment.

OH: How about those? I've not seen you wear them.

M: That's because I just bought those.

OH: Oh, okay, how about those?

M: The brown ones? Oh, they're actually red. All this dust...

OH: My point exactly.

M: We're getting new wardrobes.

M AND OH EXIT THROUGH THE DOOR.

Happy New Year!

2011-01-04T03:13:00.001-08:00

These are my engagement present.

OH proposed quite by surprise in Edinburgh, after we'd been to see the in-laws and skidding halfway down the A1 from the British border onwards that had no grit or salt on. After my crying and saying yes, our first stop was the homewares sale at John Lewis where we picked up lots of cheap bedding, then onto a long lunch at Martin Wisheart in Leith. Next stop, the airport, and we landed back in Switzerland just in time for a couple of episodes of Glee.

Very Gay Indeed, as OH put it.

Happy New Year everyone. More shenanigans to follow.

Being good, Swiss style

2010-12-03T11:16:00.000-08:00

The Christmas season is upon us, with resolutions being made to eat less after the big event, and various other good intentions to follow, the New Year being the time to implement them all. While adults have a very strong resolve to follow them but then inadvertently fail, children are spared this self-introspection and personal improvement.

The Swiss*, however, have very different ideas.

My boss has 2 children under the age of 5. The have been invited to a St. Nicolas' Day party with the following instructions to the parents:

'Each child should be provided with a present, wrapped, and their name clearly printed on the parcel to facillitate ease of St Nicolas giving away said presents to the right child.

'Along with this, each parent should provide 2 positive comments, and 2 negative comments about the child on a slip of paper to accompany said present, in order for St Nicolas to declare before the audience, the strengths and foibles of each child.

'For example, the positive statement could be "Mary, you're very good at playing with your little brother so he doesn't cry." The negative, can focus on something such as "Mary, you shouldn't wet your bed."

'We look forward to a celebration this weekend, and don't forget the instructions.'

Now, this would seem sensible at first glance, but upon further dissection, my boss made the following comment:

"It's all very well having an appraisal when you're at work, but my kids are so fucking young, and screwing with their heads with some authoritarian figure they've never met is really, putting it nicely, a mindfuck."

That, has been the funniest thing I've heard all week, in complete context.

I remember something similar when I was 5, and St Nicolas sat me on his lap (back in the days when this was still normal) and told me that I was very good helping mummy with the housework (positive comment) and that I should stop crying because daddy had left (negative comment). I'm only thankful that I'm not in jail today.

And therefore, I believe, is how to fuck up your child. I'm totally going to try that one day.

* DISCLAIMER: This might actually be more from an overbearing mother figure than the actual Swiss, but I'm going with it.

Flies, Pomegranates and Peaks

2010-11-25T23:48:00.000-08:00

This is where OH and I have just been:

I can't even begin to describe how amazing this place is. It is really something that has to be experienced personally. The ancient city itself is vast, and all hewn out of rock which is an absolute work of engineering genius. the surrounding cliffs and walls of the hills and mountains lend to an illusion that everything was covered in carvings, and then you catch sight of a worn out Corinthian pedestal, and some cornicing that fades into another worn piece of rock, then you're not quite sure again.

If you encounter gung-ho Yanks telling you where to go, don't follow their advice if you're not sure or not one for hair-raising adventures. OH and I thought it would be a good idea to go off the beaten track, and found ourselves scaling a set of stairs up to the top of a 12th century fortress, and the last time the stairs were used probably dated from then as well. After getting to the top and enjoying the sublime views, we panicked when all the probable paths down led to sheer drops off the cliff faces. Finally, after taking a Panoramic Pee (tm), we screwed on our adventurers heads and followed the ghost of other footprints, and finally found the way down via some sensible stairs.

This is another wonderful experience:

Stepping into the Dead Sea, the density forces your feet up from beneath you and all you can do is float on your front, or on your back. Lie back and enjoy the sensation of not having to exert yourself, and float with wild abandon. Mind the drift though, you may inadvertantly end up drifting over to Israel, and cause a diplomtic incident. As OH pointed out, if you get shot, the salinity would cause the wound to hurt like fuck.

The constant evaporation of water from the surface creates a wonderful haze that dampens sound all around you, as well as filters out harmful UVB rays. This means you tan without burning, which is fantastic. The mud from the seabed which you can slather on and washed off in the sea makes your skin as smooth as a baby's bottom.

The low season allows for a completely deserted experience, as no one else is around. We had 30 staff waiting on us at the Dead Sea resort. The one drawback are the multitudes of flies that are around during the day, but mysteriously disappear before sundown, so dining al fresco in the evening is thoroughly pleasant.

And for pomegranates? They are delicious with most things, especially baba ganoush and as a late night snack.

*wink*

Giving up the ghost....

2010-11-13T17:38:00.000-08:00

...of London Town.

Recently I had to go back to London for work, and I had to experience:

- being pushed off a train because "it is rush hour and my suitcase was excessive on the train"

- "winds too strong to manouvre the DLR"

- "You're not from here so don't complain"

I've got back to my comfort zone to:

- Devise a cassoulet recipe

- Welcome OH back from work

- Pack for Jordan (no, not the big titty thing, the country) because when you type in "Jordan" I urge you to shield your eyes.

The week that was

2010-11-05T03:36:00.000-07:00

Highlights included:

- finishing one tower of a set of Lego

- drinking 7 steins at the local beerfest

- eating tom kha gai three days in a row

- white Alba truffles from Italy, bought by my assistant, and black truffles in cognac, bought in the local market in Geneva

- a trip over the boarder into France to stock up on wine and cheese, and rendering the car a stink wagon

- dinner with great friends with more truffles, and foie gras

- upcoming trip to London to see other friends and enjoy the fireworks

- writing up my Christmas list (explanation to follow soon)

On discipline...

2010-10-20T14:45:00.000-07:00

The new diet has started: 6 days a week, 6 meals per day of your RDA in everything but proportioned accordingly. My meals so far consist of:

Peanut butter sandwiches. Oh shit, that half of my RDA. lets halve it. Wait, if I cut one slice into small pieces does that work?

Drink: Milk. Milk is essential for healthy bones. No argument on this. I don't want to collapse from hunger and find myself in the Osteopathology clinic. Besides, liquids don't count.

Coffee: According to the calorie counter, coffee = 1 calorie. Hence, negligible.

Snack time! Oh wait, work.

(forget to eat snack)

I now proceed to eat twice that at lunch, since I skipped my snack. Options: Chicken nuggets, or fish fingers. Opt for fish fingers, or actually, goujons. After all, fish is brain food, imperative for my work.

Mid afternoon snack: no time.

Late afternoon snack: am in meeting.

Pre-dinner snack: BEER! per pint is equal to oh who the fuck cares, I've had a bad day.

Dinner: Fuck it, its technically winter. Besides, I walked up the stairs today so I deserve sustainance.

After dinner: I need a digestive to digest the food, break down the food for easy digestion. Now where's that bottle of single malt?

Rinse, and repeat.

Day 7? Eat what the fuck you want.

The start of apathetic middle-aged spread...

2010-10-20T04:53:00.000-07:00

As I'm sat at my desk, eating fried rice for lunch, suddenly I catch the irony of the image as I'm flipping through a Men's Health magazine. Ever since I hit 30, I've been resolute in getting back into shape. The only thing is that my willpower has yet to catch up with me.

After a 3 month gym binge earlier this year before attending my parents wedding, I was struck with the realisation that my metabolism is slowing down, and my 23 year old assistant sitting next to me does nothing to help my effort in portion control, as he wolfs down his body weight in pasta, sausages and anything that if I glanced at, would immediately pile itself onto my hips.

However, now, I have a new resolve to go: This morning while bending over to put on my shoes, I actually wheezed a little. This has been alarming, and the secret hypochondriac in me has suddenly popped up, with silent-film images of myself dying in fairly graphic detail in a myriad of ways related to gluttony while on my way into work on the tram: Death by foie gras. The anxiety must have shown on my face because my secretary kindly offered me some Xanax that she was taking for her pre-flight nerves.

Also, an added incentive to going to the gym from today onwards, is the thought of the upcoming trip to Jordan and the Dead Sea. I'm hoping that I won't be mistaken for a dugong with the paunch, and be harpooned.

Friday Pop Tarts

2010-10-15T00:32:00.000-07:00

This takes me back to Noirmoutier this year where OH and I spent a fabulous weekend with my sister and some friends, dodging German naturists and eating mussels baked in pine leaves and neverending buffet of langoustines.

Speaking of langoustines, I was watching a British programme the other day that was extolling the virtues of Scottish seafood. There was a segment in which the presenter was feeding langoustines to the locals, and the general consensus was that langoustines tasted 'like chicken, but a bit prawny'.

I still weep for British palates.

Stromae - "Alors on danse" Symphonique -Ce n'est pas un clip
envoyé par StromaeOfficiel. - Regardez la dernière sélection musicale.

Things I have discovered and are probably not related...

2010-10-07T23:24:00.001-07:00

- Riding a tandem is easy if someone up front does all the work

- Salmon can leap really high, but when they hit obstacles it redefines the adjective 'stunned mullet'

- Vancouverites love their weed

- Salmon jerky is delicious

- Trails marked on maps are often 10 times shorter than you'd expect

- Giant redwoods are, well, giant

- Skants, however hideous, serve an occasional purpose

- Margaret Cho is on Dancing With The Stars, which would be an incentive to watch that programme

- When life gives you gin, have a party

- I have pretty fucking amazing friends

Next destination, eh?

2010-09-23T04:53:00.001-07:00

Taking a break. Flying to Vancouver, but going via London and meeting OH at the check in counter. Apart from the small suitcase, I'm also carting a large bag full of stuff for my sisters that includes my body weight in chocolate, cheese and salami, eh?

Very much looking forward to the break, the food, and being 9 hours away timezone-wise which automatically means I won't be able to contribute much, work wise. But, I'm happy with that, eh?

In the meantime, you'll have to put up with the linguistic twitch, eh? Until I'm back via Brussels, then it would be all normal again, une fois?

As we like it...

2010-09-15T11:45:00.001-07:00

So, after 3 pints of beer for a colleague's pre-birthday drinks, I evade the secretary and jump in a cab. As I'm gathering my groceries that have fallen on the floor of the cab, I try to remember what to say bet the taxi is already moving.

"Erm, bitte shoene..."

"Ja, wohnen du ab Am Wasser?"

"Erm, ja, danke..."

Wait... The cab driver knows where I live?

And that is how I know I take too many taxis.

in Switzerland.

Hoping for the remnants of summer...

2010-09-08T07:49:00.000-07:00

Over at Refrigerate After Opening, my friend in NY reminds me that I've been awfully lax at updating my food blog. In fact, I can remember that the last time I updated it was back in April, and for that I feel guilty as its meant to be a joint effort between my eldest sister and myself. So, in the meantime, I'm posting a short recipe here that has elements of summer in it, but also a gentle segue into the autumn season.

**************

Beetroot, Goats Cheese and Rocket Salad

Cooked red beetroot, sliced or grated
Fresh goats cheese
Rocket
Pecan nuts, toasted and crushed
Ground black pepper
Balsamic vinegar
White truffle infused olive oil

Arrange the sliced beetroot on a plate, or if using grated beetroot use a timbale/cookie mold to hold in a round shape. Slice the goats cheese thinly and arrange on top of the beetroot. Drizzle the balsamic vinegar over the assembled plate, followed by drizzling some of the truffle infused olive oil. Scatter the pecans over the goats cheese and top with a handful of rocket leaves. Grind some black pepper over the leaves and serve.

This dish is wonderfully simple, and the truffle infused oil imparts a rich, earthy flavour that supports the earthiness and sweet edge of the beetroot. A hint of autumn on the palate.

En guete!

I Say Tomato...

2010-09-07T04:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes things get lost in translation. For some reason this used to happen to me quite a lot when I lived in London. I'd be at the market asking for a pound of beans, then when I got home I'd find that I had a pound of potatoes, or peas instead of the Borlotti's I'd asked for.

Now, given I'm in a foreign country, the propensity to be misunderstood is even greater. Just over lunch I went to the carvery station at the supermarket, and pointed at what was clearly a hock of roast pork. In my best German, I asked for 3 slices, with my Swiss German colleague next to me giving an encouraging nod.

I get back to the office, looking forward to assembling a roast pork sandwich. On the label it reads 'Fleischkäse' which roughly translates as 'flesh-cheese'. I'm confused: only last week I had roast pork and the label had read 'Schweinebraten'. Suddenly I've lost my appetite.

Much later, I'm hungry and decide to brave the fake roast pork. Turns out, its a bit like meatloaf gone through a blender, centrifuge and cement mixer and re-set in a baking tin. Its the consistency of frankfurter.

It's not so bad with liberal dashings of Tabasco, especially once you've stripped the layer of tastebuds off your tongue.

Friday Pop Tarts

2010-09-03T02:31:00.000-07:00

Back a couple of months ago, my youngest sister came to visit and we headed out to the Atlantic Coast of France to stay with some friend on an island. This song by Blondie turned out to be the soundtrack of the summer.

A few months later in NY, I managed to take a picture of where this video was supposedly recorded:

Happy Friday all!

Bi-wine curious

2010-09-01T23:28:00.000-07:00

After almost a year of radio silence I am back once again. Somehow I
managed to lose focus on priorities in life and let myself be
overwhelmed by the career.

This, in itself, shouldn't have been the case given the constant promotion of the elusive work-life balance. However, in my defense, I was doing a 9 man job and at the end of the day was just too exhausted to even turn on the TV, let alone the laptop to type in a blog entry. Things have now improved, and instead of a 9-man job, I'm on a 4-man job and managing 5 others.

Managing people is somewhat akin to having internal arguments with your subconscious. Sometimes things well up and you want to shout, but you can't, so you take a step back and try to reason with your not-conscious. However, unlike with your subconscious, the worst case scenario you think of then proceeds to act itself out in front of your very eyes.

A recent trip to New York unearthed some absolute gems of overheard conversation, which really had to be heard in person to be believed:

Boy1: I really really like wine

Boy2: yeah, I really like a full bodied red.

Boy3: (hesitatingly) I like wine too, but if you really REALLY like wine, can you like both red and white?

Later...

Boy 2: whites are good, but I only like really dry whites. Like a good chardonnay. Not a riesling though, its not dry enough.

Later, after more fuckery in a similar vein, OH and I left following a conversation involving the new word 'superiocity'.

More to come, and by god its good to be back...

Back, Blazing and Bonafide

2009-11-02T12:17:00.000-08:00

So, the upcoming content will be entirely based on my Swiss experiences.

No one cares anyway...

Change

2009-10-07T04:17:00.003-07:00

I think I need to change my content and recapture some readers. If there are any left...

Life, but not as we know it.

2009-09-03T01:47:00.000-07:00

Back after a brief hiatus.

3.5 months into life in a new city and I'm pretty much loving it. I moved out of the hotel that's a dump, into a serviced apartment for a month then into a shared penthouse which is both fabulously spacious, and wonderfully central. I walk to work in 7 minutes. On the weekends I head back to Geneva to do my laundry, drop of my shirts to be ironed, and to see OH.

Zurich is a wonderfully cosmopolitan city, and it's nice to have a change of scenery. I've made a few friends and found some great places to hang out. Some observations:

- Zurich is not as conservative as Geneva, but they do love their church bells to ring through the night. Every 15 mins.
- There are approximately 150 types of sausages available in various establishments. Yesterday I had a tasting platter of sausages. 4 were white, 4 were pink, and 1 was red. The red one was spicy.
- People on holiday tend to lose their inhibitions. This I can tell by the view we get from our office into the rooms of the cheap hotel next door.
- I find myself getting too Swiss in some behaviours. I was laughed at in Paris for waiting until the lights turned green before I crossed the road. I caught myself waiting for the lights to turn green, along with another man. It was almost midnight, and the roads were empty. Nonetheless we still stood there and waited.
- Rösti done well is delicious. Rösti from a pack from the supermarket needs to be nuked before it is delicious.
- Swimming in the lake is wonderful. Its like swimming in a vat of chilled Evian. Even if you gulp some of the water while diving in it doesn't matter. Much.
- Speeding down the lake in a boat with opera blaring is fantastic. Just like Priscilla, Queen of the Lakes, although its not got such a nice ring to it.
- There are lots of hot boys here. LOTS
- There are lots of hot girls here too. Not my cup of tea though.
- Lederhosen is real. Lederhosen is also compulsory for each of the bands that play in the bierhalle down the road from where I work.
- Alpine horns are a lot more mellow than I thought they would be. Very soothing. Move over pan pipes.
- Swiss weather operates in microclimes. Geneva can be hot and summery. Zurich, meanwhile, will be having torrential hail.

More to come.

Up and In (As Opposed To Down And Out) in Zurich

2009-05-11T12:07:00.001-07:00

Started a new job last week here in Zurich and already I'm in love with the city.

28 May

I've had some false starts here, no apartment, getting an apartment, and in the interim, staying at a hotel. One would have thought Swiss efficiency would make the hotel perfect, but on the one day I decide to order room service, the kitchen goes into meltdown.

So, I jump on the tram to travel 2 stops to the Thai take-away I've had my eye on for a while. When I get there its shut.

Hmm...

So I go round the corner and see fried chicken on the menu of this take away. I walk in and freeze: its a West Indian joint. While I weigh up my options, I'm dragged into the shop where I place my order with 2 voluptous ladies behind the counter. Then I order a beer and sit down.

While I wait for my chips (not plaintain) and chicken (from a plantation), I survey the crowd and weigh up my options. If my wrist gets too limp, I'm dead meat.

The mother of the proprietress comes up to me and starts chatting in a foreign tongue. She is a small lady, and I have no idea what she's saying but nod politely. She hugs me. I smell lavender, soap, and stale tobacco. A shout from behind the counter in French. 'Leave the Chink alone. He's here for fried chicken, leave him alone'. I smile wanly and turn to my mobile phone.

A shout. My order is ready. I get my take-away and leave.

I forget to ask for chilli.

I'm typing this as I'm sat by my single bed. One more night and next week I'll have an apartment.

I open a take away box and tentatively pick at a chip. The texture is potato. The taste is faint banana. Plaintain.

OH is away in Uganda.

I cry.

I cry because I thought I had it all together: great job, brilliant pay.

Now I feel so alone.

All over again.

Square one

2009-04-30T03:20:00.000-07:00

I have been on gardening leave over the last few weeks which is a novel feeling, not having to work. Given my cleaner returned to her home country, I am left without help, but given the time I have on had I decided to do a spring clean. However, unlike riding a bicycle, it doesn't all come back automatically.

On the first attempt at cleaning the bathroom, I squirted myself in the face with bleach.

I think I need a new cleaner.

Put yourself in my place

2009-04-15T00:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the calamity one experiences pales in comparison to the news received from other close friends, and it is never as bad as what is going on in the rest of the world when you turn on the news.

That, my friends, is a bit of perspective on how to deal with stress.

Out of Office

2009-04-02T00:27:00.000-07:00

Permanently.

So, I send round an email the day I resign informing everyone that I will no longer be on my work email, and for all personal emails to be directed to my personal email address.

Some people do, but the majority of the others just hit the reply button and reply to my work email.

This pisses me off.

Friday Pop Tarts

2009-03-27T01:17:00.000-07:00

More a hybrid of pop and opera, but since I missed out on the melodifestevalen madness this year, this emerged as the winner and appeals to the drama queen in me.

2009 Sweden - Malena Ernman (Final Winner)
by Galiza

You can read more of the melodifestevalen madness here on Stornisse's page.

The lights are on but the wrong one's home

2009-03-26T06:27:00.000-07:00

The phone rings and I answer it.

Cue: a slew of French directed at me asking if I want to participate in free facials (get your mind out of the gutter), free phone lines, cheaper car insurance etc. I wait until they finish.

Me (in heavy English accent): Parlez vous anglais?
Telemarketer: Non, desolé. Est ce que Monsieur OH est la?
Me (in perfect French accent) : Non. Il pas ici maintenant. Voulez laisser un message?
TM: Oh, erm, erm. Hangs up.

Works every time.

Then we came to the end

2009-03-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

Somehow reality has a way of showing you an opportunity, and kicking you in the teeth at the same time.

I have a great new job to go to, and was apprehensive about handing in my notice here. However, so many things have happened in the last week at my current job it seems that I may not even have the satisfaction of resigning.

At least if I'm made to leave before my notice period I can guarantee being paid for it, and I'd get to spend time with my sister who's here on holiday.

Snobbery

2009-03-20T04:50:00.000-07:00

Clicking through the pages of the Times online paper, and checking out various events going on back in the UK, I see a link on 'seasonal produce'. Given I'm a bit of a foodie, I click on this and am immediately greeted with the caption: Purple sprouting broccoli, uncovered.

I read further, and gradually I'm turning my nose up at the article, and by the time I'm at the end its a full blown sneer. Showing disdain, or meprisé, has always been something I did best, says OH.

It's not so much the article on the seasonal broccoli, nor is it the suggested recipes. It's more the way the article is written in an almost condescending tone. How to prepare, what to look out for etc etc. Then I catch myself: I have become a food snob.

I'm not sure when this happened, the transition of gourmand to le gourmet meprisé, but increasingly I'm finding myself with reactions that I am ashamed of. Dinner can be completely ruined by a less than satisfactory sauce reduction, badly executed good ideas can make me lose my appetite, and just this weekend gone, a fantastic meal, punctuated by a lamentable créme brulèe (more a sweet ouefs brouilles).

It's a (self) phenomenon which I'm pondering the ramifications.

Check back for updates.

Friday Pop Tarts

2009-03-20T03:09:00.000-07:00

For some reason I seem to have completely bypassed Katy Perry, until my friend in Paris said she did graphics for her. And this is really catchy. One to go on the Marmoset running soundtrack for 2009.

Katy Perry - Hot N Cold [HQ]
par wonderful-life1989

More news next week. I'm about to have another change.

Priorities

2009-03-11T00:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, OH suggested that we go and watch a movie made by the Nobel Prize winning economist Joseph Stieglitz. The gist was all about deindustrialisation and how another globalisation would once again emerge and this time to benefit everyone. Given that my daily work routine consists of facing a scree with non-stop financial news and economics updates and similar discussions, I declined and went out and got drunk with a friend instead.

10 Books

2009-03-03T05:17:00.000-08:00

I've been putting this off for a while, especially since I promised hijac that I'd do it a few Fridays previously. So, here goes my list of 10 books that have some bearing on the person I am:

1. The Little Prince, Antoine de St. Exupery : The first book I remember receiving from my father, and remained a keepsake to remember him by for the next 13 years when I didn't see him as both him and my mother were on fraught terms. Now, its a reminder of how the most important things in life are sometimes invisible to the eye.

2. Larousse Gastronomique : Because I love food, and this has almost everything you need to know about food, preparation techniques, and recipies. Truly food porn at its best.

3. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami : Tales that involve the metaphysical and ethereal have always appealed to me, perhaps because so much is rooted in the real world, but yet has a plausible escape hatch to enter the realm of the unknown. Hauntingly told, it also explains a lot about the heritage I bear and the mentality of the Japanese people.

4. The Life and Times of Michael K, J.M. Coetzee : For making me realise how lucky I truly am to be born into the life that I have.

5. Memoirs of a Geisha, Arthur Golden : Not so much for the depiction of life as a geisha, more for the bitchy repartée between the rivals.

6. Every Woman Deserves An Adventure, Yvonne Roberts : Probably the first bit of chick lit I ever read, and to date reminds me that it can be well written, and funny. Also because I desperately wanted my mother to be liberally sexual like the heroine instead of fighting for the divorce that never happened.

7. Giovanni's Room, James Baldwin : If you've read my previous posts, you'll understand why. Although I'm the gay man who suffered the anguish instead.

8. Farewell My Concubine, Lillian Lee : Another part of my heritage, and the love/suffering dynamic played out beautifully.

9. Calvin and Hobbes, Bill Watterson : For reminding me that at times we shouldn't be so cynical and to remember what life was before we hit puberty, and to enjoy the simple pleasures.

10. The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat, Oliver Sachs : This is the only book I vaguely even understand out of the years I spent doing my degree in.

So, that was my list of 10 books. I'm sure some will change over time, but nos 1-3 will be hard to shift.

Profundity.

2009-03-02T05:27:00.000-08:00

So, my deeply religious, born again parents come online and we chat for a bit. Then my father goes off, and my mother tells me that he's a changed man and instead of paying him lip service I should tell him things from the heart, and that he'd listen.

How do I tell her after 28 years its too late, and I have nothing to say to him that would be worthwhile?

Happy...

2009-02-25T08:13:00.000-08:00

Looking at OH's FaceBook profile and noticing that he's put being 'in a relationship' as his status makes me feel all tingly and happy inside. And how fucking lucky I am to have someone like him to put up with me and my neuroses.

I love you mister, and Happy Birthday to You.

x

How to Surprise Someone

2009-02-25T01:20:00.000-08:00

For OH's birthday every year I try to make it a memorable one for him. Like the first year we were together, I was learning French at university, so as a gift with benefits, I booked us on a trip to Paris. The plan was to wake up in the morning, and tell him that we were going on an adventure, turn up at Waterloo, collect the suitcase I'd packed the night before from left luggage, and whisk him off to the City of Lights. A few snags to this plan though, a week before we were meant to leave, OH called me in a panic to ask if I'd seen his passport as he needed it for a visa application to Kenya. I answered in the affirmative, and he spent the rest of the time thinking what it was doing in my flat (back when we lived seperately), and so he figured it out before it was a great surprise. However, the fact that I'd arranged a surprise birthday party for him the night before completely escaped him and that turned out to be good fun.

This year, I decided on another trip, and back in October I told him to take a few days off for his birthday as I wanted to take him to Destination X. By the time I got round to booking the tickets, the price for Destination X has increased twofold, so I booked Destination Y instead. Destination Y was supposed to be a secret, but I thought at one point OH had found out about Destination Y, but it turned out he was thinking of Destination N, and it was inadvertently let out the bag that it was Destination Y we were heading to.

However, OH is now so focussed on Destination Y, I'm thinking that perhaps I should have booked Destination N, or Destination Z instead. Oh well, its all booked now. Tune in next week to find out where we went...

(OH found the link to this blog eventually, and I'm not about to ruin the surprise further...)

Valentines, schmalentines...

2009-02-16T23:52:00.000-08:00

So, for the last few years running OH has been religiously buying me roses on Valentine's day, which although I insist I don't want, I still receive. So, I dutifully recycle the roses every 10 days later, stripping the petals off and discarding the stalk and scattering part of it on the table on which I serve his birthday dinner, then between clearing the dishes I surreptitiously pick out the cleanest rose petals and then throw them on the bed. Its not that any vigorous activity commences between the sheets after a 4 course dinner, but its the thought that counts. Who said romance was dead?

Anyway, this year I didn't receive any roses but I am relieved. I always find it difficult to look excited and to muster up enough enthusiasm over the hype that's created this Hallmark festival, sending a number of those in a relationship into a gaga eyed frenzy, and those who aren't into a depressive mood. Red blood on white bathroom tiles does not a Valentines make.

This year I had the perfect Valentines. We drove into the mountains and skiied all day with our best friends, then back to their châlet for some wine and fondue. A couple of joints thrown in and we played Pictionary until we felt tired and went to bed, the sound of the crackling fire in the stone stove, and the musty smell of old wood being the perfect canvas for a good night's sleep. And when we woke up the next day, the sun was blazing and there was fresh powder on the slopes.

But our car was stuck in ice.

Friday Pop Tarts

2009-02-13T00:09:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Lubin's post on pop nonsense, and Stornisse's weekly posts on Melodifestivalen tracks, I'm going to experiment with this as a weekly feature of random pop (and other genres) songs from my formative years. The following is one of the earliest songs that I remember doing my cool, 2 year old leg shake, that in hindsight probably looked more like I was trying to dislodge a turd from my training nappy.

This song still makes me smile with its upbeat tune and cheesy synchronised dance moves. I hope it makes you smile too, after all, its Friday!

billy joel - uptown girl
par kareem93

Groundhog Day...

2009-02-10T04:28:00.000-08:00

Its been a week since Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow and predicted another 4 weeks of winter for us. Right on cue, the heavens opened and have started to shower us with rain, sleet, snow and other variations on cold states of water droplets. Each day has been a grey template that even the most emo-driven pessimist would be fed-up of. Today however, the sun is out and as soon as I caught a glimpse of the rays poking through the crowds, I pulled on my coat and popped out to get a sandwich.

The sandwich shop is 2 mins from my office. In that two mins I have been rained and snowed on while the other part of town lies indifferent, bathed in glorious sunshine. I just want to go home and get out of bed until the beginning of March now.

On another note, since the beginning of the year I have been good and my boozing levels have reduced dramatically. Coupled with the diet that's heavy on vegetables and low on meat, I have trimmed somewhat and feel better for it. Given that I've just been soaked in less than 2 mins, I decided to get a roast beef sandwich which I LOVE. However, looking at the sandwich now, I realise that since the last time I had it, its now shrunk somewhat and the wrapper that it comes in gives away the fact that it has shrunk by some 2" off the usual size.

Now I really just want to go to bed and wake up when everything is back to normal, including my sandwich size.

How did we end up like this? (pt. 4)

2009-02-05T01:23:00.000-08:00

We walk to the pub hand in hand. I’m painfully aware that some glances are thrown our way but he seems to be oblivious to it. He’s joking with me, light hearted comments, friendly jibes. I’ve got my heart caught in my throat and can only make monosyllabic replies, nodding nervously.

Finally we arrive at our destination. It is quiet with only another table of punters. I find a table in a corner while he heads off to the bar and returns with 2 pints and a packet of crisps. He starts talking earnestly.

He tells me between sips and crisps that he’d always felt in awe of me. I was running around the world, closing deals worth millions. He’d been writing music, hoping for a lucky break. Despite the differences we’d kept in touch, I’d attended his every gig, he’d be there for my birthday bashes and dinner parties. I look him in the eye and tell him that he’s kept me enthralled despite all the fuck ups. He laughs at me, and sneaks a kiss.

The door opens and we look up. It’s Estella. She looks over and sees us, a barely perceptible frown before her trademark toothy smile.

‘Hi, didn’t expect you here.’ She says she’s waiting for a friend. He offers her a seat and she takes it. We exchange kisses and discuss the previous night’s gig again. After a bit he stands up asks us if we want more drinks as he’s heading to the toilet. I hand him some money as it’s my round, and we put in our order. As soon as he’s out of earshot Estella turns to me.

‘I saw you both last night,’ she begins, ‘I saw you kissing.’ It’s a statement, not a question. In clipped sentences, she reveals that they’d both started sleeping together a few months back and she’d fallen for him. She ends by saying ‘It’s just that I could never imagine competing with someone of the opposite sex.’

He returns a couple of minutes later with three drinks and another packet of crisps. He hands me the change and drops some coins on the table. He sits down and caresses my knee. At this I stiffen in my seat and make my excuses that I need the toilet.

In the bathroom I turn on the cold tap and splash water on my face. How could I be so stupid not to have read her body language towards him? Could I reconcile myself with all this? He’d always been impulsive, but had he thought this through? The image he’d be saddled with; everything was happening too fast.

I open the door of the bathroom and wonder what to do, with the knowledge that any action I take would result in someone being hurt. My eye catches a fire escape door. It’s unbolted and ajar. Thankful I’d kept my coat on, I step through the doorway and into the night.

I've been hurt before, I know how to deal with it.

***

(Three years later)

I’m in a cafe and I’ve just sat down at a table with a precariously balanced cup on an oddly shaped saucer. As I open my laptop and wait for it to fire up, I look up and am surprised to see him at the counter. He waves and approaches me, a shy smile, that shy smile. I invite him to sit down, close the laptop and put it away. The conversation starts out stacatto, but eventually we settle into our old banter pattern. We talk for a long time. I ask him about Estella and he tells me that ended it that night we were in the pub. He apologises for not telling me sooner, tells me he meant to break it off with her before, how he was now honest with himself, how he’s missed me since that night but never had the courage to call, believing that he’d screwed up.

Coffee turns into a beer, and the afternoon turns into night as we catch up over the last three years. Soon the bars are closing and we’re standing at the doorway, shifting uncomfortably, not knowing how to pick up where we left off. He invites me back to his for another drink, and I accept. We walk through the streets and the city shuts down bit by bit. Soon, we’re back at one end of the park near where he lives, and he suggests a detour. We walk through the park and we happen upon the spot where we’d faux wrestled in the leaves three years previously. He turns to me.

‘I want to make this right this time,’ he says, and kisses me. His lips, his touch, his smell: tobacco, late summer, the cologne I’d bought him, a hint of beer.

The night is spent talking, touching, kissing, making up for lost time.

Next morning, I get up to leave. He reaches out across the bed and grabs me in a hug. We kiss. It feels good.

‘Call me later,’ he says.

I don’t know why, but I never do.

***

(Another four years later...)

I open up the large pack of forwarded post. I sift through the bills and flyers when a cream envelope catches my eye. I discard the rest on to the table and place the envelope on the side and pour myself a glass of wine. I sit down and look at the envelope, my old address scrawled in his unmistakable hand.

I catch my breath as I open the envelope. The postmark indicates last Monday’s date. Out falls a wedding invitation. I read through the invite; it’s taking place in 2 months. He’s marrying someone rather well known. I struggle to comprehend what they’d have in common, why he’d do this.

I turn the invite over. He’s written something on it.

Please be my reason to say no. 07xxx-xxx-xxx

I take a large gulp of wine and light a cigarette. I tear the invitation into little pieces and deposit it in the composting bin that’s filled with vegetable peelings and other organic matter.

I cry silently in bed that night.

***

This morning I wake up and sit on the edge of bed, gathering my senses before I head to the bathroom for a shower. The boyfriend rolls over and reaches out to me for a hug and I oblige. He whispers to me, half asleep, ‘I love you,’

I get up and have a shower. Later I’m on my way to work with a coffee in one hand, my mobile in the other. I scroll down to his name and number and look at it for a while. He’s getting married today; I’m tempted to press the dial button to hear his voice, to wish him well.

Instead, I hit delete.

Enough now, I tell myself, enough.

How did we end up like this? (pt. 3)

2009-02-04T08:45:00.000-08:00

The breeze picks up to a strong wind and whips the leaves on the pavement into a frenzy. We head into the park, a longer route to the pub since we decide the need to walk a bit before deserving of a few pints.

Dusk is settling in early as daylight saving has kicked in the week before. A couple of dogs and their owners are walking through the park, their paths cross and they sniff each other intently. He laughs at the spectacle when one of the dogs, a Golden Retriever looks over and cocks its head. A few moments later the Retriever has lost interest in the other dog, a poodle, and scrambles over to the foot of a tree.

We carry on walking and suddenly, the park lights come on. The wind has died down, and the topic of conversation shifts from assignments to mutual friends. I start kicking the settled leaves and skip through a pile of them. Without warning, I’m tackled from the side and I find myself winded as I collapse into the leaves and onto the ground. I hear him laughing as he approaches, and I see him with an armful of leaves scooped off the ground. He throws them over me as I’m lying there, spread out, playing dead.

I kick out as he laughs again and he lets out a yelp of pain. I must have aimed right and struck him. Moments later I feel a thud beside me as he falls into the leaves, gripping his shin.

‘Ouch!’ he cries out, and I laugh, still semi-covered in leaves. I try and brush the leaves off my face; they’re slightly damp and I can feel the moisture on my face. Still lying there, I get a fit of the giggles and start to laugh uncontrollably. Suddenly he turns over and straddles me, I put up my arms to push him off but he’s quicker than I am and grabs both my wrists. Pinning me to the ground, he leans in and kisses me.

This time I don’t hesitate: I kiss back. It is soft and lingering, tentative, unknowing of the boundary we have just stepped over by this reciprocated embrace. I catch his scent: tobacco, Acqua di Parma cologne (a birthday present I got him a few months back), wet leaves, damp ground. The kiss seems like an eternity, and I want to be lost in it.

Nearby, a set of church bells sounds out. 4 pm. The spell is broken. He looks down at me, smiling that smile. He leans in to peck me on the forehead, gets up, then holds out a hand to help me up. I take his hand and he pulls me up. I stand level with him and watch him grinning as he picks stray leaves out of my hair.

I’m confused about this. I thought we were just friends. What do I do now? Can I touch him? Can I kiss him? Why is he being so intimate? I want answers, I want clarification. I have been in love with the idea of him for such a long time I’m not sure if I’m dreaming it. The straight man and the gay friend, standing in the middle of a darkened park, electric intimacy charging the atmosphere around us. He kisses me again.

‘I told you I was drunk last night,’ he begins as we continue walking at a slow pace, he takes a deep breath, ‘I was drunk last night but I knew what I was doing. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t fully coherent when I chose the moment.’ He reaches out to hold my hand, and I accept shyly. It feels nice and warm, and it feels that all my Christmases have come at once.

(To be continued...)

How did we end up like this? (pt. 2)

2009-02-04T02:48:00.000-08:00

The shrill electronic beeping of my phone wakes me from the dreamless sleep that I fell into as soon as I got home. I turn over, pick up the phone and the ringing stops. I look and see that its 10am; I've only had 4 hours of sleep. Grabbing the glass by the side of my bed, I take a big gulp of water. I sit up, rub the sleep out of my eyes and head into the bathroom for a shower.

10 minutes later I'm standing in my room naked, choosing a T-shirt from the pile of unfolded laundry in the corner. My phone alerts me to a text message. I pull on my jeans and sit on the bed, flies still unbuttoned as I grab my phone and check the message.

I'm feeling like death. Come over?

I smile despite myself, and finish dressing. I type back: On my way. Breakfast?

Almost immediately: Hair of the dog.

Soon I'm standing in his kitchen, mixing up some bloody marys and stirring up some scrambled eggs. I've done this hundreds of times, always at his beck and call, playing the role of the caring friend, never expecting anything in return. This time however my heart is racing as I don't know what to expect from him after the events of last night.

He comes into the kitchen, freshly washed, in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him, even though he looks rough with bloodshot eyes. He comes up beside me and turns the heat under the pan of eggs off, grabs the tops of my arms and turns me towards him. He looks into my eyes for a while, searching, then envelops me in a big hug.

'Sorry I got so wasted, mate," he says to me, still hugging. I tentatively pat him on the back, remembering the feel of his lips and disappointed it was only a drunken kiss. I smell him: tobacco, fresh laundry, mint shower gel. He pushes me away, looks at me and smiles that smile again. 'Let's eat, I'm ravenous!' The silence is broken as he grabs plates off the draining board and grabs the toast from the toaster on the way. I pick up the pan, pop it onto a tray and load the bloody marys onto it and head into the other room. The TV turned on, we eat and watch the news. War, suffering, politics, a music channel, the banal shopping TV selling crap, a comedy from the early 90's. He points the remote at the TV, turns it off, and aims another remote at the hi-fi and some music comes on instead as plates are stacked back on to the tray.

'Man, I wish I could sing this beautifully,' he says, slouched on the sofa. Summertime is playing, a duet by Billie Holliday and Louis Armstrong. Its approaching winter outside, the leaves are falling as the wind shakes them from the branches. We discuss the previous night's performance, and the reaction of the crowds. He's still riding on the wave of euphoria and I smile at the passion in which he relives the performance. A couple of hours pass as we're just slumped there, chilling out with an eclectic array of music from his extensive library playing as a soundtrack to our banter.

Soon we decide that a walk would do us some good, and we decide to head for the pub to have a few pints by the old fireplace available, along with a few cigarettes. He heads into his room to get a jumper and a jacket. I casually loop my scarf on as he comes back. I turn to grab my jacket and suddenly feel him grabbing my waist and turning me back to face him.

'Hey, I was drunk last night,' he says to me, winking, still holding on to me. The straight man with the gay friend, the balance of power clearly in his favour as we're standing too close to each other for normal, friendly comfort. My heart is pounding.

'I... I know,' I stammer, unsure of what is going on.

'Friends?' He looks at me, that puppy-dog look.

'Sure,' I reply. I throw in a wink which I hope looks cheeky for good measure. He lets go of me.

We head out of the door.

(To be continued...)

How did we end up like this? (pt.1)

2009-02-03T23:27:00.000-08:00

I remember it well: A new shirt, light blue and white stripes, tailored in the manner of a dress shirt. Paired with dark jeans and some vintage (well, second hand really) cowboy boots, I looked the part. After all, I was making an effort for him since I was there in support.

Fast forward.

It was a roaring success. The crowds went wild, and they performed another two encores. Soon it had to end as the next act was about to come on. The headliners may have been divas, but they were professional and kept good time on their scheduled appearances. I went round to the back and waved at Mac, the security guy. A curt nod and a hint of a grin, he let me through. The band were high-fiving each other, the atmosphere electrically euphoric that even I started to feel like I was on speed. Some groupies were hanging around, cigarettes dangling from their lips and passing the different bottles of spirits around after taking a swig.

Then, the group parted and he was there with his arm around Estella, the other clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels, grinning and shaking his head in disbelief at the gig he'd just played. Spotting me, he turns to peck Estella on the cheek and untangles himself, walks over and gives me a long hug.

'Thanks so much for being here, mate. You have no idea how happy I am to see you,' I give him a half hug back. As he holds on, I catch a waft of him: sweat, tobacco, whiskey and the odd scent of hair pomade thrown in for good measure. After he releases me, the troops are rounded up and we pile into a club a few streets away.

Much later, I'm taking a break from the loud music and mass of gyrating bodies. I head outside and take a sip on a coke, fumbling for my cigarettes. The pack is slightly squashed and the fag I manage to extract is misshapen. Straightening it out, I hold it between my lips while I pat down my pockets to find my lighter. I hear a 'click' and look up, he's holding out a lighter to me, the flame dancing precariously in the night breeze. Its my lighter.

'You left this inside. Thought you might need it,' he grins as I lean in to light my cigarette. 'Mind if I have one?' I hand the pack to him and he fumbles drunkenly so I help him and pull one out, straighten it, and spark the lighter for him. He takes long drag, then puts an arm around me and says he wants to walk up to the concert arena.

We stumble back along the few streets where we started out from. There are street cleaners with their vehicles sweeping up the debris left behind by the crowd that were queueing to get in. The crunch of broken glass, the swish of the brooms, the whiring of the high-pressured water jet. We talk about nothing in particular and by the time we walk round to the front, the billboard lights are still on, flickering. One arm still around me, he points at the band's name up there and giggles with childish delight. Turning to face me, he tries to look serious but its proving difficult after the amount he's had to drink.

'I did this for you,' he slurs. I take a deep breath and look at him quizzically. 'Now, with this, am I good enough?' I am caught unawares. I never thought that he'd feel this way. For me, being his friend was enough despite knowing our worlds were diametric opposites. I refocus and look at him, and he leans in to kiss me. For a few moments I don't know how to react as his lips are searching, his tongue gently probing, then I reciprocate. I taste him, the cigarette smoke, the whiskey, the bitter, numbing traces of the cocaine they'd been doing.

A few minutes later he stiffens and pushes me away. My mind is in a whir. Maybe he's realised he's made a mistake, but then I see the unmistakable flinch indicating nausea. Just, but only just, he swings away and vomits. Some of it hits the pavement, splatters onto my jeans and the second hand shoes. He's bent over, and I pat him on the back to try and ease the ordeal. When he's finished, I flag a taxi and manage to bundle him in and get him home. It's a bit more challenging when we arrive as he's almost comatose. I manage, and soon he's in bed. Heading to the bathroom, I sponge off the bits of sick on me. I leave a note on the table and step out into the cold night.

'Am I good enough now?' his words ring in my head. A smile is playing on the corner of my lips as I light up another cigarette. My mobile phone goes off. It is my boss who is abroad and wants to know if I've done the due diligence on the American company we're expecting to do a big sales deal with.

With a sigh, I give him the information and end the conversation. I walk home through the quiet, leafy streets. The birds are stirring.

(To be continued...)

Shopping...

2009-02-03T07:34:00.000-08:00

So, I'm trawling through the Ikea online site for items we need to pick up on our next visit, and I come across this.

I'm not really sure what to say.

Blue...

2009-01-30T05:35:00.000-08:00

So, I'm catching up with posting by adding another post on my day-but of the new blog. Playing around with templates and trawling through the internetweb to find myself a new face in place of the dour looking woman to your right reminded me of a surreal conversation I had with some friends over dinner in Paris last week:

Miss T: So, how is the caramel crépe?

Me: DIVINE!

OH: Oh, you mean blue with a cane?

Rest of table: (thinking) WTF?

Me: I think you're thinking of the Smurfs, or Krishna.

Rest of table checks crépes for any added acid we may be tripping on.

Anyway, I decided to type in 'blue with a cane' in to the Google image search, hoping to come up with something screamingly funny. Unfortunately there isn't anything to correspond to this.

15 Things...

2009-01-30T03:21:00.000-08:00

So, there's been an evolution in mêmes. First it was being tagged in mass emails to air your dirty polyester for all on the BCC list to see, then it was being tagged or lifting them from random blogs so the whole wide web could see them. Now its being somewhat selective and posting them on Facebook so a selective few from the whole wide web can see them, including all the people you befriended in the early days even though you struggle to find what you have in common with them apart from the fact that you thought you'd be BFFs after that amazing night you had at someone elses birthday party.

Anyway, I lifted this from Facebook as I've been tagged multiple times in this. As I haven't had a chance to think of what to use as an introduction to the new, improved blog here, I think its fitting to include a list of random insights for all you die-hard loyal fans out there.

*****
15 Random Things About Me (adapted from the original '25 Random Things About Me'
*****

1. I've slept with a fashion designer. He wasn't very good.

2. Hypochondria runs in my family's male genes. I'm trying to avoid it but the phamacies here are too much to resist.

3. I have no idea how I found myself to be in the career I'm in, but I really enjoy the work.

4. Sometimes my mood is erratic and I can snap over the smallest things, like the Other Half leaving the toothpaste on the side rather than in the toothbrush glass.

5. When I was 5 my father walked out on my mother and I. Now we're a complete family again with added sisters, and I have a polite but strained relationship with him.

6. I am both a closet alcoholic and chocoholic, but I hate chocolate liquors

7. I'm still in love with the idea of Big T, even though our worlds could not be more different. And I haven't seen him in 8 years.

8. I don't often tell others what I think.

9. Being protective of my sisters often comes across as being overbearing and bossy. I need to work on not being a substitute parent

10. I'd like to be more spontaneous but I am too much of a control freak to increase the frequency.

11. Once I was so wasted on a night out I unknowingly offended someone who I liked. The next day after multiple phonecalls I was finally told that 'I never want to see, or hear from you ever again'. To this day I am still trying to figure out what I did or said.

12. I've only recently started to get my finances in order after 27 years of being clueless about it.

13. I panic when I'm swimming and suddenly realise when I'm the only person in the pool.

14. I wish I had a porn star's physical attributes.

15. I have romantic notions of moving to far-flung countries but am put off by the local cuisine.

*****

I'm not sure if I should tag anyone, but if you like you're welcome to lift it. Oh what the heck? I'm tagging FastFingers, hijac, and Stornisse on this one.

New beginnings.

2009-01-30T02:13:00.001-08:00

For those of you who have followed my plight from my previous blog, welcome back in joining me on another adventure through time and places. For all you newcomers, welcome in joining me on a trip of delusion.

Let's see where this takes us then...