I'll Tell You My Sins...*

This post started with an earworm.

I'd first heard this haunting song played through the speakers at the gym a few times, and never managed to identify it through the means of Shazam or SoundHound as I usually leave my phone in the lockers and make do with my trusty iPod, listening to podcasts, and, sometimes wanting to be more individualistic, trying to do squats to Miles Davies, or in moments of angst, working out to more melancholic melodies, the likes of James Blake whose rhythm adds a certain difficulty in trying to achieve a graceful lunge and therefore an added challenge to the whole routine.

Fast forward a few weeks, and there was a viral video on Facebook, depicting at first glance a seemingly naked man in a greenhouse, writhing about on the polished wooden floors. When I clicked "play", I started to be transfixed by the graceful movements of the ballet dancer, who was actually wearing skin-tone tights. After a short while, I realised the melody he was dancing to was the same song which I'd heard a few times in the gym.

After the video ended, I headed to the pool and searched online for the original version on my phone, and discovered the video which upset me to no end, and proceeded to watch it on a loop until the anger and exhaustion of the lyrics sunk in. After that I scoured various sites to read more about the song, and while it was sunny, under the midday sun I felt cold over the comments from readers over the video. More to the point, the video itself portrayed diametric opposites of immense love, and innane hate which in this day and age, is all too real, and which for the most part I feel incredibly lucky to have not been subject to much. 

Now, I am not usually wont to write about heavy-handed topics which attract unsavory comments and debate, as I often find myself flustered when trying to simultaneously searching for facts in my mind while trying to defend my own position and argument, and ending up tongue-tied and frustrated over the ignorance of the opposition. However, like a previous post on domestic abuse which later in sobriety, left me cringing over the fact that I'd tweeted a number of celebrities asking them to spread the message, the subject matter of the video leaves me in no doubt about my position on this: homophobia.

A few days ago I side-stepped the relative comfort of punchy Twitter to post a link to a short film and a heartfelt missive directly on my Facebook page which went beyond 140 characters. This was a viral video in China that reached out to the LGBTQIA+ community, and left me in tears at the end. In the closing credits, the Chinese mothers of the LGBTQIA+ individuals call out in supportive tones to the community and others to "come home" to the family, as it was during the Lunar New Year celebrations. Their snippets of support and verbal embraces were heartwarming, but underneath their calm manner you could see the struggle for answers and explanations. The ability to provide a satisfactory answer is nigh on impossible, because what parent can accept that the child that they have so lovingly nourished and brought up, despite all the attention and love, has deviated from their well-laid plans of becoming a (successful) individual, in tow with a partner of the opposite sex, and who will give them grandchildren to bounce proudly in the faces of their own friends and to proclaim said child's filial piety and conformance to societal norm?

This is further compounded by the fact that "being gay" is seen as a relatively new trend (despite historical evidence across cultures that is constantly disputed), as LGBTQIA+ individuals born in the 80s and beyond start to throw off the shackles that have been previously attached to them. From the damning proclamation of Queen Victoria's support of the Labouchere Amendment on gross indencency (which was later adopted into the constitution of Commonwealth States, and in some cases still remains), to the atrociously named Gay Cancer plague of the 1970s (now known as HIV/AIDS), it is no wonder that homosexuals born in this period had sought to cover up their natural human instinct to be attracted to and/or love another of same sex/similar being. This is further compounded by religion taking the LGBTQIA+ movement's name in vain, further denouncing immorality in the "prescribed" natural order of things. The result is that many of our fore-bearers had, and even many of our generation have to live a lie, living in constant fear of societal expulsion, and generating more issues from unhappy family units to STD epidemics in the meantime. [On a separate note, I was humbled by an article over an article on the altruism of lesbians towards gay men in the 80s AIDS epidemic, despite the ongoing misogyny that gay men exhibit. Article can be found here]

Back to the discussion at hand: my generation by no means has it easy, but somehow we are no longer satisfied of living a lie in order to fit ourselves into outdated pigeonholes which have been crafted through years of ignorance. Therefore, our voices proclaiming individuality and independence is seen as an attack on generations of constructed coherence, divergence from societal norms, and the "shameful" fulfilling of what are essentially natural desires. Through our constant battle to throw off stereotypes that we are cast with, we learn to be stronger, and we learn to accept ourselves as well as others, and build upon the universal knowledge of love. We gradually learn that saying that we are born this way isn't enough, and struggle to cite academic articles, arguments against religious texts, and identify LGBTQIA+ role models who are accepted in mainstream media as reasons in expressing ourselves. 

However, this only further fuels the debate in having to justify ourselves in what we are. Through the years of repression, we are now finding our voices but are reduced to a construct of rational scientific argument in explaining why we are the persons we are. It's not sufficient to merely say that we are born this way, as we do not outwardly project any defining marker that automatically makes it understandable. It is laborious to draw upon the visible birthrights, but ultimately we bear a burden that sex and race cannot convey to the naked eye in being able to safely label oneself whether positively or negatively which still runs rife despite advances in time (cf:misogyny, racial issues).

While I have had it easier than most, I know that my parents still struggle to reconcile themselves with what they perceive "went wrong". This is compounded by their new-born status into the Church, and struggle internally to accept me for who I am. I could respond caustically, and hurt them and drive home more doubt about their individual ability in raising me, but what would that achieve? The only way can I deal with it is to be unflinching in knowing the acceptance of myself is key, and through dialogue in establishing that its a case of "it's not you, and it's not me". I now realise over time that their love is unconditional, but it is their Pavlovian conditioning heaped upon them for their need to fit in comfortably with their peers, reflected in so many others, which hinders them from being to see clearly that despite being different, we are still human beings with the ability to love other humans and each other unconditionally.

Homophobia exists in many forms: from snide comments at school being dished out from kids who are fed knowledge of the world by their ignorant parents; in the workplace where ostracism through lack of career progression and peer acceptance where more schoolyard bullying tactics occur; to active violence towards individuals or groups who have decided not to hide their true nature: the list is immense when it comes to examples. I have experienced some, apart from the last, and its only by sheer force of will that I have been able to play most situations to my benefit. It is routinely soul destroying that while we are brought up to believe that "Love Conquers All", the message of hate is the one that spreads like wildfire and inflicts immediate damage throughout.

At the end of the video in Coming Home, the mothers tell their kids and others in the community to return to their cradle, because the overriding message despite the turmoils, is one of love. So why is it such a difficult argument to make that an individual born into love, that has an unyielding capacity to love, is no different than another despite differences instilled by generational misunderstanding?

So, the next time you look at someone muttering in tattered garb that looks menacing, or bumping into that shrill person who calls you an idiot for ruining their day, before you glare and make a snap judgement, look into your heart to find the understanding to cast love, and disperse the prejudice which we we are prone to. 

*Title courtesy of Hozier

On the despair of youth

There are so many things to write about in life, but somehow in the last 18 months life itself got in the way, and I left blogging to the verbose, and decided to try and convey experiences through the medium of 140 characters or less. 

Then, one evening, while drunkenly deciding to reorganise the study, I decided it was also time to weed through the boxes of stuff that I'd accumulated over the last 15 years. There were boxes of postcards, hoarded through drunken pub crawls in my youth. There were rolls of film and photographs back from the days when film still existed as a proper medium, and not some hipster reincarnation. Then, there was a jar of petrified wasabi, nicked from a night out with a friend during the kleptomaniac phase of (again, drunken) youth. During that same time, I'd also accumulated enough bulldog clips and other stationery cupboard paraphernalia to last me, and any new business, a lifetime and a half.

However, there was one box of memories that I hesitated on once the lid was lifted. Diaries of inane meeting notes, reams of coloured paper (also courtesy of the stationery cupboard), and a journal. This was, in hindsight, a pathetic attempt at a scrapbook. Stuck in it were receipts from travels, stubs from museums, and aspirational pencil sketches conveying the "artistic impressions" of my deluded self. This included a rendering of the Shanghai Pearl Tower, which looks like a skewer of meat balls, and an attempt of the Venus de Milo: if it was drawn by a 5 year old with no digits. Actually, a 5 year old with no digits would be better. My absolute shame remains the "freestyle" smudged sketch of Stonehenge which looks like it was built using twisty marshmallows and "artful" gothic script reminding myself of what it actually was meant to be. 

Note the pensive Snowman and "spirit" giving my younger self the side-eye. Also, I just realised that the dangly eye in the top right is actually supposed to be what Stonehenge would be like if the Chinese we're to hang talismans by it.

Said journal also contained a number of angst ridden entries, which reading through them made me cringe desperately. I want my current self to be able to tell my younger self that the future is much brighter than I had envisioned. I want to tell my younger self that frustration isn't exclusively mine to bear. I want to tell my younger self that my attempt at deep, meaningful poetry is best left to those who can actually write poetry. Most of all, I want to tell my younger self that love, once lost, will be found again. 

At this point, I could no longer shoulder the burden of all this angst anymore. I had to share it with someone. So, naturally I picked up the phone at 5 in the morning and dialed my best friend 12 timezones away on the other side of the world, knowing she'd be the one to understand all the emotions coursing through my veins at that moment (to be honest, it was because I knew she would be awake, and it was probably the whisky coursing through my veins, but that's beside the point).

She picked up, and I ranted. She, in turn, found some of her old journal entries, and together, we read them aloud to each other. We laughed, we sneered at our younger selves, then we made a promise to start blogging again. 

So, while I start combing through experiences to post anew, I leave you with my last entry in the journal. (Disclaimer: I am not responsible for you choking, gagging, or reacting in any way to the following paragraph)

"Dear XXX, sometimes it seems sensible to lay pen to paper and let flow all that is cooped up within. However, at these times things seem most unclear and I am in turmoil. From my work struggles to my relationships, nothing seems clear to be on their way to resolving themselves. [He] is unhappy, yet I cannot find the strength within me to champion what seems to him a lost cause. I am a jinx to those I love, and to those who are dear to me. Stem this flow of unhappiness, and unleash the positive vibes that exist there in the universe. Namaste."

Hasta la vista, Readers.

Beating the (so called) odds in ones life

Initially this post was going to be about bad music, and how it influences the younger, and current generation, by giving the wrong message, in all ways.

This however, is a post about something far worse. 

It is about violence at home.

Before I begin, let me preface the songs I wanted to showcase, all heard over the course of this summer on the radio, and we can all have a collective headshake in despair. This is however, no means a suggestion to ignore the enormity behind the intended message.

First up, a song about the state of the world and the generally perceived adolescent ignorance about responsibility:

There was a diatribe ready to go on the back of this ditty, but, as it turns out, the Google suggestion when I typed in "maxing out my..." (on the back of it being the only lyric I remembered), brought up "maxing out my 401k", which, as it turns out in my limited understanding of American government codes, is far worse than getting absolutely wasted on a joint composed of oregano which you'd just handed over your weeks worth of student loan for (that story may follow in another post).

Secondly, there is Social Media gone way beyond the call of merely "following" someone:

The video itself is hilarious from an anthropological viewpoint. We first heard it driving back from berry picking, and our initial reaction was, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?! After all, which of us hasn't been obsessed with the object of our (then) affections, wanting to be with them day and night, to want to be the one that the object of our affections finds the most satisfaction with? With social media, however, this pastime is now available to be done from the privacy under ones bed covers, while at the same time with the world knowing what one is doing, if indescretion is the weaker part of your valour, on said platform.

Prosteletysing warning: one generally gravitates towards the personality that complements our being, mostly without realising; that which balances us (without our knowledge), and the same one who does not indulge our neurotic behaviour, beyond necessity.

I digress, however. 

The song I wanted to preface this whole post with was a hit of the summer. Having lived in Switzerland for the last 7 years, one is used to the lag in pop culture and chart hits. When OH and I discovered Icona Pop 20 months ago, we were so excited to find we were actually ahead of the curve in our discovered 'coolness', when as we set out for our summer holiday in this summer of 2013, it was blaring across the continents. We were smug in our advanced mutual appreciation and discovery of the song that spoke to girls and women, empowering them to sing along and admit that they'd had enough of folding the socks and playing the docile pawn in the game of male/female relationships. However, while a catchy tune, we cannot vouch for the overall empowerment that the tune conveyed.

(Don't get me wrong, relationships are mirrored in every case, and in every situation.)

So, I come to the point I wanted to get to. More precisely, the song that sparked this all off:

There are a number of synopses out there on the suitability of the lyrics of this song, and the permission it deems to give young men in interacting with womenfolk: the language they use, or the message that is assumed to be conveyed in general. It also doesn't help that shortly after the song's release, it is documented that the singer himself would like to live by his lyrics, much to the the purposefully feigned ignorance of his so-called wife. Not to mention the fallout of Miley Cyrus' twerking to these lyrics, that frankly, make "One Two Buckle My Shoe" seem more instructive. 

Seriously, almost 90 years to the fight for women's liberation, and the spawn of the one having crooned "Achy Breaky Heart" is gyrating energetically to a tune that even her mother would have doubts over the positioning of where the party and business was meant to be. This, however, is not a post on the Junior Cyrus' misdemeanors. 

It is about the nuances of the lyrics to which she so energetically gyrated to.

Take one of the opening lines before the chorus, in mumbled delivery, to set the scene:

OK now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you're an animal, baby, it's in your nature
Just let me liberate you
Hey, hey, hey
You don't need no papers
Hey, hey, hey
That man is not your maker

I do not need to explain further.

What prompted this post, is more a dissection of the existing, and, after effects of what an approximation of the perception of popular culture should be perpetuating, and that which continues to reinforce and contribute towards the positive aspect of interaction towards the young of humankind, rather than the expected collective overall, and the immediate reaction to the supposed intention of the above said lyrics. 

It is acceptable for men to call women that they are supposed to have conquered, in the universal term of endearment known as 'sluts', and pat each other on the back in congratulatory tones amongst the other members of the same sex, however with a woman's bitchy undertones of submission that is received in far from savoury language. Conversely, from a woman's perspective, the situation would be conveyed in hushed tones of admiration for stature/penis size/general disdain/arrogance that the man would generally be exhibiting in their primal dance in establishing their Alpha status.

Glaringly, the explanation would be that the difference is that men, for the most part, only think for the moment, and women react accordingly. That often-times men think ahead, in a male-centric 'action/reaction' format, rather than a female-centric 'action/reaction/after-action' parallel. 

It is the former which is cyclical and cultivates the ongoing imbalanced accepted culture of men vs. women: where men feel they are entitled to have, and own, women, and at the same time, exhibiting or mimicking the demeaning and backward behaviour that is deemed acceptable to use towards members of the fairer (not opposite, mind you) sex, as suggested by pop culture as highlighted.

Take, for example, the ongoing videos filling the time slots on an otherwise defunct channel called MTV. I'd like to think that the images have run out now, and we are stuck solely with the aural cyclical regurgitation from the graveyard of said songs on the Singaporean radio stations.

Again, I digress. 

The point is worse still: it is because of these multiple perpetuations, that are deemed acceptable by the mainstream media editors, and therefore is perceived as suitable for society overall, and generally unquestioned by women. This, on average, translates to a twice weekly (without a fixed schedule) event. 

I hear the distinct sounds of domestic violence: glass smashing, screaming, crying, black eyes shielded from sight in the common lift.

All from the apartment below mine.

The reason for these interactions? I will quote verbatim: "You're a nothing whore that came here because I brought you in", "You are here because I brought you here". What, pray, is the independence this woman able to look forward to?

The irony? He's not even of the region. He's 6'2" and white. She's 5' nothing. And Asian. Who hears the screams of the underclass, though?

After a number of incidents, I finally took the courage to ask OH about the right course of action. After procrastinating over yet another couple of incidents, I finally asked my father for the correct legal approach, and how it would affect my ongoing standing and situation if I were to report such an event. 

The message was clear: Such behaviour cannot be ignored.

Dear readers, I was once a victim of such violence (yes, it happens in gay relationships too), and while majority of the cases are generally waved away by virtue of the influence of alcohol/stress/generalities etc., the bottom line is that it is frankly, unacceptable: a travesty, and an affront to the evolution of humankind. I, personally,  was strong enough to call an end to said relationship, (decision taken after a rescue on Waterloo Bridge by David Hasslehoff, to be told in a separate post). Overall, it is documented that around 22.1% of women, and 7.4% of men alone in the US are subject to such treatment on a regular basis. Generally, such events take place at home, and the results are carefully hidden behind suitable coverings: long sleeves, long trousers, hats, sunglasses, and other attire appropriated to shield us from the elements of weather. 

Not those inflicted by fellow humans.

Furthermore, having embarked on (and decided it was too inane, and thus stopped watching) the HBO serialisation of the novel bestseller series of A Game of Thrones, this does not do any more to give women the impression of empowerment, that being on top, sexually, and grinding down on a penis, would ultimately give one control over the overall situation in general. Fucking television.

I do not know how to carry this thread to a suitable conclusion, because, as one knows, there isn't a  suitable conclusion. I am re-opening up a Pandora's box for discussion, but ultimately, that box has been opened millenia ago, without anyone taking charge and trying to wrench the lid shut. 

Nowadays, women may think they have liberation and a platform for voicing out dissent, but at the end of the day, these women only represent a small number of a fraction of the total who are suffering in silence. 

My point is, as well as straight relationships, there are instances where gay men, women, and all under the LGBT rainbow flag have similar problems. However, these minorities are less likely to admit the suffering they face, for fear of the ongoing perpetuation of LGBT negative stereotyping.

I could go on with regards to the situation that other people are subject to, but, in the end, if one can pick up on sounds of adult discontent, what parallels can we draw, even if it were only sounds of a child crying out in anguish of an event which we could not see?

En fin du jour, this is about the general empowerment we owe to ourselves, and to have the strength in saying: enough.

Good Night.

I will go to bed tonight, however, with the knowledge that someone, somewhere, is not going to be able to say "Good Night". 

Please, if you know of someone, or yourself, in a domestic situation, call someone before you, or they, get hurt. 

Forever. 

Can or not, lah?

Less than a fortnight fresh off the boat, OH and I have started to notice a number of things in Singapore, some of which are quite amusing, and some which, quite frankly, frustrates the hell out of one. The following are a few first observations:

-       Singapore has a love affair with plastic bags. Every shop, stall, outlet you go to, they seem to delight in double, nay, triple bagging for that 2oz bottle of soy sauce you just bought.  Everything else should be bagged individually. Having for years brought my own bags to the supermarket, the cashiers cannot process not putting things into plastic bags, to the point of them bagging up stuff to put into my canvas bag.

-       “I go check”. This is the stock response to almost everything. “Does this come in a different size?” ‘I go check.’; “Does your mother work here?” ‘I go check’; “Does my bum look big in this?” (giggle) ‘I go check’; “What’s your name?” (PANIC) ‘I go check’.

-       Substitutions in restaurants are unheard of, and can often lead to you and your waiter sobbing and rocking in the corner, both reduced to gibbering wrecks. You, over the simple incomprehension why you cannot have a salad substitution, and the waiter because the binary system does not allow for the“IF” command. Americans, go home right now.

-       Japanese/Korean culture. All the girls seem to want to look like Manga dolls, with pinched faces, large vacant eyes, and a permanent expression like they’ve sat on a cucumber. Also, if you are adverse to Hello Kitty, this is not the country for you.

-       Queuing for free stuff. Admittedly I have been guilty of this trait, queuing to find that I’m being given free tampons, or baby rusks. Here, however, I noticed a long snaking queue for free sugar samples. You might as well hand out free toothpicks for amusement.

So, there it is, the first installation of observations of life in a different country. We will return soon with more quirks, so, stay tuned!

On going to the food hall

HOMOSIMIAN WALKS INTO A STORE AND TAKES ESCALATOR DOWN TO FOOD HALL

BUNCH OF LOVELY GREEN LEAVES AT BOTTOM OF ESCALATOR, ORANGES, AND OTHER LOVELY STUFF

 HOMOSIMIAN (HS) THOUGHT BUBBLE: *LIGHTBULB MOMENT* I WOULD REALLY FANCY SOME SOUP FOR DINNER. HOW ABOUT THAT CHORIZO AND KALE SOUP THAT I'VE MADE A FEW TIMES? MAYBE I SHOULD SEE IF THEY HAVE CAVALO NERO!




HS: Do you have cavalo nero (sees dark leaved veg that could be cavalo nero at the back of the veg stand)

Woman1: What is cavalo nero?

HS: Its known as black cabbage. It looks like Savoy cabbage but has big, dark green leaves.

Woman2: That is not cabbage (pointing at dark leaves). That is spinach.

HS: No, I know that is spin-

W1: Is this cavalo nero? (picks us celery)

HS: No, but-

W2: Spinach isn't cabbage. (points at spinach)

HS: I know, but th-

W1: Is this cavalo nero? (picks up artichoke)

HS: No, bu-

W2: You actually want broccolli rabe (points at broccolli rabe)

HS: Not really, its a type of g-

W1: cavalo nero? (thrusts asparagus at me)

HS: No! It's actua-

W2: You want thyme.

HS: Erm, no, bu-

W1: Here is cavalo nero! (gives me thyme)

HS: No! I don't want thyme, it looks like chard, but wrinkly, and dark....

W1: Here, cavalo nero! (thrusts chard at me)

HS: N-

W2: You want something green?

HS: Yes, but, I wa-

W1: Cavalo nero! (proffers spinach)



HS: That is spinach...

W2: Yes, we told you that is spinach. 

W1: H (holds up beets, hopefully) cavalo nero?

HS: No, no, no, I'll take the broccolli rabe instead, please.

W2 to W1: (in conspirational manner) I told you he wanted this but he didn't realise.

W1: Voilà, CAVALO NERO!! (hands me weighed bag of broccolli rabe).

HS: ... Thanks! (looks nonplussed)

12 Things in 2012

2012 was an incredible year for OH and I, but there were certain things that made the year unforgettable. Here is a list of 12 things that made 2012 for me, in chronological order:

1. The best cup of tea I had was at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski in Berlin. It was January, and OH was mulling over some work crisis the weekend we were in Berlin, which in addition to the rain, put an additional dampener on our spirits. After plodding about in the rain, we finally emerged at the Brandenberg Gate and it being a Sunday, most places were shut. The only place open in the vincinity was the Hotel Adlon, so, in order to get out of the cold and wet weather that was coming at us horizontally by that point, we ducked in and headed to the atrium for a cup of tea. As one would expect of a nice hotel situated by a monument, the menu was extensive and geared towards the tourists that were desperate to escape the crowds or inclement weather; I picked an Assam blend, which normally isn't (no pun intended) my cup of tea. OH also ordered tea, and continued to mull over the impending work related doom. Just a few minutes after the tea had been served, a team of suited men with headpieces, discreetly filing past and occupying strategic locations within the atrium. Shortly after, one of the tables next to us vacated, and was quickly filled by another group of people, and Christine Lagarde who had just taken up the directorship of the IMF, sat amongst them. I nudged OH to spot the celebrity, he looked up, and after a few seconds his face began to relax with a hint of a smile about the corners of his lips. Soon after, we finished our tea and headed off, with OH turning to me and saying, "I'm not the only one having a bad week."

2. The worst meal I had was in Prague in February. I had taken OH there for his birthday, and we spend the weekend soaking up the Bohemian spirit, and soaking up a fair few distilled spirits in the process. We visited the castle, some lovely Art Deco buildings, saw a pig slaughter in a square near the Kafka monument, and strolled along the river, illuminated by the historic Charles Bridge, juxtaposed with a procession of illuminated fibreglass penguins, silently facing out towards the Vltava. On the last day, we went to a beer hall to get some lunch before heading onto the airport. The beer was outstanding, but the food we ordered was dreadful. OH ordered dumplings which were stuffed with smoked ham and cabbage; I had a roast pork knuckle. Both turned up in the colour spectrum between Brown Slop and Dustbin, both were inedible. I don't think I have ever pushed food away, but, as they say, there's a first time for everything.

3. The enigma of the year took place in March. OH was doing a presentation and had some meetings in NYC, and so I joined him for a long weekend and to hang out with one of my dearest friends. The first evening having arrived, we went for champagne and oysters, and then went back to the hotel via a couple of speakeasy's and a Korean fried chicken place, Bonchon (those of you who are long term readers know that I have a penchant for fried chicken, if only because the concept has been banned in Switzerland along with KFC back in 1984). The next evening, we had dinner with a large group of friends and apparently, drank the bar dry of Knob Creek bourbon with our non stop orders of Manhattan's, which were extremely delicious. At some point during the evening, OH and I left, and here's where the enigma lies: it is unclear if I actually ended up sneaking out of the hotel after OH had gone to sleep, to have another go at some fried chicken. The memory was so vivid, but nothing actually is an indication whether I actually had any: in my drunk lucidity, I may have paid in cash, threw away all tell tale signs (receipts, napkins) and gargled with lots of mouthwash. When you drink the bar dry of bourbon, I expect that is the resulting blackout one would encounter.

4. The most un-interesting museum we drove past was the so called Museum of Wallpaper, which is on the highway out of Basel on the way to Strasbourg. This sparked a discussion on the most 'interesting' museums, amongst which included the Museum of Corkscrews. We were on our way to Champagne where were spent the Easter weekend with some friends. We drove through a number of French towns on the way, and some of them were memorable for all the wrong reasons. Troyes had interesting wooden buildings, all looking a bit weary and having subsided into the lopsided manner of the Gaelic shrug. Even the dogs seemed to have given up urinating on the street corners and instead decided to halfheartedly pee in the middle of the street before decided to carry on, leaving haphazard trails of canine urine along the pavements like the Warhol copper paintings. I was also subjected to the delights [sic] of the andouillette, which, while sounding bad, was actually a lot worse.

5. The never ending queue to get into the Vatican was something that I'd never forget. We queued for 2 days, but never quite got into the Holy See. I have seen crowds in my life, but never the ones like I saw to get into the Vatican museums, and St Peter's Basilica. OH had taken me to Rome for my birthday, and we stayed right next to the Pantheon, which is a beautiful building, however, the crowds again were terrifying, along with the tourist touts and pedlars selling light up figurines of Mary on keychains, colour-by-number postcards of the Sistine Chapel frescoes, and all kinds of other wonderfully kitsch delights. We went out for dinner one evening in a very lovely art deco hotel, which turned out to be a comedy of errors. Think Fawlty Towers, with only Manuel running the whole show.

6. We picked too much fruit, to which I am allergic. June came and saw the arrival of my eldest sister and her boyfriend, en route back to Canada. They stayed for a fortnight, and before they went Inter-railing across France and other parts, we took a trip out and ended up fruit picking. Between the four of us, we ended up with just under 10 kilos of cherries, both of the black and sour variety. The previous year saw an increase in the limitation of the number of fruits I could eat, due to an increased hypersensitivity in hayfever allergies, and unfortunately stone fruit numbered amongst this, as well as bananas, apples, pears and similar varieties. The downside to this activity was that my sister and her boyfriend were leaving the next day for over a week, OH was away, and I was due to travel a day later. I ended up heading home straight after work the next day, and with the help from a bottle of wine and a fruit pitter, removed the stones out of hundreds of thousands of cherries. We still have frozen cherries, cherry shrub, cherry liquor, cherry vodka, cherry bourbon, cherry jam and other cherry related items remaining. This is not to be confused with the year we bought 60 kilos of apples to get the free 10 kilo bag. That, is another story.

7. The most exhilarating hike we have ever done took place in Grindelwald. I was lured on the hike by a friend, with the promise of a 'Gourmet Evening' in a place called Glecksteinhütte. OH and I made a number of rookie mistakes, despite having some very good advice in regards to equipment, which we did have. The first was setting off too late in the day, which ensured by the time we were edging our way across a rock face, the sun was high in the sky and beating down on us mercilessly. The second mistake was not properly anticipating the incline of the climb, which rose 1.5km over a 9km hike. The final mistake was not understanding the weather patterns, and while it was 32°c in the sun, once we'd crossed the rock face, the final climb faced a glacier, with winds of up to 80km whipping through the valley down towards us. As we sighed and sobbed pathetically, a loud clap, and the heavens opened on us. That spurred us on towards the hut in triple time, and as we arrived, the group we'd set out to meet cheered us, and presented us with much needed alcoholic sustenance. In the end, the dinner turned out to be quite fun, and we met a group of great people who until today, remain great friends. The next few days however, proved to be painful in getting around as our legs had completely seized up due to the over exertion. 


8. Conversely from #2, the best meal I had of the year was at Fäviken, in Jarpen, Sweden. OH and I had arranged a trip away to Scandinavia, and went up towards the border with Norway in what is normally a ski region, and went for a long hike before working up an appetite. We set off with much aplomb, and promptly got lost trying to find the beginning of the trail. Eventually, we found the map that marked the path, hidden behind some bushes, and started on our way. Soon, the path became quite challenging and waterlogged sections meant that we had to manouvre our way carefully. Imagine the scene from LOTR where Frodo is crossing the marshes with Gollum, and you have an idea of the conditions we were faced with. Eventually, we completed the circuit, and upon arriving back at the start of the route, realised that we had taken the cross country skiing route, which meant that we'd been struggling through the ditches that were usually full of snow that made it easy to navigate. Once we got back to the car, we headed over to the Fäviken farmhouse we were staying in, and the barn which we were going to be dining in. The experience was incredible: from the decor, to the weather, it was all so rustic and perfect. The food was a well thought out sequence, each with a story behind it, and the maître d' and his team looked after us wonderfully. The highlight was when a large marrow bone which had been roasting was brought table side, sawn in half and its contents scooped out and mixed into a tartare of beef heart and wild herbs. After the meal, we were invited to have a nightcap back in the ground floor of the barn, where the chef Magnus Nilsson came to chat to the diners. What I enjoyed most from the conversation was his sense of adventure, and openness in trying different techniques, and that sometimes he would come up with an idea and a technique on the day and the diners would be the first to try that particular method, or even composition. The duck egg liquor I was sipping reminded me of Christmas, and the breakfast we were served the next morning was another experience in itself. Back in Stockholm, we encountered Pride Week, and listened to ABBA songs in Swedish, which was a very odd experience.

9. Jumping from 15 feet into a river and floating back home certainly ranks amongst one of the more daredevil things I've done in recent years. With my waterproof floating bag all packed up, and a pair of flip-flops attached to the strap, I took the leap from a railed platform, spurred on by the lifeguard in charge of the open air swimming baths after an exchange of pleasantries (and her figuring out we were foreign; I swear it must be something to do with population control). As I hit the water, my heart almost leapt out of my throat, and as I recovered from the shock of the cold water, I began to notice I was flowing down the river very fast in the path towards a bridge support. Once that had been dodged, I managed to get to a bathing area to blow up the floatation mat I had, which turned out to have already sustained a few punctures, straight from the box. Then, there was the fork in the river where I learnt that fast flowing water runs shallow, and sustained a few scratches all over. Finally, the river entered some deeper territory, and I was able to relax a bit more, getting out at the appropriate moment before the waters flushed into a weir over a hydroelectric dam.

10. Sunshine in Scotland, in October. After almost 8 years together, OH and I took the leap and got married. Well, as close to marriage as the laws would allow anyway. The event took place in Scotland on an estate, with a 15th century tower annexe, and a four poster bed which Mary, Queen of Scots was purported to have slept in, and there is a wax cast of her death mask by the Great Hall. There was also a wonderful ebony four poster with mother-of-pearl inlay which the Queen Mother used to sleep in, but that bed has since been put on display only, after an errant couple split red wine on the sheets at one event. In the run up to the day itself, the weather was decidedly Scottish, with gray skies, horizontal rain/drizzle, and everything that we'd brought along with us had a decidedly damp feel about them. Come the day itself, all our guests turned up from all four corners of the globe, for which we remain entirely grateful. The sun made an appearance, the grounds were dry, and the céilidh was decidedly chaotic and haphazard. Much fun was had by all, and as we sipped the house whisky by the fire alongside our friends, we basked in the warmth and satisfaction that much fun was had by all.

11. Two of the most breathtaking natural water features are the Iguassu Falls, that border Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay, and Perito Moreno in Patagonia. I'd been to the former over 12 years ago with some clients, and revisiting it again was truly spectacular. We stayed over on the Brazilian side, with stunning views of the falls from the window, if you tilted your head at an odd angle, and stood on tiptoe, facing the direction of the setting sun. The wildlife was also quite incredible, with multi-coloured birds squawking incessantly, and raccoon related types trying to steal eggs from the nests of the weaver birds. When we got to Patagonia, the Perito Moreno glacier was truly breathtaking, with the noise of the shifting glacier and the deep blue veins of the ice rendering us totally speechless, as everyone else around us. What we were most taken aback by, however, was the sheer size of the Andes. Living with a view of the Alps is nothing compared to a view of the Andes from the hotel terrace: it just seemed to go on and on, looming up ahead. We also had a truly unforgettable steak, by virtue of its sheer size that turned up on the table. The rib was a long as my arm, and it was straight out of a Flintstones cartoon. We knew we'd been suckered when the tables around us started to snigger, so we put on a brave face, and ate as much of the slab of cow in front of us as we could. We did not touch steak for almost another 2 months after that.

12. The month I consumed a million calories was definitely in December. Half of that was from alcohol. The other half? Well, lets put it down to Christmas on both counts, including a snack time burger an hour and a half before attacking a huge (undercooked) steak. Foie gras, game pie, mutton ham and caviar also featured somewhere in between. Now, I am trying to stick to a detox and diet plan, to rid some of the toxins and padding that seems to have found its way around my midriff.

So, those were some of the highlights of 2012. 2013 is going to see some major changes, and that includes blogging more frequently with observations of life in a new country, as we prepare our transition over to sunnier climes in a few months.

In the meantime, Happy New Year to all, and may your year ahead be as good as you have been.

Life is like...

... a box of chocolates. When its empty, its time to find a new box and start the gluttony afresh.



Zürich, being the unofficial capital of Switzerland, and the home-bound ambassador of chocolate, finds itself being that chocolate box. However, as said box is coming to the end, and someone must finish the orange ganache filled specimen, it will be a while before OH and I pick up a new box to start the process anew.

It is a difficult time to get through the humdrum slog of life, before we find ourselves in new climes. I am finding it particularly difficult to get through the next 12 months before we embark on a new journey, and trips out to set up shop in the new abode and imagining our new home is proving to be difficult in maintaining the daily equilibrium. There are days when I want to turn round and say: Fuck You All.

I will however, persevere. Instead, I am savouring every last morsel of the seasons. Asparagus has taken on a new dimension, nectarines, albeit from Chile, seem to be sweeter (after the antihistamines). The hunting season, although 6 months away, promises delicate and succulent flavours from every morsel that Mother Nature yields. At that time, I will be grasping hold to OH's hand, and promising him loyalty, devotion and half of my inheritance.

All that, and more, I promise. If, and only if, he allows me the frivolity of a Céilidh band for the Gay Gordons at some point during the celebrations.

Watch this space.

Long overdue

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.

On micro-scooters

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.

The countdown begins

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.

How to solve a problem...

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!

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.

Put yourself in my place

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.

Then we came to the end

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.

Profundity.

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?

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

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)

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)

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)

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...)