Snowflakes On My Face And All Those Little Things

Isn't it ironic, that when someone dies, you only remember the best parts of them?  Suddenly their annoying traits become quirky, all their habits, -those teeth-grinding, hair-pulling inducing behaviours are now the fondest of memories.  Death, you are surprising. 

This past week I've been overseas, in Goa, India, -a stunning destination, previously a Portuguese colony, where the people, towns, sights and fabulous food, all provided a sumptuous feast for the soul.   During our visit to the oldest basilica where the body of St Francis Xavier of Assisi is interred, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach which I couldn't quite explain, it could have been the heat, lack of sleep and the previous nights cocktails, but I suddenly felt sad.  I sat down at one of the pews and cried.  Later, I turned to one of my friends and asked, "What, precisely, St Francis was Saint of?"  My friend nonchalantly replied, "Animals" and strolled off into the crowds.

Last night, we swapped our sunny beach villa in Goa for a snowy runway in London but I was relieved to be back.  This morning, my alarm went off with a reminder that my hound would be home tomorrow.  Less than an hour later though, I received a call from the kennels where my trusty four-legged rascal was staying during my holiday.  "I'm afraid, I've some really bad news about Fred..."  I can't recall what I said, because it was at that exact moment, all those 'quirky' habits came flooding back, the annoying things he did, like roll around in horse manure, after I'd specifically told him not to, or bark when the doorbell rang.  All day, I've heard his claws running along the floorboards.  Ironic, isn't it?

So on my Sunday afternoon run?  I took my usual route along backstreets, secret paths, and slowly, slowly, up grassy hills in the local park but it wasn't until I turned into 'our' street that tears slipped down my cheek.  Here was the place I walked him every morning.  I pushed my face into the wind and I torn down the path.  Here was the place where he had gotten stuck in a pile of leaves whilst sniffing out some piece of trash.  Here was the place where I'd cried over nothing and he'd been my only witness.  I looked skyward, apologised to Le Hound for not being here, and then it started to snow, just lightly.  Snowflakes on my face.  Sloppy kisses from the sky.  I know that it was Freddy saying goodbye.  

Farewell my four-legged rogue, if you are hanging out with St Francis, do behave, no slouching!  I might not miss washing the horse manure from your fur but I'll definitely miss all the other parts of you.  

RIP Freddy
Nov'04 - Feb'13

Looking Back, Moving Forward: Goodbye 2012! Hello 2013!

You know that final scene in 'Muriel's Wedding,' where Muriel and Rhonda are sitting in the back of a taxi, yelling out 'Goodbye, Porpoise Spit!?  Yes, that's how I'm feeling, quite frankly, I can't wait for the new year.  However, as the lyrics in a hit-hip-hop-rap tune go, - 'I should say goodbye before I say hello', - and so, I made a list of a few things I've learnt to accept in 2012.  GOOD BYE 2012!  Love you never... maybe, a little, okay, a lot.  

What I've accepted in 2012:

1.  There is no clear definition of 'Hipster,' - it's useful as both an insult and a compliment, yeah you hipsters, it is!  And I love the sound of it rolling off my tongue.

2.  I am officially 'pants' at making gravy and I am PROUD of that fact.  Ever since my Chef Sister casually mentioned that 'a good gravy takes at least 11 hours to simmer', I realised I don't have 11 hours to spare.

3.  No matter how many Cat Pictures appear in my Facebook feed, I will never be a Cat person.  Which is a positive thing really, it means I'll never be that crazy old lady down the street with a thousand furry friends in her house.  I'll leave that to all you cool-cat hipsters out there.

4.  Big Girls Do SO Cry.  I think this could be a talent of sorts, - I can cry at the drop of a hat.  I cry at Christmas adverts on TV, I'm constantly pulling tissues out at the movies, I've blubbered on public transport whilst reading books, - now if I could just turn tears into, I dunno, cash?

5.  You should never hang up on a Priest's answer machine, he will find you.

6.  Lady Gaga is younger than Carly Rae Jepsen and I find this a little disturbing but I can't explain that either.  Call me on the tele-tele-phone or like, call me maybe?  Maybe not.

7.  I suck at editing sex scenes.  Pun most definitely intended.

8.  Gangnam style is not going to disappear easily.  *deepest regretful sigh*

9.  Children are little philosophers and you really should listen to their conversations.  Covertly is best, as that's when they're at their most natural.  Preferably do this with your own children or nieces and nephews.  Do not randomly hang out at parks and eavesdrop on kids.  That will get you arrested.

10.  Love is all you need.

11.  Running will not kill you.

12.  Your mother will never change but you can always change your phone number.   *taps nose*


Now, what have you accepted this year?

Yes, let's do it!  

Happy 2013!  May the new year bring you peace and happiness!  

- Love Talei xox

A/N: Image via tumblr

If You Could Have One Wish Granted, What Would It Be?

In less than 24 hours, Christmas morning will dawn, friends and family will greet each other warmly, gifts and goodwill will be exchanged, children will wreak havoc and small dogs will run amuck.  Lovers will kiss under the mistletoe and old couples will cuddle on the sofa, when they think no-one is watching.  A tonne of turkey-lamb-ham-duck will be served up, a staggering number of Christmas pudding will be tossed out, and mothers the world over will require several glasses of sherry before 12noon.  Without a doubt, there'll be tears and laughter, but, as crazy as this holiday season is, it's worth it in the end, non?  Certainment.

At this time of the year, I love the quietness between the craziness.  Those calm moments where you sit back and ponder the year that was, and the year that you wished for.  Generally speaking, I find this type of reflection can be wildly enhanced by a glass of mulled wine, or champers.  Up to you, of course!  This Christmas,  I wish for a great many things, and I can't wait to see the excitement on Scribe Junior's face as he opens his presents.  I wish my family and I didn't live so far apart, and I wish my mother would suddenly, magically remember international timezones when she picks up that phone to call me, on Christmas morning, my time.  And, secretly, I wish for a long, long cuddle with someone special.

I hope Santa delivers that new Dior handbag, a sparkly pair of heels, oh, and if he could arrange that date with Tom Hardy.  Or, Bradley Cooper, that would be great.  Both unlikely, but I'm putting it out there.  Again.  Also, I'm wishing away Brad Pitt's god-awful hair and his Chanel no 5 advert.  We're all in agreement on that one, right?  Why oh why, Brad?

Mostly, though, as cliche as it sounds, I really do wish for world peace!  Yes, I do.  This year has seen some incredibly shocking events take place which, if I could, I would, wish them away in an instant. Well, these are my Christmas wishes, it's probable that only one of these will come true, but hell, you can't stop a girl from hoping.

If you could have one wish granted this year, what would it be?

A/N:  Thank you to everyone who has stopped by and read my posts this year,  I wish you all a wonderful festive season!  May Love, Peace and Happiness feature widely in your holidays. - Talei xox

Book Review: Orhan Pamuk's Silent House

Could you walk by this book? 

It's impossible to wander into London's oldest bookstore and leave without purchasing at least one good book. On a rather chilly autumnal afternoon, post-brunch with friends, I wandered into Hatchards. The store is a treat in itself, doubly so during the cold dark seasons where you can take refuge in the deepest corners and hide away from the world, if only for a while.

In one particular corner, a certain dust-jacket caught my eye, - Silent House it said and so silently, I picked it up, flipped it over, flipped it back, traced the stunning image with my fingers and sighed.  Yes, you're beautiful, I thought.  Please let you be beautiful on the inside too, I whispered.  I held my breath and read the first few pages.... yes, yes... you were very good but then I checked the inside cover and thought, are you really worth £18.99?  At this point, my friends appeared out of the darkness, promptly pointed towards the basement,  'paperbacks are that way', they cited.  And for a brief moment, all the tweeting about e-books pricing and paperbacks, flashed before my eyes 'matrix-style'.  For the first time, I felt uneasy about paying so much for a hardback.  Could I wait a few months for the paperback?  In short, the answer was, NO.  You were too beautiful and you were coming home with me that day. 

So, back to the book review.  The story is set during the summer of 1979, in a small Turkish beachside town before the military coup in 1980, and it's told from several of the characters point of view.  Fatma, the main protagonist, is a cantankerous grand-matriarch, a wilful, naive old lady, and surprisingly or not, as the story unfolds, we soon discover that she can also be quite vile.  She is mostly bedridden in her rambling old 'Silent House' near the beach.  Her daily chores and bidding are taken care of by one very intriguing dwarf named Recep, who by the way, is her late husband's illegitimate son.  Each year, her three bothersome grandchildren visit her from Istanbul.  There is Faruk - a failed historian, his younger siblings, his sister Nilgun who loves to read and brother Metin, who yearns for a life in America.  In the small village, we meet Ismail, Recep's brother, who sells lottery tickets, and Hasan, Ismail's young son who is caught up with a local gang of nationalists.  As fate would have it, Ismail becomes infatuated with Nilgun whose ideals are more Left than Right.

For me, this is a story about social classes, the yearning to belong, to obtain status, and to fail.  It's about family, relationships, love, betrayal and of course tragedies. The skeletons are practically busting out of Fatma's beloved closet.  If you recall that song 'I'm glad I'm not a Kennedy', you could apply to this tale and rename it to, ' I'm glad I'm not a Darvinoglu.'  With the narrative interchanging between five characters, after the first few chapters, I found my favourites, and my interest only waned with a couple of the characters, that being Faruk and Fatma.  I felt the need to re-read several mutterings and remind myself at times that this book was translated from Turkish to English.  Also, that it was written 30 years ago.  I'll be honest, at times, after re-reading Fatma's ramblings, I wanted to strangle the old lady.  Not that she reminded me of my own mother, mind. 

I particularly enjoyed the inner monologues of Hasan and Metin, both were the most compelling for me, but as I turned the last page, I felt a little cheated, at least for Recep and his brother Ismail.  I wanted to know more about them, the possibilities of what happened.  With this story, we see what Orhan Pamuk wants to reveal to us, and I think that's the point. There are many layers to each of these characters and with each chapter, it's just beneath the surface that Pamuk allows us a glimpse of what each one is thinking, and then the veil swiftly drops again.  Like a circus act, like a clever magician, like a wily old spider who weaves her web, quietly says 'there you are', and then sits back.  You consider how life went on for each of these characters after closing this book.  The possibilities are endless with this story and sometimes, you just have to dream them up yourself.  I certainly did. 

     

Rekindling Your Literary Lust

Back in May this year, I promised to report back on the Writing Britain 'Wasteland to Wonderlands' exhibition at the British Library, and now, I finally can.  I waited for the perfect afternoon, you know.

Let me start by painting you a picture.  London.  Rain.  Brightly striped girly umbrella.  Retro green sneakers.  Bespoke Mac.  Perfectly attired for a perfectly wet afternoon, I traipsed across the bleak city, my leather sneakers hitting dirty pavements, splashing their way towards Kings Cross, a grubby part of town, where classic architecture and contemporary street art collide.  The rain fell heavy, the wind blew wildly.  I passed three distinct piles of vomit, each a different hue of pink, each spattered against the redbrick walls of St Pancras station's cathedral facade.  I resisted an overwhelming urge to 'cross myself' and hurried away.  Taxis swished by, I ducked into alcoves, hoping for respite from the wet, wet, day.

It was a dramatic journey, any of Jane Austen's heroines undoubtedly would have cried out for smelling salts long before the end.  Being made of stronger fibre though, I made it safely through the doors and into the enormous lobby of the British Library.  Nothing a little gin couldn't cure later.  Inside the vast building, it was surprising quiet, and a little dark.  Pockets of people stood, scattered in corners, speaking in whispers, folding battered umbrellas, patting down damp clothes.  Dishevelled but feeling triumphant at arriving in one piece, I tip-toed across the marble and purchased my ticket from the friendly ticket chap.  "Just one?" he asked, peering expectantly over my shoulder.  "Yes, just me... I like to wander alone..." I replied, peering over my own shoulder too, wondering if someone had miraculously appeared.  "Well, you'll enjoy it..."  More chit-chat whilst the sale was rung up.  "Can I help you with anything else?" he enquired, a wolfish grin on his face.  "Um, no...thanks, I don't..." I grabbed my ticket and fled.

So, the exhibition? A cavernous space, dimly-lit just enough to allow you to navigate your way through.  The place was teeming with literary junkies, reading quietly, taking notes, lingering possessively over manuscripts, eyeing you suspiciously as you made your way over.  I wasn't sure which end to start so my strategy was this, - look for the quiet spots, head over there, back track later.  Now, there's a little power-play at busy exhibitions, where you eventually need to put manners aside and elbow your way in. Or cough, cough as loud as possible, apologise in between spluttering.  I waited patiently for a good two minutes... behind one particular lady who stood, trance-like, in front of the glass-cased Tolkien drawing.  I waited, and waited, walked around, tried my hand at patience and then I returned.  It was now a good twenty minutes and the same lady was still standing in place.  A statue, herself, save for her elbow movements.  She was sketching his drawing, in her own sweet time.  And everyone else was made to walk around her.  I coughed. 

And, which pieces would I take home with me?  At the top of my list, would be the original hand-written manuscripts, notes, letters, poems, scribblings.  All that faded ink work, scrawled, crossed-out, and re-written.  The dainty penmanship of the Bronte sisters, Wordsworth, and the drawings in Lewis Carroll's 'Alice Notebook'.  I found myself returning several times to view the magnificent copy of a 14th century manuscript of Chaucer's Canterbury tales.  Seriously, -like, vintage, vintage eye candy.   Another unexpected surprise, for me, was a recorded interview of Daphne du Maurier, in which she explained her inspiration behind 'Jamaica Inn'.  And, my god, her voice, her voice!  It was like listening to all of my great-aunts-long-since-passed-on.  I was riveted to the spot and yes, I hogged the enormous headphones for a good twenty minutes or so.  That was the highlight for me.

Overall, the exhibition was immense, I scribbled my own notes and left Kings Cross, feeling invigorated, inspired, greatly impressed. All these literary giants under one roof, they all lived fairly normal lives and drew inspiration from places they visited, landscapes, houses, their own surroundings.  I felt a sense of relief, really.  Sometimes, we put our literary heros on such high pedestals, we forget, they were just like us.  I couldn't help smiling on the train journey home, it was definitely worth the trek through London town that day.

Rocketships, Asteroid Belts, Armageddon And Beyond!

Occasionally, I get a little tongue-tied; rarely though, rendered speechless.  However, after a conversation with Scribe Junior aka  Budding Philosopher, aka Mini-Yoda, I'm often left floundering.  Just like the fish.  

One sunny morning, not so long ago, SJ was sitting at the breakfast table, drawing furiously, he looked up briefly:
SJ:  Mummy, is the world really going to end one day?
Me:  Um, well, thats a difficult question...
SJ:  Mummy, because Daniel says it will, Daniel says there's an Arr-maa-gedd-don!  He says the whole world is going to explode!!  IS THERE AN ARR-MAA-GEDDDON?
Me:  *softly curses Daniel, inhales deeply*   Well, some people believe there is.  Did you go to church today at school?
SJ:  *ignores my question, goes back to drawing massive explosions of red and green on his paper*

24 hours later, SJ is back at the table:
SJ:  Mummy
Me:  Yes?
SJ:  The correct answer to my question was 'maybe.'
Me: Sorry?
SJ:  Shouldn't we say, that, maybe, the world will end but we just don't know?
Me:  *wonders if SJ will sprout Yoda-like ears any-minute-soon*  UM... Yes, yes... you're right...


Several weeks later, I've recovered from his profound insight.  It's a normal morning in London, delightfully grey and drizzly.  Budding Philosopher is poring over a large book, the well-loved kind, numerous flaps, diagrams and maps, all dog-eared, all hanging out of its covers.

SJ:  Um... Mummy, can rocketships make it safely through the asteroid belt in the solar system?
Me:  *stops in tracks, baffled face*  Wha-aat did you say?
SJ:   *huffs, annunciates ever so slowly, for my benefit (obvs)*  CAN A ROCK-ET-SHIP make it through the AS-TE-ROID BELT IN THE SO-LAR SYS-TEM?
Me:  *wonders if this is a normal question from a 6 year old*
SJ:  Well, can they?
Me:  Ah... Well, it depends... yes... it depends... on the... size of the asteroids!  You know, on how large the asteroids are, if they can navigate through them.  *insert floundering face*  What book are you reading?
SJ:  My Space Book.  So, they can get back safely to Earth from the asteroid belt then?
Me: Yes.  If they're really careful.
SJ:  And, Mummy...
Me:  *hastily steps backwards, fumbling for the door*
SJ:  ...does the asteroid belt go out into space or, does it just keeping going around in a belt?
Me:  *grabs door handle, exhales*  What?
SJ: Does the asteroid belt go further out into the universe, or, does it stay in the belt?
Me:  *coughs*   Well, what does your book say?
SJ:  *runs finger down page*  Um....it says....
Me:  *exits room, runs down hallway*  WTF?!


A/N:  Isn't it great when to be reminded about the bigger things in life, though?  I thought so...  Today is SJ's 7th birthday, so I'm going to let him ask as many questions as he likes... and then, after bedtime, -I might just mix a few margaritas.

Changing Frocks, Changing Seasons: I Am Summer, Hear Me Roar.

So long, summer...

I felt it this morning, in the whiff of crisp air that snatched my unruly long hair, whipping it back from my face.  Autumn.  Fall.  Call it what you will.  It's almost here, the one season I'm loathe to welcome this year and yet when it arrives, I'll wrap my arms around it and hold it tight. 

These changing days, in between seasons, when you're not quite here, or there.  My mind seems wrapped in a fog, unable to make simple decisions, -dress, tights, heels, boots?  No, not boots, not quite yet.  Late summer lingers through windows, covering floor boards and dusty bookshelves in splinters of dappled sunshine.  Yes, dappled, bite me.  I want to lock it all up and throw away the key.

Last week, I stormed down city streets, wedges firmly strapped on, floral-printed frock flying in the breeze.  Determined strides.  I came face to face with another lady, dark-shaded suit, thick tights and boots.  She was Winter; I was Summer.  From across the road, we glared.  Eyes widened, nostrils flared. Taking in each other's attire.  Really? I mean, REALLY?  Boots? I shuddered.  Wedges, she tutted.  Silently, we passed on the crossing, careful not to brush.  I-wish-you-were-dead eyes, staring dead ahead.  It was a moment in time, an unspoken duel.  Subsided.

And yes, I know.  Soon, we bid adieu to our beautiful summer, but for now lets enjoy the last of our lazy afternoon strolls and those oh-so-blissful ice cream kisses.  Just a few more days, yes?  Yes.  Say yes.  Even if you're thinking, no.  Yes?  Yes.