Stuff...

A little while ago...

2010-09-21T04:15:00.000-07:00

I started something hereabouts. The intention was to write a story, something not too serious, with a view to friends enjoying it in their own time.

I failed.

I'm sorry.

Life kept pushing intention aside, and intention obviously needed to spend more time at the gym so it could fight back.

Anyway, for those of you who wanted more on The (Unsolved) Case of the Purple Earlobes, it now has a new home here. I've just published Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 is in the process of an edit, to be with you by the end of the week and hopefully one every week or so from now on.

This blog I'm going to keep personal. A place to defame the monarchy, wonder at the insanity of religions, write crap about stuff that only really matters to me but might put a smile on your face etc.

So that's it.

Peace.

The (unsolved) case of the purple earlobes

2010-02-14T14:33:00.000-08:00

Strong Arm One didn’t like this one bit. The new anti-irritation chip hadn’t quite settled and he was hungry. Having already destroyed a coffbot earlier in the day for bringing him a latte instead of the usual black, his body was charged up to attack anything and anyone at the merest hint of annoyance. Hoping he wasn’t anywhere near a human when he popped, he squeezed the stress ball in his hand with a grim look on his face.

He was out in this because he had to be. Another girl had been found this morning. Like the others she was unconscious, not harmed in any way except that her earlobes were an unusual purple colour. As with the others, he expected her to wake up shortly with no memory of what had happened, confused and speaking gibberish for weeks.

Her name was Gracie P and she was one of the original Daughters. Built to last, she was older than Strong himself, yet had never aged beyond perfection and never would.

So how could this be? If one so much as touched a Daughter without her permission, the response from Stephenie Fray was immediate and severe. Yet there she’d been, living proof of the impossible.

Strong had thought her confusion gave her a look of ethereal beauty. He couldn’t deny that he would be thinking of her later in the bath. It was fucking Valentines Day after all.

He knocked. The camera above the door swivelled and focussed on the top of his head. He didn’t feel like making it easier on the bastard by looking up and so didn’t.

“You know who this is Dynomax. Just open the fucking door so we can talk.”

With a small hissing sound, Strong found himself draped in a virenet. It tickled but it wasn’t unpleasant. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t stop the device from probing him physically and mentally. He didn’t regret not looking up. This would eat a giant hole into Dynomax’s electricity bill and that was something.

Known as the Gazer, Dynomax was one of the most advanced orgobots on the planet. Built at the same time as the Daughters, he had been around before Strong was born and would be long after he was dead. Once human, he had been developed by Stephenie Fray to assist in the eradication of crime. Now universally accepted as the Overling to every camera unit in the known universe, Dynomax was where every detective started a new case.

Strong always visited him last.

As soon as the virenet had completed its scan, the door dissolved, revealing the same room he had visited more often than he liked to admit, each time with a heavy reluctance on the way in, each time with a sense of ill on the way out.

As usual, an inflatable exercise ball stood unnaturally still on the floor. Knowing there would be no conversation with Dynomax until Strong sat himself down on that yellow plastic piece of crap, Strong stepped in, his Stephenie right behind him.

Meanwhile, not too far away in Chin’s Bar & Banqueting Hall, the naked northern crusader, Richie von Vinkleman was drowning his sorrows in the company of his own Stephenie.

The Mother, Stephenie Fray, had created the world one afternoon when bored with her toys. She was 3 at the time. This year, for her birthday, she had gifted everyone alive with a clone of herself. They were everywhere; each was different; she was all of them.

The booth was soaking in Von Vinkleman’s tears. Be-Liza, she who he thought was his true love, had told him just this morning that she couldn’t be with him any more for commercial reasons. As a rising star in The Corporation, it was impossible to introduce your perpetually naked (except the cape of course) boyfriend to other movers and shakers. She loved him, but she’d cried “The Man” every night during sex the whole time they’d been together. And so she’d dressed her Stephenie and herself and walked out.

Vinkleman’s Stephenie wasn’t too concerned. Out of sheer boredom, she had scanned his future and knew he would eventually end up with G-Shoe, the busty empress of a nation across the stars who was due attack the planet in 20 minutes or so in her ongoing search for the perfect man, one who could match her appetite for pancakes and shoes, which of course Vinkleman could.

A hapless hero, he would run out as soon the news of the attack was repeated by the standard issue news monkey atop the bar. His as yet undried tears would lead G-Shoe to stop the invasion, instead taking him as a lover and the two would begin a fabled journey across the stars, following a short stop at the Burger Prince for a bite.

So his Stephenie drank her whiskey. Soon, she was going to be one of the few without a human. She may as well get drunk. Other Stephenies around the room gave her comforting looks. They also worried about some of her recent choices.

Across the bar, Stax bounced atop her newest pogo stick while her psychopathic sister, Utah ate a plate full of chicken wings. They said Utah left a half eaten chicken wing wherever she went, to mark her territory. Each one she ate assimilated its essence into her. Woe on you if you found one in your house and tried to move it or, god forbid, throw it in the bin. Utah was one of four known instaporters in the Universe and acknowledged as the best. With pinpoint precision, she would first knock you down by teleporting right on top of you and would usually proceed to rip off your nose with her fingers alone. There wasn’t a prison that could hold her and so if you moved one of her wings, the consequences were yours to bear alone. Even her Stephanie looked a little maniacal in her company.

As for Stax, she appeared to have lost her wits years ago. And yet, her legend was known by every child and tinybot out there. Known simply as the Crafter, it was said Stephenie Frey has chosen her to receive her earliest gift, that of creation itself. And yet now, Stax spent almost all her time on her pogo stick, attempting to recreate the perfect double spin front ground touch reverse stall, first performed by handsome lothario JJP eons ago. Covered in bruises, all those who knew her were aware she could lose it at any time and kamikaze pogo beatings for all those in her way would follow in the wake.

Tiny Tracy danced on her table. Today’s performance was meat related, as were all the others. Describing it would be inappropriate. Needless to say, the cow didn’t stand a chance. She was another of the Daughters. Untouchable. And yet, she longed to be touched. Anywhere, but particularly there. Or there. Her AJK ciggie unit looked up at her longingly, wishing more than anything for human form, just for a day. She leaned down and pressed for a cigarette, which he duly produced lit and ready to smoke and as she took her first puff, there was an audible sigh from the one who loved her so. Not noticing, she continued to dance around the remains of the cow.

Behind the bar, the Dood stood watch. He was a relic really. A throw back to a time long gone when a person or robot served customers. Nowadays, you just thought your drink and it would appear on your table, charging your credit account at the same time. The Dood was there because he knew nothing else and because he dreamed of the day the thought drive in the bar would malfunction. In the meantime, he went to the gymkhana so regularly that his physique could only be described as “Over Cut”. Pictures had appeared in the papers recently about some drunk who had sliced his arm off on The Dood’s left tricep. Needless to say, his Stephenie wore wire mesh all the time.

The Bar itself was owned by Jimmeny Chin. Artist, rapper, pro RocketBoarder, koala bear breeder. Adopted by the Chin family when he was just a baby, he had spent his early years directing appalling Asian movies and the occasional pop video. But ever since Stax Hanso had crafted his paint brush from the nasal hairs of his first ever bear, everything he now touched turned to pink fire. It was said they were once lovers, Stax had offered the brush up on one knee in the time honoured tradition of one about to make a proposal. Jimmeny had accepted but the power of the brush was too strong, and their once unique love has fizzled out in a haze of hip hop and pogo sticks.

In the lap of his giant stuffed koala, Chin sat at the far end of the bar, turning his brush around in his hands absently, his thoughts focussed on finding a list of words to rhyme with Jax. Increasingly annoyed at repeatedly thinking “Stax”, he stared meanly at his Stephenie, who in turn sat across from him, one eye closed, silently squishing his head between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

Dynomax projected each of them on the wall before Strong Arm as he shifted uncomfortably on the ball.

“So it’s one of them?” Strong asked.

“Yep”, Dynomax’s voice was low, filled with a humour that always drove Strong to the edge, “and you know you’re buggered if it’s one of the clones. I’d let it go if I were you Strong, but now that I’ve said that I know you won’t.”

Strong sighed. “You could just tell me and save us both a lot of trouble.”

“I could but I need something interesting to watch!”

“Cunt!” Strong hissed as he nodded at his Stephenie to leave. This was going be a needlessly long day but at least he had the bath to look forward to later.

Good. Good?

2010-02-09T06:57:00.001-08:00

You know some days when you just wake up and everything's all good? I'm kinda having one of those days!

Sure, I hurt my ankle yesterday. I may even have been a bit of a baby about it. Alone, in pain and feeling a little needy - happens to everybody sometime. Not good.

On top of which I had this work I'd been commissioned to do. The kind that pays and so actually needs to be *done*. Progress was slow - I blame new found self employment. However good you intend to be, it's very easy to get distracted when one is one's own boss, don't you know.

So maybe my mood this morning can be explained away as a side effect of having finished said work, loading it onto a big old e-mule and kicking it on its way late last night.

Whatever the reason. I feel Gee Double Oo Dee!

I woke to a smile and I'm pretty sure I'll sleep with one tonight. In between, there'll be games and music and food and international calls and all other good things.

But wait! Where are my manners? ... So, how are YOU? All good?

x

N.B. No "good"s were harmed in the writing of this post, even though there are a good few.

Make fucking love, damn you!

2010-02-06T12:14:00.000-08:00

The premise of this one is pretty straightforward:

I, in my expert opinion, am here to tell you, hot stuff (yeah, YOU!), that the only time all-out frickin' war is a good idea is when it’s quickly followed by dirty, hot, sticky sex. In fact, oil up. Even better.

Stay with me.

One of my *jobs* is try to help morons settle their disputes. I’m not a rented judge, although some do make that mistake. I’m simply there to help them realise that by the time it’s escalated to a formal case, they may as well decide what they can live with because justice is usually off performing the cancan in a sleazy nightclub.

Credit where it’s due, most of the time people manage it. It’s frustrating, they get pissed off, threaten to leave, say they can’t believe they’re accepting this, THIS which is so much less than they’re due. Yet they take it, because the alternative is handing it all over to some judgeman/devilwoman (well, have you ever been before a female Judge? They’re scary as shit dude!) who, let’s be honest, may have diarrhoea that day.

But a few folk will argue over the stupidest fucking things. Take it ALL THE WAY. Talk about what’s fair, when what they really want is to make that rat bastard on the other side gets what’s coming to him. One or more lawyers are usually present, spouting professional opinions, while suckling greedily at the wallet. Oh, yeah, baby. Your principles make your lawyers cream their pants.

What? I’m allowed to say that. I’m one of them/you/it/whatever.

I jest, but you get the idea.

It’s all bullshit man. Boredom. Go ahead, climb up inside every barney that comes your way. I'm all for that. But don’t make it into a crusade friend. Don't.

And yo, personally, I'm a total fan of the art of war. It’s a total rush. I punched a guy once (what? He deserved it! Pfft!) and I get that same emancipatory current run through me every time I win an argument. But I’m also woman (and occasionally man) enough to accept a view which is better reasoned than mine. It’d be foolish not to.

So, back to the moral of this piece, this time in algebraic form: If X is war, X = 0, unless either preceded or particularly where postceded by SE.

Trust me dude. I’m like a doctor of this shit.

;-)

For the crowd...

2009-12-23T08:02:00.001-08:00

“I was not the best because I killed quickly.

I was the best because the crowd loved me.

Win the crowd and you will win your freedom.”

- Proximo (Gladiator)

The above was sent to me this morning by someone I've worked with for the last 7 years. A co-director, in his 50s, Polish, funny as hell and one of my few heroes. It's his farewell, and it's perfect.

Today is my last day as a full time cog in the great big machine. In about an hour, I'll leave this office, this place where I grew up, came to myself and learned so much. I was never unhappy here - I hope I find such easy comfort on my own.

To be honest, I haven't quite computed the difference this one change will make to my life. I guess I won't until I'm soaked in it. My freedom is twirling gracefully in a hall of pale smoke and mine is the only name on her dance card...

So "goodbye, farewell, adieu" to my yesterdays and "Ciao!" to all that awaits me in the dawn.

Fade out.

Fade in.

The Day of the Bees

2009-12-16T09:05:00.000-08:00

Mid-afternoon. Hot summer in the subtropics. Climbing trees in the mango groves. Playing hide and seek in the cotton fields. Rolling around in the tall grass with the big Alsatians (who I'd once seen attack an unknown man walking down the farm road with such ferocity that even my grandfather, to whom they pleaded allegiance, found it tough to call them off. With us, they were just puppies).

Adults, all indoors. Saving themselves from the heat and humidity in the relative comfort of the shade and fans of the farm house. Occasionally, we'd run back when my mother or aunt called with promises of fresh ice lemonade. And once inside, they'd grab us, try to make us stay, tell us we’d turn to clay statues if we went back outside.

We'd stay awhile. Appease them with our childish stories of swimming in the tube well, finding a bug as big as your hand, seeing a bird with a bright yellow beak. And then we'd run out again. Laughing. Their voices floating after us to come back in half an hour, not go to far into the groves, not climb the taller trees, there might be snakes, be careful, be safe, stay close.

The only adult who was ever-present out there with us was my Nani. Her shade was the giant mangrove at the end of the veranda, her fan was the bare rustle of a hot, humid wind and she shone in the very sun. More than anyone else, I connect her to that place where I became, where my freedom was weightless. My memory is aburst with that house, that garden, that smell of that earth. I could cry just thinking of it. But I don’t.

They came in swarms when they did. I'm not sure why they attacked us. Maybe one of the others had been throwing stones at a nest. Maybe the bees just got tired of all the heat and thought they'd come play, as best they knew how.

All that separates that day from the others in my memory is the running. Running through the cotton fields. Running past the cows and horses grazing where they always did. Running and jumping each of the little canals and mounds of earth I can still see if I close my eyes. I remember thinking I'd be faster than the bees. I was the king of this place, they could never catch me. I'd hide in the trunk of the tree with the blue ribbons we'd tied to the branches. I'd run to the barn and sneak behind the bags of cotton, a place even my brothers didn't know. I'd disappear in the tall grass of the field to the left which the dogs loved so much.

I don't remember being afraid.

I don't remember the stings.

I can't take myself back to the moment that the bees caught up. I imagine that I must have cried out. I imagine that I must have waved my arms and screamed. I imagine that I must have fallen over and wept. But none of it is there. The shock seems to have shunted all that to the recesses.

Nani was the one who found me. She took me to the well and poured buckets of cool water over my head. And that’s when the memory kicks back in. Looking down, seeing the dead bees falling off my body and hair like clumps of mud. Nani kissing my hands, holding me close, telling me it would be fine and the pain would go away. Looking up at her then, I remember thinking she was the most beautiful thing in the world and that I would be always safe when she was close, under her tree, on her manji, looking out for me.

I was eight that year. Not long after, that life I can't forget was replaced by another. My folks packed up themselves, us and all our memories into large bags still too small and brought us to a new home.

Funnily enough, my memory of those first couple of years in the UK is weak at best. I know I spent a lot of time thinking about *home*. I did then, and still do, have a flashback occasionally to the day of the bees. But weirdly, I remember it as a time when I felt truly safe.

I love you Nani. Happy Birthday! xx

Christmas Smear

2009-12-10T01:56:00.000-08:00

Someone said to me yesterday that Christmas is a good time to make lists. And so in the spirit of it all, I decided to give it a go. Below is a list of a few things that piss me off about what Christmas has become. I’m pretty sure this is not what that particular Samaritan was aiming for, but like I give a fuck.

[Author’s note: if you’re full of seasonal cheer and jollie, I suggest you shut down the browser and go make yourself a lovely cup of eggnog, put another bauble on the tree, grab and stuff another mince pie in your hole or something. Trust me, you won’t like this. Honestly, stop right now.

If on the other hand, like me, this time of year gives you headaches and haemorrhoids - sit, take a load off.]

[Additional note: there’s a lot of fucks, cunts and bollocksi to follow. You have been warned!]

Snow – there’s been some excited squeaking in the world of weather forecasting about how we might get a white Christmas this year. Bollocks! Even if we get snow, it’ll be grey, smell of pee and turn quickly to ice, which will inevitably lead many of you to trip, slip or crash your car. Go on, wish for it! Close your eyes, squeeze ‘em shut, cross your fingers and pray. Just know that there’s a made up statistic that 85% of you will be saying I wish this fucking snow would clear up already after about a day. It’s not conducive to your lifestyle. Accept the facts and if you still want snow, go to the mountains. There’s some West and North of wherever you are.

Santa – oh, come on!!!! The man is a buffoon. He’s fat, he’s hairy and, despite this, he wears red. He spends all his time with elves, who personally I think are his captives, lives in his own “kingdom” and likes children. Does no one else see the striking similarity to a recently dead king of pop?? I’m telling you, the man is a wrong ‘un! That’s if he exists at all.

Presents/gifts/shopping – fuck this giving bullshit! I don’t want socks. I don’t want perfume that smells of socks. I don’t want Christmas pudding that tastes like socks. And I don’t want to have to give *you* socks. Or anything else. Let’s make a deal: if either of us wakes up one morning with an undeniable urge to own something new, we’ll just go out and buy it for ourselves. 'K? That way we don’t have to feign surprise at receiving shit we didn’t want, don’t need, don’t like or can’t understand. Save your money, you’ll need it come January when you can’t afford to buy a tin of beans to feed your family of five.

Trees – are alive and belong outside with other living things. They particularly like being with other trees. Deforestation is one of the major causes of global warning, yet every year millions are cut down, hauled into our front rooms and dressed up in what can only be described as drag. Why? The forest, the trees, that place outside your 80 square feet of freehold/leasehold – a whole world of life needs it to survive the winter. How would you like it if all the squirrels in the world got together and airlifted your house inside the hollow of a giant pine tree? Fucking moron!

Decorations – Ok, I’m going to say this once. There’s nothing tasteful about glittery, multi-coloured balls, baubles, tinsel and all the other shit you lot use to adorn your houses. But if you must, if you absolutely must, please please please go with the less is more approach. And no fucking smelly candles!!!! If I want to get a nose full of cardamom, cinnamon and coriander, I’ll cook a fucking curry. Forget the candles. Forget the lights on a string. You want to make it look like the stars seen by the three wise men, go outside, tilt your head up. Trust me, you won’t and can’t beat the real thing.

Jesus – the man was a saint. He died for you. So, what the fuck are you celebrating? Sure, he said he’s coming back, and trust me I’ll be at that party! But for now, isn’t it more appropriate to remember the man’s sacrifice? Instead, you fill your refrigerators to abundance and eat/drink like there might not be a new year in a few days. Jesus is weeping in heaven for each of you. Weeping. And all that only applies to those of you who actually believe in the man. Yet, the rest of you cocksuckers still go ahead and celebrate his *birthday* as if he was your great uncle. “Oh, I’m not an atheist, I’m agnostic!” Fuck you, motherfucking parasite piss taker, partying with your cracker and hat and singing along to Elton John at the work do, but also the first to look down your nose at anyone who gives up chocolate for lent. Either believe or not. If you’re not sure, just say you’re a Buddhist. Don’t sit on the fucking fence cos I’m about to make that shit electric and fry your sphincter.

The telly – used to be my favourite part of this whole cocking affair. Indiana Jones, Star Wars, the Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special. Not any more! And I blame one person for killing it for me: may you be the coal bearer for the fires of hell Rupert Murdoch. I want four channels. I want the Radio Times and a red marker. I want fights with my brothers over the remote control. I want my parents to threaten beatings. That’s what Christmas is about, you cunt. And you killed it for me with your reality shows and recordable telly. I hate you, bastard. Fuck off and die in a fire.

Family – it’s probably better that I don’t say much on this. But you know what I’m thinking. And I know you’re thinking it too. Don’t deny it. You might like seeing them all for a day. After that… well, it’s just around the corner now so you’ll have the full 3D experience soon enough!

Alcohol – possibly the only saving grace, at least for me. But even this is marred with a bastard catch 22. I need to drink cos I can’t stand almost everyone I have to meet at this time of year. Even those of you I’m otherwise quite fond of can become utter cocks. And so I drink. A lot. And come January, a bunch of folk looking to escape the perpetual monotony of their lives look to me as their new fun friend, the one who got really pissed at that party and pole danced with a pillar! We should invite her out for dinner and/or drinks. Maybe we could have a party. Woo! Yay! New friends! I WAS DRUNK BECAUSE I COULDN’T STAND THE SOUNDS COMING OUT OF YOUR FACE, ASSHOLE!!

Music – Oh, don’t get me started!! All I will say that it’s not music, it’s ear torture. Please stop. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. In fact, go ahead, crush my little toe with a brick, snap back my pinky, Chinese water drops, whatever! Just. Please. Spare. Me. The. Mariah. Carey.

So, in conclusion, and this won’t come as a surprise to you if you’ve read this far, I’m not one for lists or Christmas (or least the monster it’s become!). You wanna have all your angles covered, make sure the gifts are bought and wrapped, kill a tree and a whole eco-system with it, decorate your house with ugly bits of paper and plastic, tell your kids to leave out some cookies for the fat paedo, and all the rest of it, go right ahead.

I’m off to drink (a lot) with a bunch of cocks and cunts. Ho fucking Ho!

RIP Me … Arise Me

2009-10-23T00:46:00.000-07:00

Recently, it dawned on me that one can't be all things to all mice, particularly the one that lives inside you.

“Well, of course, you fucking Numpty!”, you exclaim.

But this is news to me, ok!?

I was raised by parents who believe that determination in the face of anything will see you through. That everything you want in life is in fact yours to throw away. Either you go for it, or you sit back and think what may have been. Don’t. Make. Excuses.

And I’ve kinda lived by that.

I’m 30 years old. Professionally, I’ve been “da bomb” since the start. In my personal life, I have more great friends than I can shake a fist at, a boyfriend who sticks around despite all this arrogance, a family who has never failed to support me through my *crazy*. Oh, and boy can I shake my tail feather on the dance floor!

Good old fashioned good luck or God being wholly munificent? I can't say to be honest.

But let’s balance it out though. I can’t turn water to wine (although that would be kinda cool!); I often suffer from verbal diarrhoea; I’m an average swimmer; I can’t draw or sing or play the piano; but I still try to draw and sing and play the piano (all badly!); and I’m not a big fan of Chinese food. My lungs are torn to shit from all the smoking; my liver will no doubt leave this show early; and fuck me, I swear a lot!

But worst of all, I sometimes miss the wondrous in amongst the great.

So what’s this all about?

Here’s the thing. I quit my job at the beginning of this month. One day I was there, truly there, the next I just couldn’t do it any more. Realising that was as much a shock to me as it was to the CEO when I walked into his office.

Now, this *could* be the biggest mistake of my life. I do not and will not see it that way, but I’m sure many will. Particularly if things don’t go according to plan.

Ha! Little do they know, there is no plan. Well, not in the strict sense of the word.

So I’m screwed, right?

Wrong!

Undoubtedly, this one decision is going to have a gigantic impact on my life. Rather than walking, I was floating easily above a path paved with gold. No yellow bricks here. No sir. Gold. Gold. Gold.

I’ve been an overachiever of the highest magnitude for a long time. I woulda been running that company in a few years - that's an opportunity to leave the kind of legacy that others dream about. I’m not just good at what I do. I’m one of the best.

And I sucked it up. The work. The praise. The glitterball future.

So where did my September ephiphany spring from? I'm not sure you know. But it was a bit like being sucker puched. My therapist, if I had one, would tell me that there had to have been a catalyst. All I know is that one Tuesday evening, it dawned on me that, somewhere along the way, I’d set aside the person I’d always wanted to be in favour of the person I had become. It was easy, because I did enjoy what I was doing.

But the girl who once bunked school for two straight weeks and spent most of it writing poems on the backs of postcards, sending them to a bunch of random addresses from the yellow pages – where was she? I missed her. She was one cool motherfucker, but she'd faded out.

My proudest moment? Not when I was called to the Bar. Not when I was made Assistant Director at the age of 29. Not being the top hit when you put my name in a google search.

Actually, it was winning a national writing award for a short story when I was 18, realising that some folk out there, who knew at least a little about writing, had enjoyed the meanderings of my mind. I wanted to do it more. I wanted to do it always.

But, inevitably, there was a boy. I was 18 for fuck sake. There’s always a fucking boy!

I followed him to London, leaving behind a place at Edinburgh University to read English. Instead, I read law and convinced myself that this way I could have that elusive cake and tear into it too; believing, incorrectly I now know, that I could and would write in my spare time.

That was 12 years ago.

I haven't written anything creative since.

I’m not delusional. I’m totally ready to find out that I can’t write for shit any more or that I can write but that no one wants to read it or that some folk may want to read it but no one wants to pay me for it. I don't want to make a career of it. I just want to do it.

And my luck continues. I've been asked to remain on as a consultant so I'll still earn a living from the dregs of what was once my career. I'm not a dumbass - you gotta sell what you got to get what you want.

Come January, I'll finally have the time and the inclination to do just that. It's gonna be tough and the words may take weeks or even months to flow, but...

I’m totally fucking psyched, dude!!

;-)

Tôi yêu bên, Viêt Nam!

2009-08-21T05:36:00.000-07:00

This one is going to be short. Partly because I don’t know how to put most of it into words, and partly because I don’t think you would want me to.

Recently, I visited Vietnam. It stole my breath away. The place, the people, the pulse. I loved every minute and I encourage any and all to just pack their bags and go. Soon.

10 days was too short. I found myself on the verge of tears as I left one place to visit the next. I should qualify that by saying that I’m not much of a crier. But what I felt was akin to leaving your lover, where even a short separation is too much to bear. I tore my soul to pieces in those few days and I was a muddle of glad and sad and mad.

And, Hanoi!!! A city like no other I’ve visited, it pulsates with an energy which you quickly learn can only be described in one word, “Hanoi”.

I was smitten.

As I walked the streets that first night, I found myself in a state of utter flux. I couldn’t capture my own emotions; my thoughts ran me over; my body was alive, my mind’s eye wide awake.

Throughout the days that followed, I wanted more, to find some way to multiply my senses. I was a-whir with the richness of the people, the culture, the food, the history. Futures I had never before imagined toyed with me daily. I knew, right from the first, that this was a place I would return to again and again. Someday, maybe even to stay.

This is not a travel blog so I won’t be recounting my entire trip. I’m afraid that the details of what I saw, smelt, heard and ate are all mine. This was just to share a little of what I *felt*, although I’m not sure my words have even done that.

Like I said, just pack and go, would you? And you’ll know soon enough.

Tôi yêu bên! (Thank you!)

The majesty of hope...

2009-06-23T06:23:00.000-07:00

My world is changed. The person I now see in the mirror is so very different from the little girl who learnt to swim in a tube well and climbed mango trees to read books about heroes in the sun-lit branches.

I was born in Pakistan in a city built on the ruins of a once seat of the regional court of the Mughal Empire. Although the Mughals had no formal written law, there was a keen interest amongst each of the Emperors to deliver efficient justice for their citizens. All, except perhaps the Emperors themselves, could be held to account for their actions and punishments were often severe. This system of law and justice is still revered today as one of the finest in history.

But that old majesty and splendour is now barely a whisper, a light wind scarcely brushing past the millions of people that populate the region. Many cannot and will not consider the luxury of justice and every one of them knows the high price of truth. The law is a commodity of sorts, reserved for those with time and money.

Although the old Durbar (Mughal court) is now nothing but a pile of rubble, I still like to visit the site every time I’m in the area to breathe in its past life and to imagine the splendour that must have accosted each petitioner who brought his or her dispute to its attention.

There is still a court in the city, another beautiful structure built during the British Raj with fountained courtyards and lawyers young and old, impressive in their black ceremonial robes and serious expressions of concentration, milling in the squares with red ribboned briefs held closely to their chests. A graceful image of the commonwealth’s gift to the world and yet beneath the surface the system is not just flawed, it’s in pieces. A final ruling on a case can take up to 20 years in Pakistan, with “justice” bought or delayed by those with the deepest pockets.

This easy corruption permeates to every level. I see the poverty and desperation all around me and I can accept and appreciate the decision of a father taking some money for an act which he may or may not recognise as wrong if it means that he can feed his family. To hold on to your principles in the face of your child’s hunger is not something many of us in the West will ever suffer.

But it goes beyond money. What of honour killings where a wife or sister or mother is killed for such reasons as refusing to marry, standing up for herself or her children, crying out at abuse or simply not being young or beautiful any more? Imagine being burned alive or showered in acid or just simply being beaten to death by those you are taught to trust – your own family.

In the Pakistani province of Baluchistan, thirty-eight women died at the hands of relatives who killed them on the pretext of protecting their honour between July and September 2008. Their killers are unlikely to be arrested or imprisoned for these crimes.

As I write this, the world is protesting and raising a united cry against the dictatorship in Tehran. A young woman is killed and the world watches on YouTube and holds it’s breath in disbelief. Earlier this year, I felt numbed and useless at the news of the mass murder of over 20,000 people in broad daylight in Sri Lanka. And the crisis in the Pakistan Swat Valley is real and present, with thousands of men, women and children living without shelter, food or hope. What of Darfur?

These are all bit players on the world stage, nameless and easily forgotten once they're gone. And yet without their lives and their sufferage, our world would be a very different place.

My work in the subcontinent is focused on judicial and legal reform. Although much of what I do is at the State level, I’m hopeful the changes being made to the way justice is accessed in the region will permeate down to the grass roots in time. But the law is only one side of the weighted coin, the other is governance and there too the people of the region are suffering through corruption and dishonesty.

The little girl in the branches of the mango tree reading of heroes is gone. She saw the world with eyes free of cynicism, pessimism and distrust. I can’t say the same of the woman I now see in the mirror. But my hope sustains me still.

The age old question...

2009-05-04T03:44:00.000-07:00

Yep, you've guessed it: Skiing or Snowboarding?

I appreciate that there are many who cannot and will not bother with either ever in their lives. I understand. It's expensive, you have to take time off to engage in it (usually) and often it can be a very painful learning curve.

What I’m hoping here is help those who have been teetering on the edge of trying it, or haven't been for a little while, to rethink and go. And maybe even inspire a few who haven't thought about it, like, ever!

First, a disclaimer: I'm sure people can lead a perfectly happy, fulfilling, satisfied existence without ever having gone to the top of a snow peaked mountain, smoking a cigarette while up there or jumping off with pieces of wood attached to their feet... yada yada yada...

My point is that if you get the opportunity, 80% of you are likely to do it again. Blast!! Sorry, that's a made up statistic. But, hand on heart, I've been skiing AND boarding with lots of first timers and have only met 2 who didn't want to go back. Does that let me off the hook for blatant statistic fixing?? No? Ok, I'll retract this whole paragraph if you prefer and just move on...

So, where do I sit? My introduction to all of this came in the Highlands of Scotland, where I grew up, and on a school skiing trip. I was hooked from the first. What I loved most about skiing was the speed, which is one of my many drugs of choice. I was never too bothered about which resort, ice or powder, piste or off piste. I just liked blazing down a long run as fast as I could and getting the first possible lift back to the top to do it all again. One week, once a year was usually enough for me to get my fix.

And then I met one Ms Kim Attungue, aka "coolest chick on the planet". She won't like my labelling her that but she can eat my powder! What she won't mind me telling the world is that she doesn't take no for an answer. So when she said that I must go with her and a group of 35 strangers (!) on their next boarding trip to the French/Swiss Alps, I wasn’t allowed to refuse.

Admittedly, there was trepidation on my part, not because of the strangers (I like strangers - perhaps the subject of another blog post?), I was just a little freaked out about the peer pressure to "try" snowboarding. I was told quite categorically that this was a group of hard core boarders, who once a year descended like a locust storm upon a resort somewhere in the world.

And why should I try boarding anyway? I was a pretty good skier by this stage and knew I could easily keep up with all the dudes. Why would I spend at least a day, if not more, with a (I'm about to generalise here so please look away if you don't like putting people in boxes) arsebox of a ski school instructor learning a new way to throw myself off the mountain when there was a perfectly satisfactory alternative?

And it just didn't look right! I mean, both feet strapped together, riding sideways... what's the point? or so I thought. To be fair, I was fully briefed in advance: I would fall over, a lot; every time I did, I would have to do a stomach crunch to get back up; I would probably leave with more bruises than I'd ever had before in my life etc. etc. etc.

Anyway, I did go snowboarding that year, with a large bunch of strange dudes (I liked each and every one of them!) and once again, I found it difficult to look back. Next, I'm going to tell you why and if you've read this far, surely you can bear with me a little longer?

Haughty little shit that I was, I proudly refused to take any lessons that first day. Looking back, I guess this was partly because I had accepted that I would fall over a few times, throw an hissy fit and go back to the chalet to grab my skis so that I could get on with my holiday.

There had been a snow storm in the night and the piste was perfect as I rode up on the first lift of the day. Avoriaz, I was so gonna ride all over your face!! We got to the top of one of the pistes, I strapped on a rental board (another complaint at the time) and got the following instructions from the aforementioned Ms Attungue's ravishingly charming husband (you really shouldn't be surprised):

"Think of your board firstly in half. Each of you feet is in a different half. Now think of your board in quarters. Your toes and heels on each foot are now in different quarters. The trick to boarding is firstly to decide which way you want to go, and then lean forward or back in the corresponding quarter. The rest will come."

Yep, that was it. My one lesson in boarding. Ha! I remember thinking. It can’t be that effing easy or everyone would be doing it.

And so I pointed the board down the mountain and pushed off, largely prepared for landing on my face or arse or both...

In fact, I made it to the bottom without falling off once and woo hoo'd pretty much the whole way down! To my surprise, I found I was going pretty fast (I’d been faster on skis but the thrill was still there) and there was another new sensation: I could move my lower legs and feet in a way I'd never been able to in my ski boots. Yes, they were both strapped to the same plank of wood, but I could feel my ankles and in fact could use them! Hurrah!

What’s more, and I’ll admit it may have been largely because of the quality of the snow, I didn’t have to concentrate on carving down the slope from side to side missing the beautiful playground of snow all around me as I went.

I was home.

Every time I go boarding now, I always tell myself that I'm going to spend at least one day on the skis. Somehow, I never get round to it.

Don’t get me wrong, I look back to my time as a skier with huge fondness. If it wasn't for skiing, I wouldn't have discovered my passion for speed or snow peaked mountains, hiking for the sheer thrill of the view, safe in the knowledge that I’d be down before dinner. And actually, if I’m being completely honest, my ability to ride down that first slope on a board without breaking my face was largely attributable to all I had learnt about edges and balance etc. etc. as a skier.

But in snowboarding, I've found something more than just good sport. There was a new fraternity; the joy of carving through fresh powder; sitting on a mountain with my board strapped to my feet, sharing hot coffee from a flask, the gardens of heaven all around me and usually a snowball in my face. Yes, that’ll be Kim again.

Had I never tried boarding, I would no doubt still be skiing once a year, every year. And had I been a boarder originally, I would no doubt have been talked into trying out skis. But I am where I am and I've discovered that I'm a boarder at heart.

I know people who’ve gone in the other direction and hated every minute they spent on a board but are fanatical about skiing.

I also know people who have never been talked into trying either.

And, I know a hell of a lot of people who spend whole seasons cooking dinner for others, serving drinks in resort bars, or just saving every penny they earn so that they can ski or board every single day for six months every year.

And finally, as I live and breathe, I know that I’ll be in the mountains at least once every winter for the rest of my life.

This is one of my many truths. And here ends this public service message.

Beep....

Ickle ole me...

2009-04-10T11:28:00.001-07:00

Ok, there's very little that I might say which hasn't been said already by some other blogger somewhere, except the pleasantries, which are all mine. So I’ll start there.

Hello there. My name is airab spelt backwards. I'm older than I want to be but still young enough to think that my body can stay up all night dancing. Needless to say, usually it can't but tell it to some *body* who cares.

Those who know me would say that I'm quite a tomboy, but I like that I confuse that with my irrevocable will for buying shoes and bags. Never fear, I'm getting help (from a very nice personal shopper at Selfridges).

What else? According to the law, I have no dependants but I would beg to argue. I have about 5 and they're all over the legal drinking age. Thank God. Cos if I wasn’t regularly placated with alcohol, my predisposition for homicide would not have been kept in check.

I trained to be a lawyer, a barrister in fact. And yes, that does mean I can help you win any argument. For a fee.

I no longer do the argument thing for a living (except for the occasional freelance appointment). Instead, I now help people find ways to get through their shit by talking things over and seeing whether a more amicable solution is possible. Usually it is. And so I enjoy my job. Some of you might say, "what a bunch of tree huggers?" but actually it's pretty tough going most days. If you don't believe me.. actually, no, I don't care.

My friends tell me that I've turned my life around. If I have, it's only by about 30 degrees so does it really count? I still work for bucks and I do it cos I have to. Turning it around would have been to go pro bono like the rainmakers but aforesaid dependants make that totally implausible.

And my work takes me around (and around) the world where I collect friends and opinions, both of which are very important to me.

I love music and movies and reading and I'm not discriminatory about genre. Right now I'm feeling Radiohead's Reckoner, anything by the Coens and one Steven Erikson's Malazan epic.

I'm sure that's not the sum total, but right there you have most of my parts. If you want more, I give blood every fourth Thursday of the month.

Ciao! x

P.s. the next post will most certainly be about something other than me so please forgive the initial narcissism. I thank you.