Dale and I

The first time I went to the US, it was because of Dale Carnegie. I was reading "How to Stop Worrying and Start Living" (which is an excellent title for a chronic worrier like me) and the US Embassy called to ask if I wanted to interview some VIP, who was part of the International Advisory Panel of the Multimedia Super Corridor (this MF of a project in a country where mega-projects are like rain).

I said OK. Embassy guy said, one problem. She has no time here. You would have to follow her to Sarawak. I said OK (a little more trepidatiously). He said, one more problem, she has not agreed to interview. You would have to ask her in Sarawak.

And the last problem. I didn't have a passport. Although Sarawak is part of Malaysia, you cross the sea to get to it. So, when you arrive there, you whip out your passport. At the time, we were having our financial crisis. Our wonderful Prime Minister didn't want us to travel. So passports went from being about 120 ringgit to 600 ringgit. 300, if you took the one with less pages. Nother problem - since I didn't have money at the time, I had put off renewing my passport. Embassy guy checked around, then called me back to say I might be turned back at the airport.

Oh, this was just getting better and better. So, I didn't have the interview, I could go all the way there (waking up at 3 in the morning, I might add, to catch the first flight out) and be turned away at the airport. Or, better still, be allowed in, and then have Ambassador Dougan refuse to speak to me. Wonderful.

I was sitting in a hotel lobby waiting to interview someone or nother when the office paged me to tell me this latest bit of news. Of course, I was sitting with my Dale Carnegie (since that was my book-du-jour and I am never without a book to beguile the wanton hours, especially if there is a possibility that I will be kept waiting. Also, if there isn't a possibility. I read in taxi cabs)

Carnegie asked: "What's the worst that can happen?"

I said: "They could turn me away at the airport!"

Carnegie said: "OK, they could turn you away at the airport. Now accept that outcome and get on with it."

So, I "accepted" that outcome, set off the next day prepared to be turned away at the airport when I got to Kuching. And instead:

They let me in with my identity card. After all, I am a Malaysian. Also, once when I got to the hall the first talk would be at (after which I would see if Ambassador Dougan would be amenable to speaking to me) I found her a delightful woman. She spoke from the heart and it was wonderful how down to earth she could make a dry topic like technology. After the speech, when everyone was buzzing around, I went up to her. She not only agreed to an interview, she asked me to accompany her on her "official tour" of Kuching. This was more than I could have expected. Anyway, at the end of her tour, we had about an hour to speak.

I did three stories. The guy at the Embassy was so impressed that he recommended me for an East West Centre fellowship (ah, Hawaii! Also San Fran and Seattle. To say it was wonderful would be to damn with faint praise).

And that is how Dale helped me get to the States.

I wonder what would happen if I actually applied the rest of the 100-or-so self help books that I've read.

Bum Chums (Get Your Mind Outta The Gutter)

Bumming had lost its lustre. There I was, searching for work, regular work, any work, as long as it had a fixed income, because, the thing I missed most, was my credit card. (Yes ladies and gentleman, as much as that lowers me in your estimation, I have to say, like George Washington, I cut down the cherry tree, I cannot tell a lie ((well actually I can, but in this case, I'm not)) )

Anyway, I thought the days interminable, sitting at home, stuck on the computer, or watching yet another rerun of M*A*S*H - you ever realise how watching the same comedy over and over tends to depress rather than amuse you? Like when I had my wisdom tooth knocked out, and stayed at home with about 10 new PG Wodehouse books and after reading most, started sobbing because it was all so frivolous and if another person said well pip pip then I could have cheerfully chopped off their heads?

OK. All that buildup and that's not what I came here to talk about. I do not exist when I'm drunk (OK it's early in the morning and it's only coffee, but still).

I discovered why bumming has paled. You need someone to bum with. And yesterday, I had just that. Addy came out for lunch with me (she's a member of the working elite, but she was off yesterday) and we lingered over Chipotle Roast Chicken sandwiches at Coffee Bean, talked up a storm, tried on clothes at British India (Addy, not me), visited a few art galleries in Bangsar (we're both very distinguished art critics, ahem)

Addy: Honestly Jenn, how do they choose these things? That looks like something a talented three-year old could do.

Jenn: Yes, yes. (Imitates La Penseur for a bit) I dunnolar Addy. Anyway, that other quite striking what?

Addy: The background looks silver from this distance. If I had a Malay restaurant with dark wood walls, I would definitely buy that.

Jenn: Hmmm, lot of these end up in restaurants, huh?

Addy: (nodding wisely) Yes, yes.

And then we ran some errands. And ended up at Strudels Lucky Gardens, with clove and cardamon teh tarek and a tangerine ice tea as well as a sujee cake. Yum, the sujee cake was nice and buttery. Then we talked up two storms. (I tried to sell Addy on Shantaram and she has finally agreed to borrow my book and do the flip test). Then Addy had to go to the hairdresser for a hair wash (nice luxury, that) and I went along with her and we discussed really abstruse topics like Madeline Wickham (a pseudonym for Sophie Kinsella of the Shopaholic series) and women who prey on vulnerable men at funerals.

OK at this juncture I have to report that a sum total of two people have said they like my hair. My good friend Omar, whom I talked to about the possibility of hiring me and Addy's hairdresser. So that's two. Versus like a 100. But I would say I'm still ahead.

Then we decided that since we had done nothing but eat the whole day, it was time for dinner. So we sashayed along to the T-Club and had the mutton curry (which was very nice and I would definitely recommend it). As we meandered through Bangsar Village on our way to T-Club I picked up a nice white kurta. Yay! Now I have all of two kurtas.

Large and roomy, that's the ticket.

Addy's friend Antoine joined us at T-Club and he ordered some Japanese dishes (which were also very good)and we talked about Paris, and he said the most unusual time there was Fall of 1996 (the time I visited) because everyone was on strike, so Parisians actually started talking to each other, offering lifts to strangers (cos all the public transportation was on strike) and being uncharacteristically nice. I said my view on Paris was formed then, and I find it difficult to shift. Strangers were chatting to me on the street, everyone was nice, everyone spoke (or tried to speak) English. I found out that the artist on Montmartre who sketched me without permission and then asked for 300 francs for his effort, had cheated me blind, but I didn't feel as indignant as I should have.

I love Paris in the Springtime
I love Paris in the Fall

It's surprising how after a day of doing nothing in particular you can feel so pleasantly tired. I came back to do a Mensa test that the Chubster (that's my brother Ivan, for those not in the know) had sent and was gleeful that I got 16 answers where he got only 5. He asked how I got so many, and I said I must be a frigging genius. Or at least, highly intelligent. Then I asked him how to email him my answers...and he said, duh, why don't you click reply on the mail I sent.

And he said: "Genius???? Highly intelligent????"

And I said: "Heh, I'm tiredlar. And according to your stupid test I am."

And he promptly offered to send me a few more Mensa tests. But I declined. Declared my intention of knocking off. Which I did.

(Oh yeah, I did all of five Christmas cards yesterday, which I think is pretty good. I also collected a whole heap of addresses. Am I efficient or what? What do you mean what?)

It's a matter of perspective, my dear

It is a truth generally acknowledged that if you have long hair and ask a Malaysian hairdresser to bob it, she will get extremely nervous.

Short hair not nice and what have you.

She tries to talk me out of it. Tells me she will add more layers.

No, I insist, I'm sick of it, cut it off, all off.

And she says, but, but, but...

I stick my chin out mutinously.

She sighs, shrugs and gives in.

I wink at myself in the mirror. This is more like it.

My hair is dry and sad and it wants to die anyway.

So she starts clipping. Gains momentum.

It's all coming off, it's all coming off, oh glory, it's all coming off...

She says: "Your hair very hungrylar...why you no condition?"

I say: "No excuse, just lazy. Just don't care enough."

She says: "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

I smile knowingly at her.

Snip, snip, snip.

And the floor is soon covered with my split ends.

She runs some gel through so the short ends stand at odd angles.

It's supposed to look more citified. Or sophisticated. But it just looks like I couldn't be bothered to comb my short hair.

Oh well. I love my hairdresser. I think I'll make her triple chocolate muffins the next time I see her.

Coming out of the dark...again

I know, I know, I can get rather tiresome, same old, same old. I just received an email from a friend in Australia, full of pep and advice, and thought, gee, I used to be the leperchaun full of pep and advice.

Now look at me.

Anyway, I am back in KL. Drove down yesterday. Listened to a motivational tape the entire journey (luckily I was driving alone, because I listened to the same tape three times) and by the time I got to KL I was raring to go. So I shifted the mounds of dust from my long suffering room (the state of it had to be seen to be believed), ran a few errands, sent out important emails, answered important emails, and basically started to get things done.

Today, I made a book. Yes, you heard what I said, I MADE a book. Formatted it, printed it out, and am going to bind it and send it to this nice old lady. I promised to do this months ago, but was busy then, sitting on my tush, being somnolent.

I will do similar important things tomorrow. Like my Christmas card list.

November is the pleasantest month of the year, falalalalalalalala.

New Cars

Ivan's new car, a light blue Honda City, has arrived. He sold his Proton to Julie. The family is alive with new cars.

I think I'll paint mine red. I always wanted a red car. So what if it's not new? At least it can be red.

Pearl red.

BTW, Jackie and Simon (Simon, you there? Say hi once in a whilelar) Ivan's new number plate is Julie's birthday. That young genius suggested that they swap cars. Ivan gave a mirthless chuckle. Maggot has already marked the car but he doesn't recognise it so still barks. As does Elliot. I think they only approve of Protons. Mahathirian, no?

Some mute inglorious Milton

I wandered lonely as a cloud, in a graveyard full of bright black marble because it was close to All Soul's and Momma insisted I tag along. Ivan and Julie were ready and willing, but without me, it would have been three. And three is unlucky. Or so my mother thinks.

So there I was the reluctant grave visitor:

Romeo: Come now man, the hurt cannot be much...
Malvolio, or maybe it was Mercutio: Look for me tomorrow, you will find me a grave man...

The family graves are all sort of clumped together - the two grandfathers, an aunt, a few relations, some friends. Of course, the strangers' graves were more interesting. Like that woman who died at 79, who brought up six children on her own. Her husband, 21 years older, had left her a widow at 40 during the Japanese occupation. Most were those who had lived a rich full life, at least I think they did, anyway, they were old, so maybe, more ready to go. There were some very young ones, like Roland, who died when I was still at school. Run over by a lorry. He was but 14.

And then there was this:

Beneath rests our only child Thambi
Fond memories of a mere 20 years
Can only be treasured
Each day passes in agony
Still pondering why our only Joy
Hope and Future pillar of strength
Had to be taken away
So early in life
Whatelse to give except our tears
To hear those endearing words
"Anyi and Amma:
Bleeding hearts wil not heal
Till we embrace you Dear Son.

I felt a catch in my throat.

And then it started to pelt with rain.

So we left.

The Sad Man

The man moves in circles
his sadness peeling from him
like leprosy.

He says:
"I still feel kinda
temporary
about myself."

And we say:
"Don't worry,
we'll love you better."

but under the scabs
there's sand,
irritating, exacerbating,
to a fine point of
tears.

We need to rip the scabs
pour salt and methylated spirits
into his wounds
a sting
and then peace.

"Lo, sleep is good, better is death; in sooth,
The best of all were never to be born." (Heine)

Unwelcome

It is subtle I guess, all the ways in which the world has devised to let you know that you are unwanted. No, there is no welcome mat out, you have to create it, stake your claim on a bit of space, hang out the shingle to say, hey I'm here. This is mine. My own. My precioussssssss.

No one is going to rock up and say, hey, you, I'm glad you're here, feel free to share my space, feel free to be part of my life.

That's not how in works in the world I have imagined.

You have to justify the space you take up. Or else quit it. No one asks you to. It's just expected. Subtle. But in your face, all the same.

A friend once talked about a premier news organisation. She said if you don't make the grade there they will not tell you to leave. You will do so on your own account.

Deadwood, driftwood? There are ways, without bringing lawyers into it, of getting rid of these. All you need to do is show them they're unwanted. Withdraw your attention. And they wither and die. And more importantly, leave.

We all need attention. We cry out for it. We scream into cupboards and then, the echoes...you can only write in so many cafes and nurse so many coffee of the days before the whole thing starts to get real old.

Look to the future? What future? There is only tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I hate it when I ramble.

Sorry.

What does this sound like to you?

Words are free in the sense that we do not pay money to use them. We each may use as many or as few as we desire, no lifetime limits, deciding how much of our inner selves we wish to reveal to others in our frail efforts to communicate; slivers of the demons and angels residing inside shoved out into the light, seeking understanding, salvation, absolution, to salve our wounds, to assuage loneliness.

In person, I don't often speak. Conversations flow past me faster than I can process, too much time spent lost in eddies of words; the quiet one in the corner trying to peel the strata of what was said from what was meant from what is thought from what is felt. It often appears I'm not paying attention but I am, a depth of interest my body language is unable to convey while words wash over me, drowning in another's thoughts at the expense of my own.

Much of what is written here I would never say aloud, couldn't say aloud as there wouldn't be enough breath in my body to get it all out, only my fingers on keys able to keep pace.

I feel like I've used a lot of words, here in this place, maybe too many. They are free but they still took a toll, written and read. All I know now is I feel like I've used enough words and there's nothing left for me to say.

Thank you for listening. Please take care.

—furyouhin

I've often wondered how you survived and what strength there was in you, to make it from day to day, with little or no hope, or light at the end of the tunnel. No I didn't read the back issues, so I don't know what brought you to this pass, but I did see the incredibly depth and sensitivity that characterised each post and signalled you felt everything more deeply than most.

Everything you wrote read like it should have come from a novel. And not a trashy Mills and Boons, but one of those up for the Booker. You know the kind that people buy in hardcover, put on their shelves, re-read fondly, getting something different every time.

Dear Fury, if you're still around, if you're reading this... I'd like to say so many things. I'd like to say goodbye, if a goodbye is in order. I'd like to say thank you, for your incredibly generous blog. I'd like to say good luck, if you're not going to do, what I think you're going to do.

I know words eventually wear themselves out and you get lost in the silence.

Scenes of Malaysian Life

Morning: Me asleep. Fast asleep. Haze still going strong. Can hardly breathe outside. Dogs not too happy.

11am: Persistent knocking on door. Mom arrives. Sits on Jackie's bed and starts to talk. And talk. And talk. Then electricity goes off.

Typical!

In the news: The haze. Forest fires. More horrific road accidents. It always happens during the festive season. A motorcyclist was hit by a car. As he lay groaning on the road, an SUV came up and swept him off in its undercarriage. Villagers pursued trying to get SUV to stop. The driver was afraid of being subjected to mob justice. So he went on for 2km till he got to the police station. Motorcyclist was dead by then. Festive fare, this. Turn the pages, more of the same, more of the same.

"Oh to be on the PLUS highway, now that Deepavali and Hari Raya's here....lalalala"

noon: Mom calls LLN. Cannot get through. Gets sick of being on hold, so she calls her friend Halimah and they both gossip about Symbiosis, this Malay drama (yes Jack, she has stooped to that and what's more she enjoys it as much as Days Of Our Lives).

"Aiya electricity went offlar Halimah, so I may miss today's episode. So anyway, what happens ah?"

No, Halimah is not clairvoyant. She's simply watched it before.

"You mean he has AIDS? Oh my God! But, but, but he was a model, right? A kept man? Who was keeping him? And that Datuk is the bad guy right? I had a feeling. So quiet but you can see he's not a good character..."

After this intense discussion, Mom tries for the LLN again. This time she gets through. They obviously have a sophisticated caller ID system which enables the girl on the other end to not only tell Mom her name, but her address as well.

Elliot (the dog) is barking all this while. The air is punctuated with "Shut up Elliot!" and then Mom goes out to see what the matter is. Oh, the LLN guys were here all along. They are fixing the problem. Ahh the sweet scent of smoke in the air.

The haze, always the haze, you can't get away from the haze.

Me: "Why don't they cloud seed over here? They cloud seed in KL and see, we get rain there and it clears the air..."

Mom: (Silence)

Me: MOM! Why don't they cloud seed! The idiots! (I am grumpy cos it's hot and I can't turn on the fan and I can't watch tv and I can't play on the computer).

Mom starts to fan me with her Japanese fan. I giggle. I suggested that she fan me as a joke, but she obviously thinks it will cool me down.

She tells me that the squirrels living outside are bold pieces. It's bad enough they rifle the cempedak (jackfruit) and ciku trees so she doesn't get any fruit, but they stole into the house yesterday and attacked the dogs' food as well.

"But at least they don't pelt me with rambutans, haha."

"Who did they throw rambutans at?"

"Julie..."

Mom laughs hysterically. I laugh hysterically.

"Hey Mom...oh never mind."

"What?"

"I was going to ask you to give those poor LLN guys some water...but they are fasting right? No water..."

And then the fan comes on. The LLN have triumphed. Oh happy day calloo callay. I can now go on the computer while Mom watches her show.

Ahhhhhhhhh....it's the little things in life.

Ay, there's the rub!

I blame it on the dream catcher. Of course, this one is an actual dream catcher. Not the touristy travesties of feathers and string that masquerade dream catchers at every kitschy stall on the ground floor of the KLCC. I got it from Sedona at the Ala Moana Centre in Oahu. A present for Jackie, I think. Or it may have been Julie. It was supposed to have been made by honest to goodness native Americans. Navajo, I think.

Anyway, ever since I laid my head neath its lambent influence, this time around, I have dreamed that;

1. I died and went to hell. Ron Howard was there. Also Meryl Streep. And a priest I used to know in Australia and kinda liked. I was given a chance to come back. Yes, from hell. Which was sort of not that bad a place. The priest came back with me, but refused to listen to my confession. He said, if he was to "confess me" it would cause a scandal. It was already in the news, how we had come back from hell together. We came back to earth in some sort of cathedral.

2. I watched Jackie's car go into a pond. Then, I sat by the side and waited to see if she would swim up or if I would have to tell Mom that she drowned. The real nightmarish bit here was that it didn't even occur to me to dive into the pond to try and help her. Hours later, she emerged, pale and shadowed and fixed me with a haunted look. "Why didn't you come help me?"

3. I was on a dark road somewhere in America riding a bike (I hate bikes, the motor type anyway). Twilight was falling and I couldn't see properly and was very tired (but I couldn't dismount, I don't know why). I was in a tree encrusted place (sort of like an eco-resort) with houses dotted on the ground and in the trees (kind of like Solace in Dragonlance). Quilly lived somewhere here and she had put her address up on the net. But I had forgotten the number. So I drove along, wishing she would come out, so I would know. I was so tired that I knew I would shortly fall off my bike.

4. Ron Howard was there (this was before we went off to hell). He looked about 30. He had two siblings (a pretty boy and girl) who were teenagers and another two (also a boy and girl) who were little kiddies. We were discussing the Andy Griffith Show. It was all very confusing. Shortly after this we took off for hell.

5. I had a final ad maths (additional mathematics) exam. To read the questions, I had to climb a curtain in the hall (you know those long curtains that come all the way to the floor). It was precarious, to say the least, trying to balance on the curtain and read the question. I only got past the first question and then decided to take a walk. After that I naturally couldn't go back to take the rest of the exam. So I failed.(Mom came into the room at this point and I told her I failed my ad maths. She said kereka di? as in are you mad, girl?)

Back in the Saddle Again

Hallo! Sorry about the silence. I have been sleeping. Actually at night I stay up because I cannot sleep (the haze, the heat, the incessant noise of KL) and then in the mornings I drop off until evening. At least, I drop off when my phone is off and Mom cannot call:

"Jenny-ah, what you doing? Have you had your breakfast? Aiya, your stomach is empty, you'll get gastric."

"MOM! Just get off the phone and let me sleep!"

"Why so grumpy? Miss Grumps....what time you went to sleep last night?"

"4, maybe, 5, no wait, it was 7."

"Why you sleep so late? Not healthy you know. Anyway, what did Jackie send for me? And when are you coming back to JB?"

Which is the reason for the call. I refuse to tell. It's supposed to be a surprise. But Mom has decided that by attacking me unawares in my half somnolent state, she can pry the secret out of me.

So here I am, back in JB. Mom is satisfied because she got to examine all her presents. As expected the frog playing the banjo chimes was her favourite. I think she likes the skirt (although she did not react to it). She was very pleased with the nougat. She was also pleased with the shortbread. And she wants me to make sticky toffee pudding.

"Why? You're not supposed to eat that."

Pouts: "I want to give my friends a treat."

"Yeah, that's a likely story."

Pouts some more.

She is a naughty Mommy.

I want to get off

Ever since I've been back, I've found it difficult to reconnect to this place. Every time I go away, it's like an escape. I wish I didn't hate it quite as much when clearly there are plenty things to love about it. But it's as if there is a great sadness, an oppression in spirits, laboured breathing, a quiet weeping, a loss, an absence.

My mind is stuck somewhere else. Where that is, don't ask, because I don't know.

A friend called. We haven't caught up in a while and she tells me she is depressed. Despite this, she has started work on another novella and I am moved with admiration. The people who produce, while the world around them goes to hell in a henbasket...

She asked if I was working on anything. I said no. Nothing. She said, that's a pity. You should write. And I agreed. I should. But what?

What indeed.

I went for my first early morning walk today, hoping to get back into some sort of routine. It didn't help. My thoughts circled like ravens. Or vultures. Picking at carcasses and wondering why they tasted of dead meat.

Stop this train.

I want to get off.

A birthday message to be lost in the stratosphere

Another year rolls by and we are still not talking. Another birthday passes, unacknowledged.

Sometimes, I wonder how you are. Most times, you don't cross my mind.

I remember how we celebrated your birthday in times past. It was an important occassion. To be marked. Remember that year we brought the cake to the office? Also flowers. I gave you Illusions. Richard Bach. (You lent it out without reading it and never got it back) Your cake was from, where else, Kokomo. The chocolate special. And your flowers, large red, velvety roses, your favourite. We sang loudly in the pantry. You made a wish and blew out the candles.

For that one man, that one man, that one man, that one man, who would see you as you are and not as you appear, for that one man, that one man, that one man, that one man, who would love you as you are, love you as you are, love you anyway, as you are.

All those birthdays, all those cards, all those good wishes, all that love, all that good cheer...spent.

But not completely. I still have enough left inside me for a wish you will never read.

Happy Birthday.

The Impossible Art of Biography

I have been OD-ing on biographies. And autobiographies. And have come to the conclusion that they are in both cases, exercises in futility.

With autobiography, you're writing your own story. And for the most part, memory is fallible. Also, for the most part (if you're the decent sort) you leave out all the "inneresting" bits. (Unless of course, you're Liz Wurtzel, in which case, "that's just too personal" has no meaning).

Also if you're not a writer to begin with (in some cases, even if you are), your autobiography can come out jagged, unflowing, and run out of steam. It doesn't "end" in the conventional way. You simply run out of things to say. And the reader, (that's me) closes the book with a feeling of disappointment.

I think this is why I love reading books by acknowledgedly mad (or rather not quite sane) people. They romp merrily on the page, cheerfully chronicling their excesses (if not of action, at least of thought), never bothering to pander to conventionality.

Does this stem from some latent (OK, not quite so latent) voyeuristic tendency in me or is that, the carefully edited, "appropriate" memoirs are just too pale, too grey, too uncommitted?

If you're not going to tell it like it is, why bother to tell it at all?

And then there's biographies. Especially literary biographies. And if there is not much material to go on, if letters have been burned and notes destroyed by familial "protectors of privacy" then all the biographer has to go on is conjecture.

Here, most of all, you can see the chronicler, seeking to impose his/her point of view on the biographed. Sometimes these come across as an exercise in wishful thinking. Sometimes I want to slap said biographer silly. Which is why I feel the most that biographies of people long dead, are highly arrogant.

How dare you think you can know what they thought? Or felt? How dare you think you are smart enough to get into their minds? How dare you shrink fit them to your own?

OK, have had my rant. Now I think I will switch to fiction for a bit.

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore!

I could a tale unfold...

But I wont.

Because blogs are not for tale unfolding.

They are for vomiting.

I didn't want to tell you this.

But since I have not slept in quite a few hours and since I've watched Shakespeare in Love twice (not back to back, I watched Stage Beauty in between) I am in the mood to confess.

No more.

Confessions of a Sybarite (like a hedonist, only more so)

Because this is the fasting month, I want to talk about food.

Moderation in all things, after all. Especially moderation. If you're gonna pig out, you may as well make it worth it.

Let me amend that. If I'm gonna pig out, I may as well make it worth it. (I want to look on my fat kindly, tracing every bulge with fondness)

Right, we did a lot of walking in England. Jackie and Simon are right keen on walks. But then, we ate more than we walked...so, now I am left with visions of Dorset apple cake. Also, lemon drizzle. Lemon pudding. And scones (the real stuff, freshly baked). And pork in apple cider. Also pate. And chorizo sausages. Some paella. Kit Kats and Cadbury chocolate. Purbecks ice cream (Dorset cream and butterscotch). Wine, wine, wine...oh to be squiffy now that autumn's here....!

I guess I should feel guilty about all this. And work out or something. But as I still haven't met anyone since I've been back (except for little sister Julie who is very polite about these things) and not been subject to:

"Oh my goodness, you've put on like, what is it, 10 kilos over there?" (puffs out cheeks to demonstrate) "Why'd you have to eat so much? Exerciselar, that's the only thing for it. Also it would be better for you to cut down on your food intake. A grapefruit now and then should do it..."

I have not been sufficiently self disgusted into activity.

Maybe tomorrow.

More Tea, Vicar? or Poop poop

This post is dedicated to Jackie and Simon. There they are, posing with Ben and Tifanny (Ben and Tiffany are the ones with the fluffy ears).



Aren't they adorable?

I thought to give you a wordy account of my trip, starting from when I arrived at the airport (Heathrow, of course) and got mangled in a throng of the patiently weary travellers (so much so, that poor Simon who had arrived on time to pick me up had to wait all of two hours and drive back to Poole for about one and a half hours) to Jackie (who would have come but she was working, also she didn't realise the immigration would take as long as it did), but after making such a promising start (in wordiness, if nothing else, I am Indian after all, and wordiness is in the blood) I have decided to spare you.

OK Jack and Simon, this was going to be longer but I just received a call from the airport which has confirmed that my bag (oh happy day calloo callay) is in and I am off to get it.

I had a great time. We saw lots of things. They took me for tea in a variety of twee places. We went to Bath and Chawton and Steventon and had a real Jane Austen fest (during this time, I re-read Pride and Prejudice and watched the Colin Firth version as well as Emma Thompson's Sense and Sensibility) and indulged in an orgy of Austen-ism. Jackie and I have been fans since we were kids.

(Now that I have read her biography, I think that...OK, OK I won't spoil it for you. Just to tell you, I finished, this AM)

Simon and I earwigged on a variety of interesting conversations (Jackie is not as nosey as we are) and compared notes later. He was more discreet than I was. Hmmmm...have to work on that.

They both showed me the best time. This is the most fun I've ever had in that sceptred isle. (I think I got that quote wrong but I only read Richard II four times, only enough to pass the test, after which I forgot the quotes...yes? no?)

OK, off to airport now. Hope the customs people are kind. I am a bedraggled sorry sight and have not brushed my teeth in 48 hours (because my toothbrush was in my bag and I was too lazy to buy another)

Update: My suitcase (or rather, Julie's) is now safely in my hands. It has been unpacked. It is broken due to rough handling but the airline has promised to either fix or replace it. On the road to the airport the ornamental bougainvilla bushes started shedding petals which skittered across the street in a truly ghostly fashion, as if strewing the path for a wedding. I felt a little freaked out. Partly cos I had lost my way and ended up driving to Negri and doubling back.

I found the downy feather I picked up in a field near Longworth in my bag. Also the flint from Burley, the twig from Oxford and the conkers from wherever Simon's mother got them from. And the lavender from Sussex. But I lost the fragrant pine leaves from the tree at the back of Jane Austen's house. They all go into a magic England box. (I know I said I was no longer into kooky stuff...I lied)

The Adventures of Polly the fiddle faddle

We went to Lulworth today, Jackie and I and (drum roll, please) we climbed this hill. It was a difficult hill. Ivan (my supposedly athletic brother) hardly made it up intact and the last time Jackie went, she was moaning softly. But the two of us, heroes that we are, decided to attempt it anyway (although Jack promised that if I was tired and wanted to rest, or that if I wanted to abandon said enterprise and go on down, she would be OK with that).

But my Malayalee pride was at stake. I silently promised myself that I would keep moaning to a minimum. And that I would keep on keeping on all the way to the top, no matter how crappy I (or Jackie) felt. Of course, as you probably know, it's much harder to resume if you stop halfway up a hill. So we puffed our way upwards, wheezing like steam engines (I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could, I think I can, I think I can) but did we stop? No sir ree! Not even when snotty woman with child on her way down the hill, laughed at our gasping breaths. Not even when old man with stick in front of us stopped, purportedly to look at the view, but mainly because he wanted to have a rest.

We overtook him.

Then we got to the top, the views were stunning and we plumped ourselves on soft grass, took in the deep aquamarine waters, the hills all round ("That's Weymouth, I'm sure that's Weymouth, no wait a minute, that's Portland, OK, Portland...") and Jackie decided to take forty winks and I decided to read my Jane Austen biography.

The blessed silence was punctuated by my occassionally excited exclamations:

"Aiya, Warren Hastingslar, not Clive of India."

"Hey, you know ah, Jane Austen's aunt was very independent..."

"Hmmm, her father had an evil stepmother..."

To which Jackie would reply: "Jennifer! Stop telling me about it. I want to read for myself...you know ah, in an ideal world we would be reading the same book at exactly the same time, so there would be none of this bocor rahsiaing..." (letting the cat out of the bag)

Then I had my Kit Kat (Jackie didn't want hers) and the wind was up and the seagulls and crows flew overhead and there were some people around us and we had a short conversation about breaking wind in airplanes.

Then we tried to go to Tyneham, but apparently the village was closed so we went up to Creech Point and put up chairs (Jackie and Simon have these really cool fold-up chairs in the boot) and read our respective books (she was reading the Wodehouse biography which is also really cool)...and we looked at the rolling hills spread out all around, a glimpse of the sea, also the sheep and cows in the field and Jackie said the scene spread out before us reminded her of the Shire (if you don't know which Shire, brush up on your Tolkien, my brave hobbits) and then I got a headache due to excessive exposure to the sun and we got into the car and found a shortcut home. Part of the shortcut involved a journey on a tiny road:

Jackie: Look at this road...so small, am never gonna listen to you again.

Me: Aiya, it is only 5 miles to Wareham on this road, it shortens our journey lar!

And then we arrived home semi-merrily and she made me scones and we had tea in their Royal Albert fine bone china and tried to crook our little fingers as we raised the pretty tea cups to our lips and sipped appreciatively.

"Darjeeling, old girl?"

"No thank you dear, I prefer Lapsang..."

Now she is on the sofa reading her book. And I will join her shortly reading mine.

Jackie once said that her tombstone will read:

"Mourners not welcome: I just want to read my book!"

Can you see the family resemblance?

Bookshops I have known

The thing about a bookshop, especially a second hand one, is that it has nuances, slight (or major) differences and each has to be approached cautiously, skirting around at first (rather like Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice, the Andrew Davies production). On no account are you to approach a bookshop directly, or, irritated by your clumsy arrogance, it will not yield up its delights to you, but keep them hidden, safe from your Philistine grasp.

"Go away please, we do not serve your kind here!"

Once you have made the approach in the required manner, you are allowed to raise your eyes to the volumes - old, new, paperback, possibly antiquarian? You take them in at a glance....oooh I like this bookshop, it has Claire Tomalin's Jane Austen biography. Ooooh I don't like this one, expensive, without taste...yes, you make your quick snap judgements, lower your eyes, once again and proceed to look for the shelf, your shelf, the one you came here to meet.

Once you find it....a certain rigidity takes your being and you sink down, goldfishy and subverbal. Please, please, leave me be for a while, I need to search, I need to run my fingertips over these precious spines, maybe take out a volume or two and open them and let that old book smell waft up to my nostrils.

Yes, OK, there is a kiddie size chair here I am going to wedge myself in and read the first few lines of this - Pelham Grenville? Who would have thought?

In Malaysia, it is definitely Kinokuniya, KLCC. Of course, Borders at the Curve is not bad and MPH at Megamall is sorta catching up. As for secondhand books, there is only Skoob, but you need to take a trip there, to the middle of nowhere, specially for your book expedition...there are treasures, but you have to be patient. Chat with Thor. Or his wife. They're both quite nice. Eccentric, but nice.

And in England - my favourite little second hand bookshop so far, has been in Winton. There are masses and masses of books, piled up on the floor, stacked in the shelves, still in boxes - you have to be patient enough to go through the untidy stacks, selecting the ones you want - presenting them to Mr Brown, who will usually say, £5 for three. If the books happen to be a little older, rarer, he may pause awhile, regard you quizically and tell you £15. But he usually shows you a cheaper alternative. If he has one. A genial soul, he keeps up an unending patter and laments the fact that people don't read books anymore. I wished myself upon him for a half day of work (he had let slip that he needed help arranging the books, never dreaming anyone would take him seriously, and I showed up bright eyed and bushy tailed, one windy Wednesday morning, and not knowing what to do with me, he set me to work with the old antiquarian books) Luvely luvely. Of course he cringed and snapped when I handled some with less than the required care. But he gave me a rare edition of Summoned by Bells by John Betjeman as payment. So cool! (Anyway, that one's Winton, in Bournemouth, OK?)

I loved the bookshop in Wimborne. It had the Jane Austen biography and the PG Wodehouse biography (by someone or other) so I considered it the best stocked second hand bookshop around these parts. When we went there was only a sullen teenager looking after the shop, staring into space (instead of reading a book, despite the riches all around, can you believe that?) but I still loved it.

The one at Lyme Regis (think Jane Austen's Persuasion) was pretty good, nice comfy sofas to sit on downstairs while you browsed through, and quite a few bargains for £1 each, but I still preferred the one in Wimborne.

We had a look-see at the secondhand bookshop in Dorchester but found it expensive and unimpressive. (The books were cold and forbidding, they didn't call, I didn't answer)

London, Charing Cross was so-so. Not as good as I expected or remembered. Neither was Foyle's, my favourite bookshop in all of England some 10 or 11 years ago, when I was here on assignment. (The other members of my troupe were off sightseeing. So was I. For me, bookshops are sight seeing). Borders was OK. I really needed to use the bathroom and they only had one. So, I didn't buy Paulo Coelho's new book there which was going for £3 pounds less although a cursory skim showed that this would be my kinda book.

Having said that, my bag is full of books. I am hauling back a frigging library.

And if you want me, I'll be at my club, er...bookshop.