Mint & Oranges

I have numerous incomplete drawings lying around.

This is really getting to be a bad habit.

I’m struggling to juggle coming home from work, doing the chores and then trying to make myself draw.

Excuses excuses.

Nearly finished my sketchbook. 

Which at one point I very nearly lost. (Which would have been devastating.)

My agenda for this sketchbook was that I must not tear out any pages,

and all pages one must have a considered drawing (not some half-assed scribble).

So it’s taken ages to fill it up.

Ruined 1 page though. Boo hiss.

Mint & Oranges in the kitchen

Makes me think of summer and Spain

3 Oranges

Orange Skin

My on-going love affair with Rava. Showing no sign of abating. I’ve been making a batch nearly every weekend now.

Raisins are my favourite part.

But nuts are important too.

Kings Cross with star

Kings Cross e. There’s a moon too.

I think that might be Venus. I don’t think stars are usually that bright or that close.

Pssst! Hey! You – Yes You. Wanna See My Stash?

Yo, you wanna check out my stash man? It’s good stuff. Promise.

The living room TV cabinet has 4 small shelves built into it. 3 belong to the ex. But one is mine, all mine. MU WAH HAH HA!

That shelf has books stored 2 rows deep, with some piled up on top for good measure.

I mask both rows with a single facade of ‘acceptable’ books and the Cartland’s live behind this facade. At least in the Living room…

Living room small stash. One rogue Poirot here.

The real stash, the good stuff, is right under the bed.

The books are stacked 2 rows deep under the bed, and 3 rows deep in the side table cabinet. (Small stash of Heyers as well. Barbs can’t get everything.)

I ran out of space eventually so I packed away all my shoes (I’ve worn one pair of shoes for a year. In a way it makes getting dressed for work easier.)

I ran out of space there too, so now I also have a little tower of books hidden in my desk.

I feel like such a junkie.

Under the Bed. 2 rows deep. Tower and a half of Heyers on the far left, BC’s behind. Cabinet on the right all BC’s

Cabinet Close up. 3 Deep.

Under the bed closeup. (Slightly blurry)

THE IRONY!! THE IRONY!!! OH GOD THE IRONY!!

I spent over a year collecting nearly 430 Barbara Cartland books

Hundreds of wasted hours hunting down books!

THOUSANDS of pounds! THOUSANDS! No lie

And look!

JUST FUCKING LOOK!!!!

320 Barbara Cartlands!!! In ONE FUCKING LOT!!!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCkk!!!!!!

LOOK AT THE PRICE!!! ARRRRRRRRGHHHHH

(Can you tell by my haphazard capitals just how distraught I am?)

Barbara Cartland Paper Backs Over 300 Selling on eBay RIGHT NOW! Click here to see.

On a happier note – I’d never go to Basildon Essex to pick it up.

Update:

Eventually sold for just £37 pounds.

Sigh.

Still, I really would never go to Basildon Essex to pick it up.

Also the ex would have killed me if I bought 300 books in one go.

Sunday Mid-Morning Aggravation

Highly aggravated this morning.

The semi-new cleaner has gone AWOL. (I don’t actually know what that means, but I’m assuming it means missing. I don’t feel like googling. I enjoy the gamble. Fingers crossed.)

Her handler can’t find her.

Handler is trying to arrange another cleaner. No luck so far.

So the ex asked a friend if their cleaner was available. (We will really do anything to avoid cleaning)

If her cleaner is free I’m going to have to tell the other cleaner we’ve found someone else or softly softly phase her out.

Which fills me with guilt because the handler is really nice. (Never met her, text only – But I prefer that kind of relationship.)

The cleaner I could live without.

In the morning the ex is Dr. Jekyll under the sheets, and Hyde the minute we get out of bed.

There’s a lesson here somewhere, but I really can’t spend all day in bed.

So far, this morning, here is a compressed list of the various scoldings:

1. Three and a half ants dared invade the kitchen. It must have been something I had done. Who else could it be? The ex could never bring in ants.
2. The toothpaste tube is almost empty. Why didn’t I replace it?
3. There is one plate in the sink. I need to clean it.
4. The bedspread needs changing. I never change it.
5. We make the bed. We squabble over covering the duvet.
6. Who’s starting the washing machine? Why isn’t it me?

Numbers 1-4, I was willing to let slide. (Even though 1. was seriously idiotic. Promise. Swear. There were actually 3 ants.)

But by number 6. I felt like this:

Ready to gnaw off someones face.

I did a cat-hiss at the ex, but that was during the 1-4 ‘let it slide’ phase.

I do a good cat-hiss – It needs to come from the back of the throat to have real depth to it.

Once I sneaked up behind this cat in Bombay and let out my best cat-hiss. (I was an adult.) It leapt up nearly a foot in the air. Best one ever.

However I’ve written my post, crawled down off the ceiling, drunk my tea, the ex has gone off to the Motherland (Harrods this time, which never fails to lift the mood), we had a quick post-squabble cuddle, it’s a sunny sunday and I just might spend all day faffing about, pleasantly colour correcting my photos.

(Even though I need to study for this Life in the UK test which frankly, offends me. No UK resident could pass this. The hypocrisy of the UK BA is really something.)

I took the photo below at Angel tube. It’s a poster for one of those odious books where a serial killer does some stuff to a cute chick.

Ugh. I’m sick of those books. But the comment scrawled on the poster cracked me up.

Capitalism of course! Dummy!

An Occupy London protester clearly.

Ona Na What’s My Name? It’s Ona, Stupid.

The on-going saga to get a flat the size of a postage stamp cleaned on a weekly basis. 

So Ona, our second cleaner turned out to be fairly flaky.

She said she was ill (and I’m sure she was) but her doctor appointments always happened to be on Saturday mornings.

The cleaning management company occasionally rallied to arrange temps but most of the time I just had to bear the brunt of the ex hissing venom at me at 9 in the morning when the cleaner had failed to show up, yet again.

“It’s your job to arrange the cleaner! Why isn’t she here?? I don’t care if her kidney is infected! Blah blah blah!”

The ex an I saved our relationship by getting a cleaner. We have totally different ideas of how often to clean and how often is too often, so cleaner issues turn critical very quickly.

On a side note:

This is such a desi wifely whine. More specifically it’s a very middle-class desi whine. Middle class Indians are always complaining about their cleaners.

Meet any woman running a house and she’ll give you a long rant about the cleaner or how the cook spoke to her very rudely the other day. (The cook and the driver are second and third in line of things to complain about.)

“Can you believe it? So rude she was. So I told her she can go look for another job if she speaks to me like that.

“And she always over cooks the daal. How many times I’ve shown her how to cook the daal but she still over cooks!”

“Plus I told her not to put salt in it. Every time too much salt. She never even tastes.

“Now the driver is upset because the cook got a bonus but the driver didn’t get the bonus.”

“Then the cleaner never jadhoos properly either. I always have to jadhoo the bathroom myself. She just does fut-fut-fut and thinks it’s done. Oof ho! Bus. What to do?”

“Haan haan, it’s so hard to find good cleaners… but have I told you what MY cleaner did…?”

In fact never ask an Indian housewife about the either the cleaner, the cook or the driver. It’ll never stop.

So to get back to my wifely whine, I’ve been designated as ‘cleaner manager’. My duties are to supervise and organise. (Catchy no?)

I’m expected to keep them up to scratch somehow. Inspect under the sofas, chase them around the 2 and a half rooms we live in. (Even if I did chase them around the flat my idea of “its clean” is clearly not going to match the ex’s expectation. So my supervision is really fruitless.)

The problem is the ex is the type of person who’d put of a pair of white kid gloves and run their hands down the furniture to test if it has been dusted properly.

So naturally the ex was enraged with the general incompetence of the temporary cleaners who came to fill in for Ona.

One of the temps dropped a painting off the wall. (Didn’t break, thank god. It was one of the ex’s tacky pieces of touristy shite. All hell would have broken loose.)

She then used the sulphuric acid that’s meant for unclogging drains to clean the oven. The ex caught that one.

I caught her cleaning a framed wall mirror violently and stopped her before she knocked that off too.

She then dusted the side tables by removing all the knickknacks and balancing them on the arms of the leopard print couch. The ex caught that one again.

In desperation I asked my boss at work if he knew a cleaner. This is the same boss who I once smoked a doob with. The fun one.

So he recommended a girl, so I called her and she told me she would send someone over one Saturday morning for a test run.

First day, the new girl (Elina, or Elita or something. Couldn’t quite hear her and now I can’t ask again) broke the power mop and left without telling us. Turns out she doesn’t speak any English.

We aren’t allowed to call her directly and can only contact her via her handler.

That aside, I’m still feeling optimistic.

Lit Windows

Buildings at Twilight

Essex Road with Moon

Angel Antiques Market, Camden Passage

On a sunny weekend the Antique and Junk market in Camden Passage is a lovely place to go for a stroll.

There’s a wide range of silver, faux silver, vintage clothes (some over priced, a tad too much fur – rather shabby rabbit), costume jewellery, old magazines, a suitcase full of scissors (who is buying that?), an entire wooden box of spoons (for the spoon collectors I imagine), old stamps, empty boxes, tiny silver cream jugs, candle stick holders, wooden seals, old prints, just all sorts of stuff.

Sometimes the vendors bring their dogs and it’s fun to pet them while looking through what is largely tat.

What’s exciting about looking through reams and reams of tat is that occasionally, just occasionally, you find something that is pretty darn sweet.

The ex and I once had a massive row over some junk. I know, most of our arguments are ludicrous, this one was no exception. (This was ages ago. Now we just fight about imaginary stuff)

I saw something the ex had glossed over as ‘rubbishy rubbish’ and when I went to get cash to pay for it the ex went and bought it. Man, I was pissed! Almost irrationally pissed.

There was a cold front for a little while but we eventually kissed and made up. The ex doesn’t notice things until you sift through all the tat and when you’ve finally found something, then decides it’s worth liking.

Anyway I went on a photo spree a couple of sunny weekends ago. One vendor reproached me gently for taking photos of her stuff. I suppose I should have asked. Naughty naughty.

So I bought a silver Moon face broach from her so that was sort of my apology. (Well, I wanted that broach anyway.) I’ve decided to start a brooch collection.

Found a silver sea-horse broach a while ago, as well as a mounted Grouse foot. My mother saw the Grouse’s foot and squealed in horror. So the next year I got her one for herself. (Because that’s just the kind of daughter I am – Enjoys horrifying mother.)

She has yet to wear it.

One of the stalls just before you go into Camden Passage

Broaches on muslin

Some Old Posters at the same stall. He also sell vintage toys.

1920′s Broach Closeup

Broaches Collage. I rather like the Scottish feathery one.

One of the stalls opposite the Camden head

Marcasite Necklaces. Or some junk.

Sun & Moon & Clock broaches.

Scottish Broaches

Sign Board & Yellow Typewriter

Rocking Dog

Boy Holding Dog Outside Tesco’s. I love the dog’s expression.

Boy Holding Dog Outside Tesco’s

The Breakfast Club in the Evening

Breakfast Club Window. I like the way the light looks from the outside set against the yellow.

Camden Head Pub

Camden Passage street empty.

Camden Passage. Took ages to get a not so shaky shot.

Milky Way Store Window

Milky Way Store Window. Like the light here too.

The Couch Is Out To Get Me

The Couch. Look at it just glaring at me. Defying me to drop something on it.

The good thing about this print is that it camouflages cigarette burns very well.

This is similar in theme to “The Goverment is out to get me“. A general paranoid whine, I suppose.

This fucking couch has been out to get me from day one.

First of all, this is no ordinary couch.

This is couch is upholstered in a Leopard print fabric. (As you can see.)

Like the couch of some over-weight, worn-out, Bollywood B-grade movie star.

Imagine her lying on it, draped in a hot-pink satin fabric, while eating rasgullas. When she runs out of rasgullas she claps her sticky hands together to summon her man Friday, Sreekanth to bring her some rasmalai instead.

The ex’s mother sent us these couches. She had them specially made and then shipped across the seas all the way from the Punj.

Not satisfied with the Leopard print, these couches also have cushion covers in a soft brown suede fabric.

Suede! The most easily wrecked of all materials. It’s not even in a dark colour. It’s light brown!

It’s like the couch is purposely trying to entice me to sit on it, so I can spill something and have the ex subsequently murder me.

Just look at it. Doesn’t it just seem like its saying,

“Oh look sit on me, just have a seat…no no I won’t stain my pristine, suede-ness, don’t worry beta ha ha. Of course I’d never lie to you, I’m your friend…”

Such a fucking liar! I try (as much as possible) to sit on an expendable cloth that covers the couch.

This is not to protect the couch, but to protect me from the wrath of the ex. This couch stains just by breathing on it.

“Come come, eat a meal on me. No, no don’t worry! If you spill anything and it’ll come right off!”

Nothing comes off suede. It is the devil’s fabric. All the furniture in hell is probably upholstered in suede and should you find yourself there you will spend all eternity worrying about what you may or may not have spilled on it.

Also I feel this eerie growing superstitious paranoia that the ex’s mother purposely sent this couch to ‘get me’. This couch has given me many heart palpitations in the past.

Once I was just sitting on it, innocently minding my own business… and drawing with a ball-pen (Reynolds – still good) and I accidentally swiped my hand across and a little black mark went on one of the pillows.

I don’t remember a lot of what happened later but there was some shouting and screaming and threats of,

“You better fix the couch! I mean it! You better fix it!!”

and

“I DONT CARE!! JUST FIX IT!”

I get that a lot.

The ex accuses me of ruining everything.

Which is ironic. My mother used to say that to me.

I accidentally broke one of her ceramic photo frames (one of my mother’s many collections) and in response she said very melodramatically,

“FINE! FINE! JUST BREAK EVERYTHING!! RUIN EVERYTHING!! I CAN NEVER HAVE ANYTHING NICE IN THIS HOUSE!!!”

HERE!! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW??”

On ‘HERE’ my mother grabbed another frame and smashed it on the ground. (Very silly.)

So the next time I broke a ceramic painted plate, (I was yawning and stretching. It happens.) to avoid any more tantrums, I hid it in my underwear drawer and then spent hours painstakingly, (and surreptitiously) glueing it together in the forlorn hope that she’d never even notice.

Of course she found it in my underwear drawer (I should have hidden it under the underwear), but I’m comforted by the fact that it took her a few days to find it. She didn’t have a tantrum. I think by now she’d grown accustomed to the idea of her unfortunately clumsy child.

Back to the couch and its vindictive campaign to get me:

Another time, I was sitting on the couch, yet again, harmlessly minding my own business, when I happened to notice a small burn on one of the suede cushions.

I started having cold sweats. I was pretty sure I didn’t make it. But if I didn’t warn the ex in advance, guaranteed I’d get blamed for it.

So I had to grit my teeth, steel my nerves and call the ex at work.

I prepped the scene with my stellar opening,

“OK. Baby. Don’t get mad. I have some bad news…”

Always open with the bad news, (the good news is that I didn’t do it)

“…OK…”

*uncertain pause*

“…what is it?”

“Uhm, I noticed a black mark on one of the cushions…

“…butIswearitwasn’tmeIdidn’tdoititwasalreadythere
motherswearonmylifedon’tbemadIloveyou.”

The ex must have been in a more than usually benevolent mood, because I passed. Whew.

Recently I was washing the cover I usually sit on (a rare moment of domestic responsibility) and then sat on the couch after painting something, and before I knew it a smudge of white acrylic paint went on one of the cushions. (which just goes to show you how unrewarded I am for my domestic responsibility).

It was after so long! And I had been so good! I really tried, really really REALLY, not to spill anything on that couch.

This is why I’m convinced, that it’s a curse. The couch has it in for me.

The ex was mad, and I couldn’t even say anything to defend myself. I mean, I don’t even know how the paint got on the couch. It wasn’t even on me this time. It must have been on my laptop and I didn’t notice.

Now I have to try scraping it very gently with a sharp scalpel in the hope the white paint will flake off.

It’ll probably leave a patch. (sigh)

Suede is an evil, evil fabric.

Remember The Sun?

Way back in March there was this glowing yellow thing in the sky. It made everything warmer, all the colours were brighter, the sky was bluer. Feels like it was yonks ago.

I really enjoy using the word ‘yonks’.

It’s very under-used. I’d especially like it used in historical articles or documentaries.

“The Romans invaded Gaul back in…well… yonks ago.”

The sky was a depressing green tinge a last week (as it is now). There was thunder and lightening. Very apocalyptic in the office.

My only hope is that during the Olympics there might just be a flood that washes the entire village away. That would be fun.

(Apparently there is a ban for Olympic ticket holder taking photos and sharing them via social media. These people are fucking morons. I hate the Olympics. I wish we could give it back to France. Just take it France, please.)

This is a very florally set of photos to combat the general depression.

All the flowers have by now fallen off now and it’s been dreary and grey most days.

I’m like a Gran now. I take photos of flowers.

I can’t help it. I’m enjoying the macro zoom on my new little baby.

Be warned, lots of photos will appear on this blog from now on.

Yellow & Pink Flowers

Yellow & Pink Flowers

Yellow Flowers on tree

Strange Green Flowers. No idea what these are.

Green Flowers Closeup

White Blossom Tree. Makes me feel like I’m in Japan.

White Blossom Tree Close Up

Pink Flowers with the sun shining. Ah the sun. So long ago I’ve nearly forgotten.

Pink Flowers with white blooms close up.

Pink flowers bud. Look I warned you this was an uber florally post.

Pink Flowers and white bloom closeup

Sun! Bring it back!!!!

Free Shipping Worldwide on Society6

Gola Featured on Mumbai Boss

Hey Peoples,

Was featured on Mumbai Boss! Yay

How sweet is that?

Speaking of sweet there is a free worldwide shipping offer on at Society6.

Go buy some Kala Khatta Stuff now.

http://mumbaiboss.com/2012/04/25/the-good-buy-kala-khatta-gola-laptop-skin/

Zombie Parasites

Zombie Parasite infected snail. The eyeballs! The eyeballs!

I looked into the parasite-snail thing I vaguely mentioned as a comparison to shopping with the ex in Selfridges a couple of weeks ago, and after a quick search I found the exact clip I was looking for on the interweb (although I’m sure the original clip was voiced by Attenborough.)

This little video has been on my mind for years. I can’t ever forget it.

So I’m passing it on. Enjoy

Shudder.