The Letter

The ex is SUCH a curtain-twitcher.

(So cute)

You know the type -

Auntie-uncle types who sit behind curtained windows, watching the street,

“Look at that girl,

Haan haan, new boyfriend.

She will fail exams.

I should do my duty and tell you madam

that your child is a shameless.

I saw her wearing short skirt

and talking to boys.”

Largely the ex does this via Facebook, (although the ex also occasionally does this literally, when feeling particularly suspicious of a parked car behind the flat) taking note of the people (largely old school friends) who have on weight.

I like virtual curtain twitching, taking note of:

1. People with unpleasant looking babies. (Especially ones with odd-shaped heads.)
2. Attractive women with podhu husbands. (Usually Indian women. There must be something in the water.)
3. Indian men who seem to get married and promptly grow a paunch and lose their hair. Maybe it’s a sympathetic pregnancy.

The ex received this letter in the post a week ago.

I think I died a little.

In a good way.

The Letter

The Letter Detail

“Dear <The Ex>

Re: <Flat Name>

Thank you for your email of 10 April 2013.

Our contractor has now had an opportunity to inspect the building and look for the missing brick in the boundary wall.

Unfortunately he could not find a missing brick, however, he did find a hole. He took a photo of the hole and I would ask you whether this is the hole that you are referring to.

If so, this is not a missing brick but an outlet in case the gully overflows. It has been there for years, which is why I need you to confirm if we are talking about the same hole.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Kind Regards.

Yours sincerely,
Liz”

The Evidence

Ideally and perhaps more poetically, this letter should have been posted wrapped around a brick.

This made me lolz for ages, not just because of this response, but also thinking about the ex sending the first letter about a missing brick to begin with.

Here are the various letters & complaints I have sent in the past. They are equally silly.

Sketch Book – Green Girl

Just a quick sketch book update.

Nothing much to report.

The ex returned, triumphantly from The Punj, complete with 4 massive suitcases full of stuff.

Spent 1.5 days scolding me into submission.

Ah, good to have things back to normal.

Bed time at a reasonable hour tonight (Like Cinderella, at midnight.)

Sketch Book_Green Girl Crop

Home Alone – Captain’s Log, Star Date 09.02.2013

Weekend #1 of partner being away: 

Ate the dokhla the ex kindly made before leaving, slowly over 4-5 days

Went shopping for food last Friday so would be stocked up with ready-meals for the weekend and most of the week.

Increased my intake of plums.

Cleaner cleaned half-heartedly on Saturday morning.

Saturday afternoon sat in front on my drawing for many hours. Occasionally rallied to draw a single line. Promptly sank back into lethargic nearly-end-of-drawing-stupor

Did some laundry.

Stayed up till 4 on the Saturday watching Wonders of the Universe.

No reported psychedelic dreams on this occasion.

Went to bed at a reasonable hour on Sunday.

Didn’t leave the flat until Monday morning.

Weekend #2 of partner being away: 

Dry laundry still in the washing machine.

Run out of underwear.

Am forced to go to the washing machine instead of my clothes drawer.

Didn’t re-stock food supplies all week.

Forgot to defrost food in the freezer.

Went to the pub on Thursday. Ate instant noodles for dinner.

Forgot to defrost food in the freezer again.

Went to the Monty’s on Friday. Ate 1/2 pack of salt and vinegar crisps, 1 dark chocolate bounty & 2 plums for dinner.

Went to bed at a totally unreasonable hour.

Saturday morning no cleaner.

Have very considered plans not to leave the flat at all this weekend.

Need to buy food.

Conflict with earlier resolution not to leave flat.

May need to eat more instant noodles.

End of Captain’s Log.

Boat – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Mirror Room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

St. Lucia – Part II – Tantrums in Paradise

This is how untimely I am. This post is from last April ’12. Late is an understatement. And I think I still have one more post from that holiday. 

After the first night in the Fond Doux plantation we were moved from our beautiful Banana Cottage room to another one.

When I asked the women at the reception hut why we had to move, they smiled stiffly and said

“Well so you can see both kind of rooms.”

I translated this correctly: The second room wasn’t going to be as nice.

The room was still pretty and quaint but it was distinctly smaller and slightly darker because it was on the ground set among a swathe of luxurious foliage and trees.

As expected, the ex was most displeased.

I tried to soften the blow by cheerfully praising the room, as one would with a sulky child.

Raise your voice and use lots of exclamations.

“Oh look it’s cute! I like it! What a lovely bed!”

“I don’t like it. I don’t want to stay here.”

“Come on it’s not that small. Look we get a patio!”

“I refuse to stay in this hole!!”

“It’s not a hole! It’s cute!”

“It’s tiny and dark and I hate it!!”

“If they had given us this room first you wouldn’t have known better and you would have liked it.”

“No I wouldn’t! And it was THEIR mistake! They shouldn’t have put us in a nice room first and then in a shit hole!”

(Regrettable. Agreed. It was a bad tactical move on the hotel’s part.)

My cheerful veneer worn thin by now, I resort to hard reality.

“Look, there are no other rooms. We have to stay here.”

“I don’t HAVE to do anything!”

“Well all the hotels are fully booked. You were with me when I booked this one. So you can’t leave.”

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah?? Just watch me! I’m leaving!!”

That was perhaps also a tactical error on my part. The Ex needs the softly-softly gently-gently approach as a general rule.

Now the tantrum began in earnest. None of my pleadings worked. Once the Ex begins a huff there is no backing down.

“Baby please don’t leave! Where are you going to go? Most hotels are full!”

“I don’t CARE! I’m LEAVING!”

Huffing and puffing and dragging a large suitcase, the Ex stormed off.

Or would have stormed off if the suitcase hadn’t kept toppling over on the uneven pavement, thus ruining the momentum of the dramatic exit.

I cried, because that’s just what I do in these times of crisis.

But then I called the reception again and begged in my most melancholy, hushed tones to get another room.

Then I told them the ex was upset and wanted to leave.

There was an awkward pause on the line.

I imagine the reception also saw the ex speeding off like a hell-born brat in the hired car which probably helped prompt them to kick out a guest in another hotel room.

She was the niece of the owner, (and staying for free, hence no trouble) so we got her room. Yay!

I felt and still feel a tad guilty  partly because of the other lady and partly because this sets such a bad moral precedent.

The Ex now thinks this validates the tantrum throwing. I’m afraid on the face of it, it rather does. I would have just shrugged and taken the smaller room and that would have been it, but a well acted out hissy-fit and we got a lovely room.

Tsk tsk. Well there goes the moral.

Shall I describe the hotel?

(If you’d rather not read the description, skip ahead to the photos. If you’d rather not do that either, I can’t believe you even made it this far down the post at all.)

Fond Doux was a 2000 acre working plantation. Set high up on the hillside and nestled among many Bougainvillea, coconuts and ginger lilies were the tree houses, on the ground were a few plantation style cottages. Maybe 10 huts in total.

The plantation grew mostly cocoa and some banana and had originally been part of a much bigger, slave-run estate. The next owner was eventually a freed slave once the oppressors were sent packing. Then the plantation got sold and this was the only part left. I forget the rest of the history. That’s pretty much the gist of it.

They grew a variety of other things: Coffee (or ‘Jungle MnMs’ as the tour guide lady smugly told us. A tourist winner, that phrase.), clove, cinnamon, various other spices. The planting was natural, with winding paths through the groves, the cottages mostly hidden. Fairly homely, family run, quiet place. The owner would be in the bar chilling most evenings. He was like a kindly uncle hosting some kids at his place. I liked him a lot but his accent took some getting used to.

I think I have an excellent knack of picking a good holiday place (Mostly). Patting myself on back right now.

Being somewhat competitive about my new-found talent, I started to actively check out the various hotels as we drove past them or visited their restaurant. On the whole (pat pat), I’m pleased to say, in my opinion, I think ours was by far the nicest.

That is, to phrase it more eloquently, I think I fucking nailed it.

Click on a photo to view large.

African Tulip House. We only stayed here one night. Look it IS cute!

Although the room was small the door cast lovely shadows

African Tulip walkway

This was our neighbouring cottage called Angelina. It was a plantation style house with more than one bedroom and the occasional snake.

The old capital of Soufriere. Which I learned from another tour means ‘Sulphur in the air’.

The Volcano nearby. People used to walk across it until a guide fell in one of the vents and miraculously survived even though he sustained 60% burns on his lower body. I wonder if he could have sex after that. I mean, wouldn’t his penis be badly burnt? Waste of money this tour.

Pounty’s Pizza in Soufriere. Half of me HATES gaudy coloured buildings, on the other hand they make everything so colourful.

Road into the town

Grand Piton (or one of the Pitons anyway). Superman flew up from here. The old superman

Who needs an e anyway.

Rainbow from the Coconut hut balcony

The room we moved unto post tantrum. Can’t really complain about the tantrum. Best room.

Really working hard on that travelling.

St Lucia is prone to sudden burst of tropical rain. These last about 15 mins. Mostly it was sunny.

Log & Wheat outside the Coconut Room.

The Plantation Shop & Natural Museum at night

An ex-slave house museum

Our guide on Tet Paul. I have to say. I could have totally done without the tour

Sunlight in the Coconut Hill Top Room

Argh. Heat Rash. I’ve turned into a foreigner. I used 2 tubes of aloe

Beach at Anse Chastenet. We had the best snorkelling here. Rained a bit for 30 mins.

View of one of the pitons. One of the couples staying in the plantation went trekking up this. Insane.

Jalouise beach a long way below & the Pitons again. Some of the most expensive real estate was down this hill face.

A warm spring waterfall and pool.

We got lucky. The 2 large groups of people left shortly after we arrived

Fat tourists swimming

Soufriere Sunset

Pitons at Sunset from a view-point

Mask Painting

This year I spent my Christmas in London, snug and lazy like a curled bug, barely leaving the flat for about 10 days.

It was great. I’m so sad it’s over now.

The Ex and I were invited to one New Years Eve party with a masquerade theme.

(This is only the 3rd NYE I’ve spent in London. The last party was in a house that was “smoke free”. I’ll say no more.

It really annoys me when people who are smokers (as was the owner of this house who has come to our house and smoked inside), who then throws a party in the middle of winter and insists that everyone goes outside into the snow and rain to smoke. What the fuck? You suck and your party sucks, please never invite me again. So there. Huff!

In any case, I neglected to tell the Ex there was a theme to this years NYE party much to the Ex’s annoyance.

I wasn’t planning to bother getting a mask, being deep in the throes of my sloth, but the ex insisted.

So dragging ourselves up and finally changing out of PJ’s, we tripped off to Cass Art, purchased some cardboard masks, paint (like I really needed any), glitter and some sparkly beads and set to work like little enthu cutlets.

It was nearly a whole day of arts and drafts. The Ex, not usually a fan of either, really went for it. We even bought better elastic and ribbon.

We had a small spat in the art shop because my GENIUS suggestions for the Ex’s mask (Purple glitter paint or white glitter paint and lots of beads + feathers) were rejected and the Ex went to ask one of the shop girls for advice and ended up buying a single tube of silver paint that cost £8.00. 8!!!!!! Tiny tube!

The Ex thinks the higher the price the better the product.

Admittedly the paint was a lovely metallic silver.

But come on.

8 pounds on paint for a one-time-wear mask for a party? Seriously.

So only 6 hours after we decided on our brilliant plan of action for the party did we finally finish our masks.

The Ex grew mildly competitive half way through. (To see who would have the better mask)

It was rather good fun. Here are some crafty photos of the mess.

Mask painting begins

Look at all that mess. Took ages for the glitter to dry

Eventually had to blow dry the paint. That did it.

Mask Finished

My mask (The Queen) & The Ex’s mask (Gay Pope?)

St. Lucia – Part I

When I told A4, of our holiday destination (St. Lucia), she sneered

“You guys are such boujis!”

(With all the derision of a seasoned traveller who had just holidayed in Jamaica like a bouji.)

I have another friend who occasionally commutes from city to city, then promptly fastens himself like a whelk to a bar. After some hours of drinking (beginning on the plane) he will remember very little of this new city.

He calls this – ‘Travelling’.

(Side note: If you don’t remember going somewhere is there even any point in going? Look at Ozzy – He doesn’t even remember he hung out with Jimi Hendrix. Might as well have never happened.)

My idea of ‘travelling’ is going somewhere and then lying down for a week with a Pina Colada.

Brief Holiday Recap: The Journey

The ex and I began our holiday with the traditional pre-holiday fight in the cab on the way to Paddington.

Which was a pre-emptive fight about the return journey in 11 days times. We like to be ahead in our squabbling.

I bought these web-duo return tickets on the Gatwick Express. A sweet little deal, but the catch was that you have to leave and return with someone. You couldn’t travel separately.

You’d think that this would be easy enough given that the ex and I:

• Are leaving at the same time, on the same day, on the same flight, to the same destination.
• We are actually going on holiday together.
• We are a fucking couple.

But the ex suddenly informed me, out of the blue,

“Listen, I’m not waiting for you at immigration.”

I immediately took umbrage. (Even though I can sympathise – No one wants to be at an airport waiting for ages for someone elses long immigration queue – but I also like to know my partner won’t ditch me.)

“I told you that we had to travel together for these tickets to qualify! I sent you an email especially saying that! Why the fuck did you agree?”

I hissed at the ex with justifiable annoyance. I did fucking send an email specifically to check this because I know how impatient the ex usually is.

“If you don’t travel with me, then we both have to buy new separate tickets! It’s a fucking waste of money. Why didn’t you just say so when I emailed you?”

The ex made a number of excuses none of them worth repeating because they were all seriously B.S.

If I tried to pull this kind of stunt after sending an email confirming the purchase of something, the ex would have thrown such a shit-fit the top of the cab would have flown off.

“At least wait 45 mins! I’m sure I won’t take long!”

I don’t even know why I’m bargaining. The ex is totally in the wrong here.

The ex responded by pessimistically telling me that the estimate queuing time for Heathrow was 2 hours for non-EU passport holders.

Ugh.

I finally managed to negotiate a 30 min waiting slot. I tried to push it up to 45 minutes but the ex wasn’t budging.

“Fine, but then you can pay for our return journey. If you had just told me, I’d have got us separate tickets!”

Then to consolidate my point, I sulked.

To save you the suspense (because, seriously, who isn’t dying of suspense about the end of this scintillating quarrel?) I shall tell you what happened in 11 days when we came back, now.

On the flight back the ex relented (quite rightly) and agreed to wait at immigration.

Then after all this kerfuffle, my immigration line only took about 10 mins. The ex’s immigration que took 40 mins.

HAH!

Maybe I should have left!

Anyway let’s get back to the holiday which hasn’t even started yet.

Briefly: St Lucia is like, nice and tropical and shit.

I’ll mention in the next St. Lucia post, because I have so many photos, one single post can’t possible contain it!

BLEEDING EYES WARNING!! FUCK-LOAD OF PHOTOS COMING UP!

Welcome Bed. This won the ex over right away. It says ‘Welcome’ spelt in Cat-tails. (That’s a plant by the by)

Walk way to Banana, that’s our first ‘hut’ slash cottage.

Door to Louise Walk. The Plantation had lots of winding pathways named after some people.

Banana leaves & Tiger Claws. I love the planting on this place. It was very natural, very lush. No regimented planting, no forced borders. Why aren’t all gardens like this?

Stone Fountain in the central courtyard.

The balcony at Banana. The ex and I fell in love with it. I don’t think I got a chance in the hammock.

This is how much I was in love with the balcony. Taking photos of the floor

This is the 3rd room we were moved into. It was really high up on the hill. Walking up burned off the breakfast.

Mossy growth and another one of the walkways

Sunlight on walkway down from the Coconut Room. That’s the one that’s a trek up.

A mottled tree & turquoise/greenish bridge

A little tat shop on the Plantation. I like to judge tat shops. This one wasn’t quite up to scratch, but very pretty to look at.

We took this plantation tour, it was pretty neat. We got to eat some plants along the way.

This is a Ginger-lilly. Also called a touch-me-not (See? I paid attention on the tour!) if you touch any part of the flower it dies within a few days. Left alone they last for weeks

Tall red and green plants

Bananas and some other flowers. I wasn’t paying THAT much attention.

Natural Museum (there isn’t anything in it except cocoa beans)

Cocoa Pods or as the tour lady mentioned, Jungle M&M’s. I could tell by the way she said it that the phrase Jungle M&M’s is usually a hit with the tourists. (and it was)

The drying out process for cocoa pods. I can’t really remember what it was exactly. But there was something about fermenting and dring and something else.

Pods fermenting. The white parts inside can be eaten fresh (You suck on the white bits around the seed.). Tastes like mild tamarind. Rather yummy.

Pot with a face near the pool.

Pool balcony. The pool was high up and very well hidden. It got a lot of sun in the morning and afternoon.

Pool and twilight

Walkway light down to the Plantation restaurant at night

The Fond Doux bar

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 & Venus

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.