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.

Shopper Euphoria

Selfridges Window (Rather good their windows. This series was showcasing rising young talent.)

I went shopping with the ex to Selfridges on Saturday. (Well a Saturday a couple of weeks ago anyway. I’m on holiday now.)

It was an eye-opening experience.

Not because I hadn’t gone to Selfridges before but because of the dramatic and noticeable personality overhaul the ex underwent while in the store.

I’m quite manic when I visit shops that have a lot of things to look at and I have no fixed agenda

i.e. I’m not thinking

“I want a kettle and then I’m leaving.”

I look at everything. I cannot talk or concentrate. I want to go through all the racks methodically one by one, sifting through the multitude of products. I need to be dragged around because I have ceased to function aside from browsing.

Muji, for example, is particularly irresistible. It’s like a pricey charity shop. I like to read all the labels and then mentally debate with myself whether I need anything. I desperately want to need something but the problem with Muji is that all of its products only look appealing en mass. Once you get them home you realise what a pile of junk it is.

Like those stupid plastic trays they always have. I love the clear acrylic compartments. I don’t know why. In my mind I’m filling them with things. What things? No idea, but just … some things that might fill an acrylic compartment.

After a while I reach a state of total shopper hypnosis and have sudden uncontrollable urges to buy things that have become crucial to my happiness.

JUST BUY IT!! BUY IT NOW!

YOU NEED IT!

YOU’LL USE IT!

YOU’LL USE IT EVERY DAY.

EVERY SINGLE DAY OF YOUR LIFE!

IT’LL BE AWESOME!

DO IT NOW!”

That’s my internal monologue. I’m not walking around Muji yelling. (Yet)

Occasionally the sensible quiet part in my brain says,

“Yes, yes, that’s very nice. Very nice.

But let’s not be hasty shall we?

You remember all the trouble we’ve had with things like this in the past don’t you?

You don’t want to be buying something only to return it do you? Think of how much unnecessary work that would be.

Why don’t we just look around a bit and come back in a little while?”

But the shouty part usually yells over the sensible guy, in a dastardly attempt to drown him out. (I don’t know why it’s a ‘him’. Its sexless really.)

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JUST BUY IT!

COMING BACK IS BORING. COMING BACK IS FOR LOSERS!

YOU’LL WASTE TIME. TIME IS MONEY EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.

DON’T BE SUCH A SQUARE. YOU NEED IT.

WE HAVE MONEY. YOU DESERVE A TREAT. YOU HARDLY EVEN DRINK!! GO ON BUY IT!

THERE WONT BE ANYTHING BETTER ANYWAY! YOU’LL JUST HAVE MORE HASSLE COMING BACK.

ONCE YOU HAVE IT, IT’LL BE DONE. DON’T YOU WANT TO BE DONE??

JUST BUY IT. PICK IT UP AND PUT IT IN YOUR HAND. TAKE IT TO THE COUNTER NOW!!!!

NOOOOOOOOWWW!!!!!”

Eventually I get really tired and cranky. If I’m lucky I don’t buy anything.

If I succumb I come home with something useless, a lighter wallet and an agenda to rationalize my purchase. This is why I avoid shopping as much as possible.

So back to the ex: The ex’s personality underwent a remarkable and really quite odd change. You know those documentaries where some parasite crawls into the eye-ball of a snail, and then makes the snail change its entire behaviour so the snail crawls up on a branch so a bird can eat it, only so the parasite can live in the bird’s gut to complete its life cycle?

That’s what happened to the ex.

Well not literally. The ex wasn’t infected by a parasite that made the ex crawl up a branch on the look out for a bird, (You’ll be relieved to hear that) but what I mean is the behavioural pattern changes were comparable.

1. The ex became very relaxed. - Now the ex is not a relaxed person.
Sober. Not a relaxed person sober.
I felt I needed to add the ‘sober’ part. Un-sober the ex is suuuuper relaxed.

2. The ex seemed to be filled with a calm sense of inner well-being and benevolence.
The ex is quite benevolent in general, but the benevolence seemed more heightened than usual.

3. The ex also became surprisingly susceptible. Really susceptible.
Every time I pointed out something out there was a discussion, in some depth, of whether we could or should buy it.
New wine glasses, decanters, complete dinner sets. A new couch. We were both on some euphoric bender.

The ex started offering to buy me all sort of things. Just things I liked for no reason.

It was like Selfridges was some evil narcotic, some parasitic worm.

I didn’t take advantage of this, because I knew the ex wasn’t their normal aggravated self and I’m just not that kind of girl, believe it or not.

The ex bought me lunch (This was planned before our Selfridges jaunt. It was incentive to get me there in the first place you see. So no narcotic inducement)

I succumbed (dammit!) to Selfridges wicked wiles and bought myself 2 miniature bell jars things on stands.

Look. I need them. I’m going to use them. Really, I am. I’m going to put some drawings in there, like tiny cut-out things. I don’t know what yet but I swear I’m going to do it.

Both bell jars are now lying on the bedroom window-sill.

We finally walked out of Selfridges. It was raining and crowded on the grey pavement. Within mere minutes the hypnotic effect of Selfridges had worn off. The state of euphoria was palpably evaporating.

Back on the bus ride home though the hell of Oxford street, and the ex was back to

“GET BACK IN YOUR CORNER! BE QUIET! DON’T ANNOY ME. I KILL YOU!”

Fastest come down ever.

The Winged Horse: Update with Image

Arthur in all his glory.

A closer, more garish view.

Oh no. What have I done??

My previous post has made the ex consider buying another hideous delightful statue.

(Thank god they’re so expensive.)

I think that the horse is probably the best of the bunch.

The cats are unbearably naff as our dear leader (Foz, my M.A tutor) would have said.

The Winged Horse

Authur, closer and more garish

The ex and I had this fight recently.

It is a fictional fight. If you read on you’ll know what I mean.

There is this solid brass statue on one of the living room side tables – A miniature winged horse. It’s about the size of a chihuahua and was named ‘Aurther’. (The artist named it. God knows why.) For a statue the size of a small dog, it is also monstrously heavy. The ex lugged it back all the way from Hawaii.

I didn’t warm to this statue right away but it has, over time, eventually grown on me. It is a seriously Punjabi statue. How can I explain what that means to non-desi’s?

It’s kitsch, colourful and a bit sentimental. Three things I associate wholly with the Punj.

It’s the ex’s baby – A source of pride and joy.

We were debating one sunny afternoon, how lovely it would be if the horse came to life one day. (Well I wasn’t debating this. This is the ex’s fantasy.)

“Imagine if we’d have our own flying horse…”

the ex theorized.

“How amazing. How lovely. We’d keep in the house on a golden leash..”

(or something to that effect.)

But what if it came to life and one day wanted to fly away into the great open sky? To be free as it were?

I suggested. What if it didn’t want the golden leash?

Side note: I’ve always wondered if the statue brought to life by Pygmalion would have really loved him back.

Perhaps she might for a little while, but what if it began to pall? Perhaps she’d want to leave. Perhaps a younger, up and coming, more talented sculptor would lure her away from her old creator.

Also, surely Pygmalion’s ideal of this perfect woman, carved in cold stone would never really hold true once she was a living, breathing person and had independent thought (not to mention that-time-of-the-month hormonal temper tantrums. That’ll scupper the romance if anything would.)

Perhaps Pygmalion would even resent her having independent thought. Challenging him. Arguing. Having periods.

Besides there must have been a reason he couldn’t find a girl to go out with him in the first place. He must have had some personality and/or hygiene issues.

Frankly I just don’t see the relationship working out.

Anyway, the little flying horse might want to fly away.

The ex said

“Oh then I’ll kill it.”

Perfectly casually and quite seriously.

“What? Why?? Why would you do something like that? Why would you kill it?”

“I won’t let it fly away. I wont allow it. I’ll kill it.”

I’m genuinely appalled for this poor fictional creature.

I tell the ex I’ll secretly free from its golden cage in the middle of the night it and tell it to fly, fly away quickly and never come back!

Then the ex was annoyed with me. I mustn’t do such a thing!

I insisted I would free it if the ex was going to kill it (Obviously. What else would I do?)

The ex said,

“‘No! I will only kill it if it wants to leave. Otherwise it can live.”

How magnanimous.

“You can’t kill it! If you love it you would let it go free!”

I argue hopelessly.

We eventually reached a stalemate.

I will surreptitiously free the poor oppressed flying mini horse. The ex would lovingly kill it.

I quite enjoy fictional arguments. The ex, not so much. Especially since I let the flying horse escape.

Apassionata: A Review

This poster couldn't be stupider if it tried. Magic Encounters my ass.

The ex made me go see Apassionata at the O2 a few weeks ago.

For the uninitiated this is a 2 hour horse show.

Just look at that poster. It’s so ….

The word I want to use is ‘gay’ but since that I’m trying not to use it in that context anymore, let’s just go with ‘cheesy and slightly camp’.

And so was the show. Cheesy and slightly camp.

Th ex being passionate about all things horses had begged me to go.

I say begged but it was more like,

“Do you want to come with me?”

Translation

“I think you’ll find that you will be coming.”

Of course, being the soft-hearted gentle soul that I am, I couldn’t bear the idea of the poor ex sitting all alone in the O2 area, watching horses and crying…

“I love horses so much. I really love them! No one understands!”

So of course, I had to go. Support and all that jazz.

The show was just as tedious as I thought it might be.

The highlight was ze German announcer repeatedly saying

“Please feel free to app-lauws. You may app-lauws now.”

I don’t know why, but the way he said ‘app-lauws’ made me giggle a little.

But I had no strength or will to lift my hands together in a clap. I sank into a stupor that lasted until the show ended.

Let me sum up the show for you (from a non-horsey person’s perspective) in a nutshell:

- Horse walks around the ring, shows paw.

- Another horse walks around the ring, shows paw.

- The end.

It was 2 hours of interminable boredom set to the worst music ever.

I plugged in my iPod.

I’m so glad I took a book too.

We rounded the evening off with the ex taking me to Gaucho grill.

I ordered the steak, done ‘blue’.

I imagined it was a horse.

Let Us Eat Cake

Had a fight with the ex about cake a couple of days ago.

Birthday cake.

Every year we fight about cake. It is utterly ridiculous.

I’m checking bakeries and then with the ex about the cake, and feeling frustrated. The margin of error is high and the risk of having the cake flung at my head in a temper tantrum equally so. The window within which the cake will be graciously tolerated is small.

The ‘ideal’ cake is difficult. It’s not even just about the flavour. No no, that’s far too simple. No icing, No chocolate, No marzipan, No cream, No cupcakes. It’s basically a long list of ‘don’ts’ and I’m supposed to navigate my way through.

“Look, if you’re going to make this cake thing a big deal, then just forget about it.”,

says the ex to me when I momentarily forget myself (stupid creature!) and hint at my frustration. (Last year I ‘forgot’ about the cake, and let me just say that turned into a big deal.)

That would be a perfectly fair and reasonable statement to make, if it hadn’t immediately followed this rather more tyrannical threat:

“I’m warning you now – If you don’t get me the right kind of cake, I’m going to be really upset…”

Gosh, no pressure then.

But not to worry.

I have ordered the minions to shower the roads generously with rose and hibiscus petals. The ex will then be carried, lounging delicately on a palanquin, about London. The minions will serve the ex haunches of roasted & basted chicken, followed by sweet white grapes that have been gently washed in mountain dew and have had their skin removed. The feasting is capped with a refreshing champagne and baby’s breath sorbet.

A procession of painted and decorated elephants and horses all with bells and cymbals jingling gaily on their feet follow the palanquin. A 100 strong marching band, will accompany them and will be playing a variety of Madonna and Kylie songs loudly and with gusto. After all the day the ex emerged from the womb demands celebration!

After the magnificence of this procession all the way down Angel and through Farringdon, the palanquin will finally reach St. Paul’s where there will be the usual ritual of the burning of incense and the blood-letting of a sacrificial snow-white lamb by a virgin maid. This will promptly be culminated in an orgy of bacchanalian excess of epic proportions.

Also I baked a cake.

My first cake ever. So domesticated of me no? (It was from a packet. Baby steps.)

It rose rather proudly. I’m quite pleased.

I have a singing candle to place on it’s bulging center.

Here, some photos.

I made a right old mess all over. Also I accidentally read 210 ml of water as 120 ml. I wondered why the batter was so difficult to beat. Luckily I caught the error in time.

Look at it rising! All that beating did the trick. And I beat it by hand!!

Not bad for a first attempt, if I do say so myself. The ex was pleased.

Bah Hum Bug!

Santa's "You've been Naughty" Bag of Coal stocking filler (The 'coal' is actually handmade soap)

Every year I swear I won’t get dragged into the whole Christmas gift buying hoopla.

It’s too stressful; The expectations are too high, both as a giver and a receiver, only for it to all implode in tears and disappointment.

After I apologized and the ex stopped sulking about my dick-head behavior about the socks, I belatedly got very angry about the criticism my Christmas present received. (As I’ve mentioned before, it was roundly panned.)

Over the space over the next 24 hours I worked myself up into a state of sheer fury about every other gift I’d ever given the ex that had been critiqued (I am a woman after all, we remember these things) and it made me so angry I sulked for 2 days.

The ex noticing this retaliation sulk, countered it by coming home after work and asked me if they should change their flight dates and maybe not come to Bombay after all.

I asked the ex why they were so determined to ruin Christmas. (I said this very dramatically. With emotion!)

“If you’re going to be like this, and continue sulking then I don’t want to come to Bombay”

“Well, I’ll just have to get over it, won’t I!”

I probably would too. Of course, I’d never forget it.

“Why can’t you get over it now?”

The ex is far too practical in these kinds of emotional discussions.

This then devolved into a phenomenal row when the ex rounded swiftly, on the first counter attack by a second far more devious one, by saying we wouldn’t exchange gifts this year since the one I’d bought wasn’t up to scratch.

Now I was seriously annoyed. My gift gets panned, that’s just being honest but dare I express accidental disappointment in socks (I thought they were my Christmas gift – They weren’t.), then I am ungrateful.

Besides, I said sorry nearly immediately for saying I didn’t like it. It wasn’t nice. I acknowledge it. I didn’t mean to be. I suppose I was still slightly resentful about my failure present. (It was really nicely wrapped up too!)

To add insult to injury, only after I had given the ex their Christmas present, would we not be exchanging any gifts this year!

So the ex said

“I really don’t know what’s going on in your head. Why are you angry now after all this time?”

Even I don’t know what’s going on in my head but what the heck, I said sorry, why can’t the ex? I’m fairly straight forward. I like a sorry.

“You never say sorry! I always say sorry!”

Look I know. It’s an insane quarrel, but I wanted a sorry. It’s not rational, but I don’t care.

After 5 more minutes of me sulking, the ex then said sorry (about saying they didn’t like my present). As a further palliative the ex then said they did like the present.

What a sweetie. That was a clear lie and we both knew it. But I accepted the olive leaf gratefully.

So the plan now is to find something better or at least more suitable while I’m in Bombay. This time I’ll get it pre-approved and signed off before I buy it. That’s the only way I’ll get it right.

My present was a polka-dotted retro swimsuit (We’re going to Goa for a bit). It was nice.

Goddamnit. Why can’t I ever get gifts right?

Oh No Ona

My Organised Art Supplies. The ex generously allowed me to use this box.

How aggravating that the ex was right after all about the new, young, cute cleaner. (Too young maybe, the ex had said)

She came for just one session and then made some flimsy excuse the next week, crying off.

The ex said this is because I’m calling them too early (9 am), but I like to have them come clean while we are asleep so by the time we’re up, they are ready to leave and we don’t have to shuffle from room to room waiting for them to finish hoovering or whatever.

In any case, I don’t see why we should adapt. We pay this company a management fee to sort this shit out for us. Hell, lets give them a run for their money.

So we got a new cleaner sent to us for yet another interview.

Luckily she didn’t hug the ex or anything. Nice proper distance was kept.

She didn’t seem too enthused about cleaning either. (I wouldn’t myself, but the ex said she’d never last. So we’ll have to see how it goes.)

Her name is Ona.

The ex walked into the living room last Saturday and was a little surprised to see Ona suddenly drop her her trousers.

I forgot the tell the ex that Ona had asked me if she could change somewhere.

I probably ought to have mentioned it.