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.

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.

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.

Christmas Shopping Hypnosis

What would my mother prefer? A musical snow-globe or a ceramic reindeer? A philosophical dilemma. I need to sleep on it.

I went out last night and come home at 4 a.m.

At 9 a.m. the ex poked me in the small of my back, to wake me up to open the door for the new cleaner, which I did, grumbling and irrationally angry. I mutter as I grope around and yank on my winter coat (no bra, I don’t open the door sans support.)

Somewhat sleep deprived, I decided to go to Marks and Spencer’s to do some quick food shopping. (I had a bra on by now)

Except I was unexpectedly stalled in their Christmas section, torn with indecision.

I picked up various items, that I was convinced would make amazing Christmas presents.

(One of these was a book light. How is that a good present? What was I thinking? Maybe that was for me. I’m actually not sure anymore.)

I’d pick one thing up, put something else down. Walk around the shelves, then repeat.

I did this for half an hour, racked with indecision, even though I was starving and hung over.

By the end of it I had 3 gifts I wasn’t even sure why I was buying. I was in a trance. I just wanted to buy something.

My stomach finally managed to drag me away from the Christmas hoopla to hunt down some pasta.

While in the food aisle I managed to snap myself out of my Christmas consumerist state of hypnosis and managed to surreptitiously slip 2 of the 3 Xmas products into various food sections.

Important to do this on the sly.

It’s one thing to stick something from the pudding aisle into the meat section, but it’s quite another to try to leave a book-light in-between the ready-meals and hope no one noticed you doing it.

Dog House

I wish I had this face. All would be forgiven.

I’m in the dog house now.

The ex got me a pair of socks as a present (just a random present for no reason) but I thought it was my Christmas present so instead of saying thank you like a decent human being, I said I didn’t want them and I didn’t like them and generally behaved like an ungrateful dickhead.

The minute I said it of course I instantly wished I could have taken it back.

The ex has often been disappointed with my gifts so I should have known better than to ‘get back’.

(My recent early Xmas gift was thoroughly panned.)

Sigh.

I’m a lousy person.

I need to fucking grow up and shut my mouth.

The ex was furious and kicked all the boxes and shopping bags and then threw the socks at my head and now I’ve been banished to the bedroom.

Fuck.

I am a dickhead.

Free Shipping Through Monday on Society6!

My Shop - Unframed Prints only $18! free Shipping too.

God dammit!

I just bought a T-shirt last week  (there was $4 off all T-Shirts) and now I want to cancel it so I can buy it again just to qualify for the free shipping.

But I already asked them to cancel it once before (I thought I’d like to change the colour, but then I didn’t change the colour), and now I feel shy about doing it again.

Seriously, should I or shouldn’t I? – The difference is like $6. No point no?

OK so go buy a print or a T-shirt quick, or Free Shipping will end!

And you’ll be filled with regrets like me. 

The ex bought the Enthu Cutlet T-shirt and I was verrrrrry pleased by that.

The T-shirt arrived last week and it’s actually really good. I was pleasantly surprised. The print quality is excellent and it’s a really soft fabric. I love the natural colour too.

So I went and bought one too (The Goddess, so appropriate for me). I’m going to take it to Bombay and have my tailor (or my mother) adjust the neckline so its more flattering for my inflatable breasts. (High collars don’t suit me as well as a low neck line)

I might buy another one besides the one I so STUPIDLY bought before they announced the free shipping. Can’t decide if I should go with Enthu cutlet or the Indian Knight.

Or maybe another one? The Tea Party? Which one?? Argh. Someone help me decide.

So which one do you guy think I should go for? 

I’ve hit the 400+ count on my Barbara Cartland Collection.

The Slaves of Love. I love Francis Marshall illustrations.

Yes that’s right. I’ve stubbornly persisted with my mental illness. Onwards and upwards!

I realised that the 723 target I had estimated earlier included 200 books of non-fiction. Not even my avowed dedication to such a cause as this will allow me to purchase 200 books of non-fiction penned by Mz Cartland. So I’ve adjusted my goal to 512 or thereabouts.

I confess I’m feeling a bit worn out. The last 100 are proving to be a challenge to acquire. (Cost + availability).

To soothe myself I bought the entire collection of Georgette Heyer’s, who only wrote 35 Regency novels in her lifetime, of a far superior quality, compared to Barbara Cartland’s one book a week standard. Apparently BC modeled herself on GH by liberally pilfering from her novels. I must say, the Heyers are much better reads, quite the high-grade heroin to Barbara’s cheap talcum-powdered crack. I’ve nearly worked my way through the entire lot.

The other day A2 (one of the bosses at work) had to ‘remind me’ to take home some of my books that were being stockpiled behind my desk. Work is rather baffled by this collection but at the same time intrigued, so much so that my desk neighbor actually bought a duplicate book off me. Stockholm syndrome of some kind or hypnotic suggestion maybe.

I’ve calculated that I’ve spent £2.10 a day everyday for the last 2 months. That sounds like a lot, until you consider that a Sunday newspaper is £2.50

News? Pffftt who needs news? Amy is dead. Osama is dead. Neither did drugs and one of them watched porn. The stock market is down again. Didn’t we just do this whole stock market down crap?

This is why I never bother with the news. It’s always some kind of re-run.

So back to the Heyers I go.

Screw you China & Other Complaints

The ex doesn’t want me to post personal things on here.

YES THATS RIGHT! CENSORSHIP!!

I’M IN CHINA! THE OPPRESSOR IS TRYING TO CURTAIL MY FREEDOM OF SPEECH!!!

But what else is a blog good for? I’m not good at being impersonal. I don’t do reviews. This is an entirely personal blog.

Besides, everyone has personal stuff. What’s the big secret?

So I’ve sent any possibly contentious posts to the ex to be vetted. It took a 2 weeks to get one post vetted but I think well worth it. The ex made some excellent amendments and I was very happy to compromise and not be censored outright.

SCREW YOU CHINESE GOVERNMENT!

I’m turning into one of those crazy people who emails companies just to complain.

I’ve run eBay dry of Barbara Cartlands. The only ones I haven’t bought are ones priced at £3.00 and over.

Even I have to draw the line somewhere.

So I switched to Amazon. Then I decided to write Amazon a complaint about the design and layout of the checkout.

“06/02/11 13:49:21
Your name: J
Comments: The My Account & checkout sections wastes a lot of screen real estate.
The buttons repeat themselves
It’s not a very clean design, and perhaps not so user-friendly.
Kind Regards,
J”

Seriously, the design needs an absolute overhaul. You have to look twice just to find the right buttons.

Why does the my account and checkout need HUGE blocks with 10 links and buttons all over the place?

Why no side bar? No mega menu?

I wish we could pitch a re-design to them.

Amazon amazingly enough emailed a pretty nice response the same day saying thanks blah blah, will pass message on to development team.

I was impressed. That’s the kind of complainer I am. I don’t really expect responses. I just email complaints all day.

Then I followed that complaint with another complaint to an eBay seller who listed a book as a paperback when it was a HARDBACK!!!! I fucking HATE hardbacks!! I don’t want the hardbacks!! I want the illustrated softcovers! I can’t even return it because the postage would cost about as much as buying it did. (Which I mentioned in my complaint – No reply!)

ARGGGGhhhghh. That woman is SO getting a bad review.

1 star for communication

1 star for satisfaction!

SCREW YOU CHINA!

Update:

I got a refund and they said I should keep the book. Free book!

Buwahahahaha!

723

211. So beautiful. So magnificent. So... I'm at a loss for words. Click to view large.

That’s 211 Barbara Cartlands you’re looking at.

Yup, two hundred and eleven. Let me just spell it out. Let me savour it.

God just looking at it turns me on.

Then I think of the 512 I’m missing and I lose my hard on.

I was partly joking initially when I said it would be fun to hunt down and buy all 723 Barbara Cartland titles. I vaguely meant that I’d buy as many as I could and I guess that would be all.

Now my drawer is overflowing. I can’t do any work. I don’t feel like drawing anymore. I just want to read BC after BC.

A4. asked me if I was really going to spend over a grand on Barbara Cartlands. This was a bit of a reality check. I hadn’t really thought about it in terms of hard cold cash. I only feel my collection isn’t accelerating fast enough.

I have a bad feeling it might end up being more than a grand anyway.

Even if I buy all the books on eBay and amazon I don’t know if my count will go further than 500 or so. The last 200 BC’s are going to be really tough to track down.

It’s all getting a bit out of control.

Minimizing personal possessions to make room – I got rid of most of my shoes because they compete for space with my books. Books always trump shoes, which shows you my lack of perspective. I actually need some shoes.

The not drawing is worrying me the most. It screams lack of focus, lack of ambition. I have all these ideas, loads of plans, sketches, thumbnails for large drawings but I really can’t do anything besides read these damn books.

I’m supposed to finish some freelance work and I’ve procrastinated all morning instead.

I also just bought 9 more.

Fuck. What is wrong with me? Why do I get like this? Where is the moderation? But then lack of moderation is so much more exciting.

Just imagine how amazing it would look to have 723 Barbara Carland titles on shelf upon shelf. I can already see it, in my mind’s eye. Just towers and towers of Barbara Cartlands. Even as they are, unarranged and piled under my bed, the sheer quantity of them lined up haphazardly thrills me.

723 now, that would be truly impressive.

I can’t wait.

A Westside Tragedy

An old sketch book page. This doesn't have any real relation to the post, but she is fat and thats close enough.

This was a tragic event in my life. I am mentally scarred.

I went to the Westside sale near Malad. That wasn’t the tragedy. I’ll come to that later.

I hardly ever shop without my mother. It’s sad, I know, but I don’t trust my friends. I asked Riddhi once whether I should buy 5 packs of incense sticks and she said

“Yea, yea sure. Go for it”

Instead of slapping the side of my head and saying

“No! Are you fucking crazy, bitch? Who needs 5 packs of agarbatti? Are you opening a whore house?”

So I bought the 5 packs of incense. They all claimed to have various enchanting scents, and they all stank like the inside of a rape taxi.

I have never shopped with Riddhi since.

On the way to Westside my mother is bragging non-stop about her amazing ability to go to the gym.

“You know everyone keeps asking me at the gym how I’m so thin. All these young people say ‘Auntie how are you so thin? You’re so fit auntie! And I just smile. You know, for my age I’m very fit”

I say,

“Haan, haan very fit”

She continues,

“I can lift 25 kg on my chest (or something, I can’t remember). This guy was lifting so much so I thought if he can so can I!”

I nod,

“Wow 25 kg weights. Wow, wow.”

Nod nod.

“So-and-so at my dance class has a damn fat bum. No, really her bum is huge! Look at me I’m so thin! Feel my arms!Go on feel them! Look at my muscles! Aren’t they strong! They are damn strong. I’m very pleased.”

“I havent been to the gym in 2 days. Your father doesn’t care how fat he is! But I care!”

I tease her by saying

“Of course you’re thin Mom, you had 3 feet of intestines removed. Food goes in and right out again. It’s like an in-built diet”

She was really ill, once. We thought she might die. She refused to go to the hospital until the last-minute. My father finally forced her after she hadn’t been able to eat for a week and she turned to him and said,

“You want me to go to the hospital! You are doing this on purpose! You want me to suffer!!”

My mother is crazy. Please read this earlier post to learn more.

In any case they had to do emergency surgery and remove loads of her gut.

So after much discussion of abs and fitness and her weight and how fat so-and-so’s bum is and how my mother likes to pretend to be coy about her amazing gym abilities we get to Westside.

The shops in Bombay have tighter security than an airport these days. Bag check, X-Ray machine, Metal detectors, body scanner and how are you suppose to refuse a cavity search, when there’s a 50% sale on at Mango? Tell me now.

I usually insist on holding on to my bag. It is not a handbag, because I refuse to become an Auntie (or an adult). It is practically a school satchel. It reeks of tobacco (among other things), there may or may not be a toothbrush and various empty packs of cigarettes, some lighters, pens, an eraser, wet wipes in a zip lock, books, a sketch book, eye pencils and a cherry chapstick (So I can run around kissing girls Katy Perry style). Of course I rarely can find anything without a 5 minute rummage due to all this junk.

My mom says

“Aare leave it in the car no. You don’t need it”

I say no no I want it. I need it. It has all my stuff in it. It’s very important. Verrrry important!

Bharat, my father’s driver also says

“Haan, haan take it only, don’t leave it.”

He was just being bitchy because he hates me. And in response I think he is a loafer and a chauvinist and he has had 3 wives too many. The 4th one is 2 or 3 years younger than me. She was 16 when she ‘married’ him and he used to lock her in his flat while he was at work because he thought she might have an affair.

So then we are walking in to this shop and my mom turns to me and says

“Listen I hope you don’t have any ‘stuff’ in your bag…”

I have an sudden change of heart and think it would be better to leave my bag in the car. No no I dont really need it. No it’s cool there’s nothing important at all…

But this wasn’t the tragedy, my Mom knows about all the maal already.

“Just don’t do cocaine. It’s very expensive.” she once told me. (and you know, I never have.)

Let me just add, that the Westside sale is a scam. They mix all the sale items with the new items so you can’t find them. And there are no sale tags. They just cross off the price with a ball point pen in really, really, teeny-tiny handwriting. If they could write in invisible ink they would.

We bought 10 items altogether, none of which turned out to be on sale. This is still not the tragedy. I’m coming to that. (Karmically the counter lady forgot the add the most expensive item to our bill and my mother and I were very pleased. I don’t consider this theft. I consider it an act of fate)

Then this very tragic thing happened.

When I was but a wee teen, I used to wear really baggy T-shirts. The worst kind of too: Black with band photos on them. Manson, Nirvana, Fred Durst, nine Inch Nails. I didn’t wear them because I was fat, but because I hated my boobs.

One day I was just an average flat-chested kid with a fringe and the next I was a porn star. If I had known about strapping them in and turning into a drag king, by golly I would have. (I only had sports bras. I really don’t understand the purpose of a sports bra. It is the most un-sporting bra in the world. If you run your breasts are liable to hit you in the face.)

Then someone from school told me that they heard this guy talking to someone else about my boobs. I’m really tempted to name them (but I won’t), because I still resent both those guys. The guy who told me in the first place, the creepy little twerp (he’s in prison now), and the guy who was talking about my boobs, that over-grown, lanky doosh (I think he might be married and has now added me on Linkdin).

Eventually after many years, and many fashion faux pas later, I have grown, if not to love my boobs, then at least to accept their size.

So I went to buy some bras. I asked for my size. This bra lady at westside hands me a size I consider a joke.

This is not my size! This is the size for blow-up dolls or Guju aunties with rolls and rolls of fat. Don’t be ridiculous and hand me this.

She says, no no try it.

These women are always trying to con me into buying these random new bras and none of them ever fit. Even if I’m deluded enough to think they do, later they just fall off at embarrassing times.

Look I just want my old bra. Just give me the size I asked for.

“Just try ma’am” she says ”I don’t have this other one, but I’ll look try in the meantime”

Fine fine! This is a total waste of my time. I don’t need to wear a bra this big. My head could fit in it. Ok look I’ll humour you and try it on but just sort it out and get me my proper size next.

So I tried it.

Damn her. It fit like a glove.

I had to buy 6 bras.

What a tragedy.