Friday, December 29, 2006

A Christmas start

Bright and early on crisp Christmas morning, I went out for a walk. Right outside our building, I passed the fruitman and his handcart stall. We'd been talking about him just the previous evening. Doobie and Bobbis had noticed that his stall was open even at 11 and 12 in the night, and we'd all been wondering at the long hours he kept. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to go over and ask him about it.
"Hello, Merry Christmas," I approached.
"Merry Christmas to you too!"
"Two apples, please." And as he was picking out the apples, I mentioned, "my friends and I were wondering about the long hours you keep. It seems like you're always open, from early in the morning to late at night."
"Oh, its not just me, there's my cousin too, so we take shifts."
"But till 11 at night?!! Does anyone even buy fruit at that time??"
"We're a very dedicated fruit stall here," he said solemnly.

I liked him instantly. There's a lot to be said for passion and dedication.

Having paid him for the apples, I trundled on down the road. A block along on my promenade, and my path crossed with an elderly blind man. "Hello? Hello?" he was saying to the world at large. Seeing as there was no one else on the road save him and me, I moseyed on over to him.
"Hello," I put forth gently so as not to startle him, "how can I help?"
"I'm looking for my fruitman," he said, "is he around here somewhere?"
"There's a fruitman about a block down the road, sir," I said, glancing unconsciously at my apples.
"Can you lead me to him please?"
"Of course," so I tucked my arm through his and started guiding him back to the fruit stall.
"It's Christmas morning, you see," he told me as we picked our way slowly down the road together. "I always buy myself a basket of fruit on Christmas morning."
I liked the fact that he had a little tradition for himself. Goes without saying that I'm a fool for such quirks and idiosyncracies. I left him in the caring hands of the fruitman (Passionate and Dedicated), and continued on my way.

I felt lucky to have this asked of me first thing on Christmas morning. It felt auspicious, somehow, to be approaching the new year doing something good.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

A new nest to roost and rest

After much ado (now it seems, in retrospect, about nothing), we have finally moved into our new home. There was a stage of packing, throwing, selling, and re-discovering the under-bed mysteries. And - oh my! - there were countless countless countless brown cartons (labelled with cryptic illogicisms like 'Ficali pillows & kitchen items' or 'Dining chairs & Doobie shoes'). But finally, after a seeming eternity, everything was at last in boxes. And then there was a stage of dealing with the movers. ("Play hardball and remember to haggle over the tip," Delta had advised. When tipping time came the movers told me, "tip what you like, but $40 a head would be nice." Like Delta had advised, I played hardball. I said, "Erm, ah, uh, okay $40 it is then.")

And now, at long last, we're all in the new apartment. Bobbis, Doobie, Ilajna and I earning frequent flyer status at all the home decor stores in the city. ("Help me put my new curtains up!" asked Ilajna. "Check out my new shelf decoration!" squealed Bobbis.)

A few months ago, a pair of birds had built a nest in the plants on my parents terrace. When they stumbled upon it and peered in for a closer look, they noticed that the nest had been built not just of twigs and straw, but also interwoven with a variety of brightly coloured strings and yarns (can birds see in colour??). "They'd made it so pretty!" my mum had exclaimed.

And now, in the throes of pulling our home together, its our turn to be just like the birds. As each of us brings home the coloured yarns and strings to tie our home together.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Instant retribution

The other day, I played with an ant and made it crawl up and down my arm unnecessarily (see below). I realised now I shouldn't have interfered with Gawd's creatures.

Yesterday, I was sitting in Bombay Gym's outdoor lounge, entirely at peace with myself and the world at large. The Buddha of my inner sanctum.

And then an ant crawled up my leg and bit me on my bottom.

GAH.

Glimpses from Bombay

I breathe in deeply as I step out of the airport. The air is tinged with the mingled scents of dust and dirt and heat and crowd. There's a general noise and bustle which smacks of utter disorder, to me having just stepped of the plane, but having been a part of the crowd before, I know there is an order to the madness. I can't describe the initial scene in terms which might be pleasant to the random visitor, but to me, this is a sensation of homecoming, of comfort in familiarity, of return to childhood.

I feel a tickly sensation and look down at my arm. A tiny black ant, of the adventurous Christopher Columbus sort, is feeling its way up my arm. Assiduously. Diligently. Tentatively. Feelers extended forthwith like ardent sabers. I watch it persevere upwards till it reaches my wrist, and then I extend my elbow downwards, so that it suddenly finds itself at the bottom rather than the top of my arm. Without complaint, the ant turns around and starts its uphill climb all over again. I let it climb up for a while, and then start to feel guilty about the futility I am creating in its efforts; there is enough futility in life without me actively perpetuating more. I extend my arm to a plant and nudge it gently back onto a leaf.

I wake up, bleary eyed, from an afternoon nap. The fan is whirring lazily aloft, creating a languid breeze in which the entire room seems to recede into a drowsy stupor. Still struggling through a thick somnambulistic haze, I stumble to my parents' room, where my mum is sprawled on the bed watching telly. I'm seeing her now after one and a half years, and she doesn't seem like she's aged a day. Neither of my parents, come to think of it. I hope that rate of aging is a hereditary characteristic. I snuggle up next to my mum on the bed, basking in a warm sense of homecoming. "So tell me everything about your past year," she says smilingly, and we start our hearty mother-daughter catch-up sesh.

What with Rox and Tosh finally deciding, after nigh on ten years together, to join the ranks of the betrothed, a large part of the crew is down in Bombay this month. So it's dinners and drinks and weddings and dances. Rox and Tosh have been together more than ten years now. I remember when they first got together in highschool, when Tosh was so nervous to ask Rox to the tenth grade Formal. "She'll never agree to go with me!" he'd agonised. And that was just to a dance. And now here they are, more than ten years later, on the eve of their wedding night. Telling me anecdotes about their problematic kitchen furniture. I'm thrilled by the intimacy of it all.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Winding my way down Baker Street

This time, much to my delight, Delta managed to accompany me on my brief jaunt to London. It ended up being a flurried last minute plan - some time to catch up with a few friends, and some time to ourselves showing him my old haunts in the city.

There was Macklaine and crew at Nando's. The entire crew had pitched up, as they always did, and I was touched to tears. (This is the restaurant you keep raving about?! said Delta, when he realised it was just chicken and chips.) In my normal exuberance, I suppose I might have over-hyped the restaurant just a little bit. Still, he couldn't taste in the food the sentimentalism of years and friendships and shared confidences gone by. I guess to him, it really was just chicken and chips.

And then there was Brr at the Borough Market. Brr who I hadn't met in nigh on two years, probably the longest period I'd been apart from her since we'd first met when we were twelve. And after our respectively dramatic past years, there was so much to catch up on. So much that after our bout 0f unceasing chatter (during which Delta politely ceased trying to even get a word in edgewise and simply succumbed to the listening role), there was still an air of unfinishedness.

After which there was Kostka, down at Baker street (Winding My Way down Baker Street hummed Delta as we trudged down there. Perfectly chosen song, although the tune was somewhat dubious; and while he'll undoubtedly blame this on his sore throat, I'd might prefer to postulate otherwise.) And there was the Bart and Nish, and copious amounts of dimsum. Finally, after waiting all this time, I could burst forth with all my questions about Bart's wedding. And about how they were all doing. And their jobs. And their PhDs. And their boyfriends and girlfriends and fiances and husbands. It was a hand-rubbing, smile-winning, heart-warming true girly catch-up sesh, and made me realise how much I'd missed them!

But all too soon, as is always the case, it was time to leave. There's never enough time in London. Not to meet everyone I want to. Not to absorb the familiar sights, smells and sounds of the city. Not to sink in and revel in the comfort and security of the place I still sometimes think of as home.

But of course, inevitably, I'll be back soon. Perhaps this summer. There. Feeling better already.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

A brief history of events

The expansive hiatus from the writing desk over the last few weeks was not so much for dearth of subject matter, but rather an accute absence of time. Today finds me all huddles and snuggled and, if truth be told, rather grumpy.

Mostly because of the weather's rather inconsiderate return to winter norm. I'm embarrassed to say I'd grown rather fond of the spell of global warming which was keeping temperatures in the city up in the balmy 20s (C). The warmth had lulled me into a false sense of security so that when I woke up this morning to a frosty chill, I felt somewhat the jilted lover.

But then on the other hand, what better day to stay in, hide from the world, and update ye ol' blog, eh.

A surprising amount of activity snowballed into us (me 'n' mah hood, ya know) during the last few weeks.

First, there was Doobie's surprise birthday bash. A nice intimate dinner, friends gathering at a nearby bar, an exclaiming and squealing Doobie - safe to say, it turned out exactly as planned. As all our friends gathered together at the bar, the realisation hit both Doobie and me at the same time: These were our new friends we had met over the past year. This was the life we had built for ourselves. New York really had grown into our new home. It was an overwhelming, heart-swelling, tear-welling kind of moment. If it hadn't seemed too dorky (given that it was, after all, Doobie's birthday not mine), I might have dappled in a bit of misty-eyed sentimentalism of my own.



And then, there was Thanksgiving weekend in Vermont. A perfect little chalet, a spot of winter skiing, an immaculate Thanksgiving meal (courtesy of Jenn and Sarah, I must concede), a ten-hour prolonged bout of Trivial Pursuit (never let it be said that I'm not tenacious).



Saturday, November 11, 2006

Death by wild animal

Buried here:
Ficali McPipe
(1980 - 2006)
Beloved
Killed by suicidal giraffe


A few weeks ago, as I was walking to work, I suddenly felt something falling towards me from aloft. Something large and unwieldy (like a body, the thought flashed morbidly through me), creating a descending shadow of hurtling mass. I caught the flicker of movement from the corner of my eye, and instinctively did a mental flinch. I say mental flinch because although my mind thought 'duck!!!', my body, lulled by urban life into forgetting natural survival instincts, failed to react in any way whatsoever.

Did you ever hear the story, as a child, of the squirrel that had an acorn fall on its head and thought the sky had cracked open and fallen down?

In that moment, I was the squirrel. (there is no dignity in this story).

For a moment, I thought I was dead. Then it occurred to me that if I was actually thinking about death, then I had to be alive. Then it occurred to me that I wasn't even hurt. So I took a moment to glance around. And there, lying beside me on the ground, was an ENORMOUS (almost me-sized), stuffed giraffe. Which had fallen on my head from the third floor window.

What the...?!! Who gets assaulted by a falling giraffe?! It was surreal to the point of inane hilarity.

Turns out, there's a Toys'R'Us warehouse on that street. I found this out a couple of days later when I was walking to work again (yes, despite my near death experience, I continue to follow the same path. Let it never be doubted that I'm a creature of habit), and I saw a Toys'R'Us truck in front of the very building. Unloading large things that looked suspiciously like my animalian assailant.

So then I started thinking, suppose I had died, what would my obituary read like?
Ficali McPipe, pint-sized HR bod with the most cluttered office ever seen. Regular hoarder of dried fruit, nuts and porridge from the kitchen supplies. Fanatic of summer dresses and winter hats. Killed by suicidal foam giraffe.

There's just much coolness in it all, is there? I really am the Napolean Dynamite of this world.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

The secret of winning and losing

I sulked and moped at the thought of going outside. It was stormy, billowy, skirt-raising, jeans-wetting kind of weather, but I had to go out to get the bank checks done by the end of the day. That's what you get for leaving things to the last day, I suppose.

I stopped to gaze with renewed horror at the sheeted continuum of downpour, then took a deep breath and plunged into the rain, little umbrella held aloft like a rapier. It took all of thirty seconds for the umbrella to invert and prove itself a fickle ally. Typical. Now I regret laughing at the double layered golf umbrella Bobbis and Doobie use.

So there was I, left alone against the infernal elements of nature. The classic battle - man against nature - that man is just set up to lose.

Not to be thwarted in the check-gaining objective, I persevered in my endeavours. Put on my brave face and battled against la pluie. And so I got soaked in a likely impersonation of a human sponge.

On the way back, I realised I couldn't quite continue in my office all day, with my jeans leaving puddles wherever I went, like a territorial dog. Conveniently, I came to the realization just outside a Banana Republic. So I bought myself a new pair of jeans. And socks, for they too had been victimised. And cashmere jumper, just for good measure.

Sometimes, ya just gotta lose a battle to win the war.

Friday, November 03, 2006

Appetizer Crawl

At the Restaurant Club, we decided it was time for an Appetizer Crawl. You know. Just like a bar crawl, but involving a series of restaurants insteaad. As soon as we struck upon the idea, there was a flurry of excited activity, with everyone throwing suggested venues with good apps. What restaurants had we heard were good, which ones had great ambience, what did Zagat have to say about them - the emails zipped excitedly back and forth across cyber-space. Needless to say, not too much real work was done during that planning phase.

"Hang on, hang on," Jenn had to call order to the commotion, "let's restrict it to an area, shall we? Say Soho?" And so, we finally got consensus on a group of restaurants we were all equally excited about. Jenn industriously even mapquested them all and emailed us little maps indicating all the locations.

And - what a lovely afternoon it was! Filled with gustatory indulgences and epicurious delights. The Bruno Bakery. The Casablanca Tea Room. Balthazar. The Cupping Room Cafe.

And now, tripping over ourselves in eager-beaver enthusiasm, we're planning another one - in Chelsea. Any suggestions?



Wednesday, November 01, 2006

The doorman conundrum

I was speaking to Macklaine earlier today:

Ficali: Macklaine! Macklaine! Guess what! Guess what!
Macklaine: what.
Ficali: We found a new apartment! And Guess WHAT! It's got elevators. And a doorman!
Macklaine: Hmm. A doorman? Have you thought that through? I mean, what are you going to give him for his Christmas bonus?
Ficali: Oh. Erm. $50?
Macklaine: $50 for each doorman? Isn't that a lot? Besides you're only moving in in December.
Ficali: Oh. Erm. $40?
Macklaine [winding Ficali up]: Well you dont' want to offend them straight away and get things off on the wrong foot?
Ficali: Oh. Erm, so that's a $50?
Macklaine: And are you going to learn their individual tastes and bring them back coffee each time you go out? Like Delta does?
Ficali: Eeks, I'd forgotten about that.
Macklaine: Wow you really need to think about this more seriously.

[Ficali is now in a bit of a kerfuffle about this. Somehow I'd thought our new apartment was an upgrade.]

Thursday, October 26, 2006

A moment of weakness

I woke up this morning feeling terribly homesick for London. Maybe not London itself, but my life back there. Or mostly just my friends.

It was Brr's birthday, and I knew she'd gone through a big and eventful year. It shocked me to realize how disconnected I had grown from one of my closest friends, and suddenly, being at the receiving end of an email, no matter how detailed, simply wasn't enough. Nothing was enough unless I could be there to give her an enormous hug and reassure her that life doesn't start going downhill from 26. Trust me, I'd know. And all of a sudden I just had to speak to them all.

Called the Bart first.
"Hello?""Hey, Bart, its me!"
"Are you coming to my wedding?" (the Bart is getting married in January, and imbecile that I am, I hadn't as yet responded on my attendance.)
"Well the thing is, err..., you know, I mean the wedding is in India. I don't have leave! I have to go to India in December to meet the mater & pater, can't go again in January!"
"Whatever. You better be there."
"Erm, you know, I wish I could, seriously,..."
"Whatever. You better be there."
Sigh. "Okay fine I'll come down. Hell, you are one of my closest friends after all!"
And such is how I somehow caught myself promising to go to India. Even though I wouldn't have the leave. Even though I wouldn't have the money. Still, it filled my heart and I was ecstatic. I hadnt' realised just how bad I'd been feeling till then.

I called Brr after that, knowing it would be in the middle of her birthday celebrations.
"Fishali, hi, sho gladshyou called, I mish u and nowshyou called and whenshyou coming in deshember cosh we wanna shee you!"
Something like that it sounded. That's what you get for calling someone in the middle of their celebrations, I suppose. But all the same, sounded just like ol'Brr.
"26, so old!" I told her, forgetting I'd meant to reassure.
What are friends for, eh.

After I hung up the phone with Brr, I just sat in my room staring into space for the longest time. Some of you may point out that's what I do when I'm at work every day. But this was different. This was a moment replete with the kind of emotional reminiscence that had struck me silent.

Boy, I can't wait to go back to London again in December.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

A perfect wedding

We went to a friend's wedding this past weekend. A poignantly intimate affair in a historic country mansion, in the heart of rural Vermont. The kind of wedding where only the closest friends and family were present. Where every single person there represented intimate stories and fond memories to the couple. To be honest I felt a bit of an intruder in this tearful setting, having only recently met the others present.

Still, I wouldn't have missed if for the world, having returned, as I did, with an intense myriad of emotions and memories.

Certain scenes from the weekend will always stay with me as flashes of memory.

Peeking out of the room window to a verdant view of Vermont countryside ablaze in all the hues of it's fall glory.

A long morning hike through the woods, and the moment of exhilaration when we suddenly broke into a clearing and realized we had reached the top of the mountain. Glancing up through the lattice network of leaves at patches of bright blue sky. Or down towards our feet at the velvety carpet of autumnal leaves. Gazing around us at the wooded forest, falling away down the mountainside. Silenced by the majesty of it all. At that moment, we could well have been the only people in the world.

A midnight walk through the fields, to gaze at the clustered stars, all jostling each other for sky space. And then a loose horse approached us in the dark, nuzzling up to us in much the same way we would have expected of a dog. I'll always remember that moment, standing there in the middle of the chilly field, in the overpowering darkness of the night, still in satin dress and stiletto sandals, gently petting and murmuring to the gorgeous horse.

But most strikingly of all, I was amazed by the wedding itself. The simple sophistication of it all. The sincerity of the vows, the intimacy of the guests, the tears of the groom. How warmly I was welcomed and included by everyone. The live jazz band, the late nights of wine, laughter, music and dancing. And of course, the midnight emergency kitchen raids.

During our drive up to Vermont, Delta and I had listed things in our lives that were Perfect. A song we'd heard. A food we'd tasted. Towards the end of the weekend, as celebrations were dying down, I turned back to Delta. "Now this is perfect," I indicated the wedding. He grinned. There could be no debate.

Friday, October 13, 2006

My true boss

"Ficali, have an airborne."
"But Fran, I'm not ill!"
"Have an airborne."
"Why? I don't even feel a cold coming on."
"Just have an airborne!"
"But - sigh. What's the point. Okay fine."

So I had an airborne.

"Good. Now, who takes care of you?!"
"Erm.... you?"
"Good."

Safe to say, our receptionist is the boss of me.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Pet Central

This past weekend, Doobie and I had offered to dog-sit for Sarah while she did the Avon Breast Cancer walk around New York. So while Sarah trudged and furrowed through over thirty miles of unchartered urban territory, Doobie and I volunteered to take the dog down to Central Park and laze around in the sun.

Sounded like the pleasant end of the deal. Especially since Bella really is one of the most affectionate and well-behaved dogs I've ever chanced to encounter. (Other than the fact that she doesn't realise, as she makes herself entirely at home in my lap, that she's rather the same size as me. But it's only fair to overlook the lack of spatial conception in animals, I suppose.)

And all was going so well, as we trundled through the sunshine-dappled path together, Doobie and me catching up on on the past week, and Bella sniffing the daisies or whatever had her pre-occupied.

And then the inevitable happened. The moment I'd been dreading all along. She decided to take a dump. And at once, she was transformed in my mind from a sweet angel to a depiction or horror.

And OMG OMG but she pooped some serious monster poop!!! I still find it somewhat disconcerting to conceive of a middle-sized dog doing an elephant poop.

I turned to Doobie in horror. "Erm, your turn," I said weakly, "I'll do the next one". Doobie'd never cleaned dog poop before and I thought it only fair that she learn one of life's hardest lessons.

We had wanted to get a dog ourselves, once we moved into the new apartment. Oh boy, that aint happenin' now.

Sweet Bella

Bella the Poop Monster

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Something's afoot

Yesterday, on my way home from work, I saw Salman Rushdie sitting in our local diner. Right there, in our booth. Eating his eggs scrambled, just like I do. It must be a sign. Of what, I don't know, but it must be. I mean, Salman Rushdie for crying out loud! And in my diner!

I paused to gawp through the glass storefront for a while but etiquette demanded that I move on, so after a moment, I bumbled on homewards. It did occur to me, as I picked up the mail and shuffled up the countless stairs, that seeing as I'd only seen the shiny pate of his balding head, it didn't have to be Salman Rushdie. In fact, come to think of it, it could pretty much have been any distinguished gentleman with a receded hairline.

But frankly, I still prefer to believe it was ol' Salman. In my diner, sitting in my booth, eating my eggs. It must be a sign. Not quite sure of what, but I'm right tingling with anticipatory delight.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Escape to Cape Cod

Doobie, Neha, Sarah, Jenn, Dougal, Danny, Jessica - an exhausted snack after cycling

The Provincetown seafront - stunning!


This past weekend found the entire motley crew at Cape Cod. Cerrulean skies, azure seas, golden sunshine, sandy beaches - who could ask for more. But still, if ya could believe it, there was more. There was a charming shingled cottage, an outdoor patio, a seafood barbecue, a leisurely bike ride along the seacoast. And of course, gustatory and inebriative indulgence a la Dionysus. Charming.

On the drive up, we had barely left the tenacious claws of city traffic, when we pulled over at a diner for our first pause and some dinner. Doobie and I went all out - for after all a weekend break is a weekend break - it should bear none of the constraints of real life - so appetizers, burgers, dessert (some squabbling over which one to choose, but chocolate won as always) it was. Sarah tried to be healthy, and ordered a salad, but oh boy never order a salad in a diner! We all stared at the wilted vegetation on her plate in horror. She valiantly said she was full after the meal, but then talked about grilled cheese sandwiches for the rest of the drive up the coast, so go figure.

When we finally made it to Provincetown, well into the depths of the evening, we were caught entirely off guard. Why had nobody warned us it was the flaming gay capital of the East Coast? No harm in that, of course, except that when one isn't expecting it, and one suddenly drives into a town full of trucker dudes holding hands, it can certainly elicit the odd twitch of surprize.

Not that anything like that would stop us wild souls, of course. So we biked up and down the course, with Bella, Sarah's faithful hound (and Doobie/my protege for next weekend!), galloping along beside us. We cooked up a whole seafood barbecue, and as we sat down on the patio to eat salad, salmon and skewered scallops and prawns (no hotdogs or burgers or dirty campfood in sight), we surprised ourselves by how much we were turning into our parents.

It was a long weekend, but an eventful one, and a sleepless one. As we parted ways at the end, happy but exhausted, we couldn't help already exclaiming in anticipation of our thanksgiving weekend together.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

New York Grannies

Now I'm not naturally of irritable comportment. To be sure, it takes more than the errant swashbuckler to ruffle the McPipe feathers. But I must say, the grannies of New York are somewhat driving me to the end of my tether.

About a year ago, I wrote a post about NY grannies, racing around on their zimmerframes. And I mentioned how endearing I found them. A year later, having had time to sufficiently meditate over my opinion, I must confess to a somewhat differing perspective.

More than anyone I know, I'm a lover of ye olde peoples. Their kindly eyes and dentured smiles, the white sneakers and oversized coats, the way they launch into lengthy tales of reminiscence, assuming that you too have all day to sit by them on the park bench, soaking in the sun - these are all part and parcel of being olde peoples, and I'm a lover of it all.

That is, except the New York Grannies, who are a species of their own.

Hurtling down the crowded sidewalks, zimmerframes thrust forth like weapons of mass destruction. ZimmerGrannies.

Weaving through (and over and under and within and without) the sidewalk crowds, elbows stuck out as they forge their way through the unsuspecting throngs. ZipperGrannies.

This afternoon, as I strolled peacefully towards the park to indulge in a spot of lunchtime reading in the sun, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my side. Looked down, and there was a belligerent grannie, glaring up at me over her rimmed glasses, eyes disconcertingly magnified behind the ponderous lenses. "Move it!" she barked. I was instantly irritated, but obligingly stepped out of the way. Not because maturity demanded that I dont' stoop down to her level of rudeness. Oh no, no such moral high horse for me. Mostly just because she had scared the jeebies out of me. So I stepped off her sidewalk, and she clumped angrily by.

Which reminded me of a scene Doobie had witnessed, not so long ago. A granny was crossing the avenue, when a car started to turn the same corner. Spotting Granny, the car slowed to a halt before reaching the crossing, but probably still came too close to her for her comfort. What would you have done in this situation? Given the driver a dirty look? Shuffled hurriedly on? Well, Granny stopped there in the middle of the road, brandished her cane on high in a likely Don Quixote impression (coming dangerously close to toppling over), and screamed "PHEHCK OHFF!!!" at the poor driver. Pedestrians around, New Yorkers hardened to any kind of weirdness, stopped to gawk. The driver, a New York taxi driver who's probably had guns pulled
at his head, cowered quiveringly behind his wheel.

If such be the rules of life, I'm going to have to see to it that I don't grow old in this city.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Am I not meant to own a camera?

You may recall my run of bad luck with cameras a year ago: Lost my old camera, so bought a new one, lost the new one a week later, then miraculously found the old one, so returned to status quo with the old camera, but only $500 poorer.

But what with a year having passed since that series of unfortunate events, the urge to have a new camera tugged once again at my heartstrings. And rationalism, usually the check and balance to my impulsiveness, offered little resistance. So new camera it was.

Having only recently made my first tentative forays into the world of online shopping, I was especially determined to buy my new digital camera online. The assessment and decision-making process in choosing the exact camera was elaborate, if not empirically substantive.

I asked friends and colleagues for recommendations, and the majority opinion seemed to incline towards Canon. Then I walked all the way over to BestBuy, torpedoed straight over to the Canons, and was relieved to see they were also the prettiest and smallest ones on the shelf. Then walked all the way back to the office, and indulged in a spot of internet research and informative googling. I dappled in a smidgeon of online brand comparison, just enough to sufficiently reassure myself that the Canons which were the prettiest were also reasonably competitive in function and cost.

Then I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, logged into the BestBuy site, and paid for the camera online. That's all I had to do, the trusty site informed me, and poof! the camera would appear at my doorstep in two days. So I pressed the 'confirm purchase' button and held my breath.

Five days later, I was still holding my breath.

I knew this internet shopping thing just doesn't work! I thought to myself irritably. So I logged back into my BestBuy account to track my order. And what did I find?

Razorsharp Ficali had input the 'delivery to' address as a mix of the office address (West Village) and home address (mid-town East), in an interesting melange which would lead nowhere. Yep, street number of one and postcode of the other, to create an imaginary place that existed only in the fantasy of my own mind. And in the mean time, the camera's been shuttling around conscientiously, but fruitlessly, defying geography, reality and the precision of GoogleMaps, in the black hole of the UPS.

Oh dear. I look forward to an interesting conversation with UPS tomorrow.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Some islands, you just can't leave

Delta was due to fly back from Athens on Tuesday. So Tuesday afternoon, I texted him:
Welcome back to NY!

I immediately got a response:
Still in Athens. Missed flight. Long story.

Missed his flight?? How can a pilot miss his flight?! So I shot back:
What happened?!

Plane six hours late. I went out for lunch, came back, flt left without me. Not my fault. Took other pilot from previous flight.

Oh dear. And so it came about that brave Delta, for a fault no greater than wanting a quick bite to eat, ended up missing the flight he was due to pilot. Heh! What is this world coming to.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Cirque de So-Lame

There comes a moment in all our lives when we must stand atop and afar, and gaze down at life with distanced perspective. For me, that moment was enforced from up high on the launching platform of the New York Trapeze School.

I can't remember at what point it was, when it first came upon us that we simply HAD to do the trapeze. And so, this weekend past found us, with much trepidation, shivering and quivering at the trapeze school on the Westside Highway.

"Erm," Jenn said nervously, "what if the harness breaks and we fall down from the trapeze and bounce off the safety net onto the floor and we land on our heads and we die?"
We looked at her incredulously. Not because we didn't believe that the string of coincidences was possible, but because we couldn't believe she had just spelled out our suppressed (and very rational) fears.

Of course, some of us took to it like naturals, and made the whole act seem elegant and graceful.

And then, there were, erm, others, who.... well, got a bit over-excited.

But THEN, there was the catch! The best feeling ever, to be caugh in mid-air and swung around!

Weehee! I thought, in my head. But it must have actually been out loud, cos when he put me down, the instructor shook his head and smiled, "boy, you're the noisiest trapezist I've ever seen!"

Oh.

Street smart and city slick

After much perturbed pontification and postulation, Doobie, Bobbis and I decided it was time to invest in a new bolt for the door. Then, like every bright idea, we at once were faced with an immediate seemingly unsurmountable hurde: cost. Have you seen what locks cost nowadays?! Just the basic multi-unpickable-can't-do-without-lock??! Hundreds!

I was aghast. Doobie was appalled. Bobbis was agog.

And then, as we were entering our building, Doobie and I ran into the locksmith repairing the maindoor of our building. Just coincidentally. As one does. You know.
"Hello, you," I said. "When you're done with this lock do you have the time to come see our lock too?"
"You want new bolt? Cost 350 call to my company," he said.
"No that's too expensive!" Doobie argued.
"Tell to my company," he countered.

Doobie and I glanced at eachother. Now how were we going to make the transition from where we were to getting him to do the work, for less, outside of his company? What is the next step? How does one put the proposition out there when you know its not entirely legit?

So I said very eloquently, "Erm. You know. Erm..."
But I guess that's the official language, because then he said, "If you want I do it for you myself, you no call company, and you give to me 165 no credit card only cash"

Yay!

And that's the story of how, smooth slicktalking streetsmart Doobie, Bobbis and Ficali now have a new lock on their door.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Sorry, Mr. Thief

In our run-up to our one-year anniversary in this fair city, we found ourselves faced with the quintessential New York experience. Our apartment was broken into.

Friday evening, upon returning home from work, Doobie rushed straight into my room, where I'd been beavering away industriously. "Ficali did you open my bedroom window??!"
"No, why would I?" I responded, puzzled, since I've always known how particular Doobie is about keeping her window pulled shut. We both walked back into her room, and looked at the gaping window in puzzlement.

"Oh look!" She suddenly exclaimed. "Someone's been in my room!"
And then, glancing around, "someone's gone through my stuff!"
And then, stepping in closer to examine her bed, "someone has walked on my bed with their shoes on!"

And like that, much in the same way that the three bears sleuthed their way to the realisation that their abode had been intruded upon by Goldilocks, it dawned upon Doobie and me that we too had had an intruder.

That in itself was enough to infuriate us and fill us with a sense of invaded privacy. Calm down, oh thumping hearts!

But then, upon further perusal and astute summation, we realised pretty quickly that our losses were limited. A camera, and some junk jewelry.
"Did you lose anything of value?"
"No. Did you?"
"I don't own anything of value."

Sorry, Mr. Thief, that of all the apartments you could have broken into, you ended up at one where there was nothing worth stealing. And I'm sorry you thought to take the junk jewelry but leave this dear laptop.

Heh heh.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Kiltman

We were all hanging out in Doobie's room, shootin' the breeze before the Roger Waters concert. Dougal had somehow managed to acquire tickets for us at the last minute, so there was a general feel of excitement and spontaneous thrill in the air.

"So what kind of a name is Dougal anyway?" someone asked, and we all turned to stare at Dougal questionningly.
"Erm, I think its a Scottish name, not sure where it comes from," Dougal mumbled, as he always tends to do when the subject of his name emerges (which it inevitably does often).
"Oh, I know!" I input brightly. I already had automatic authority and street cred bestowed upon me by virtue of having lived in the UK and this being a Scottish name. "A Dougal is a kind of kilt, isnt it?" Of course this was far from the truth. Of course I'd just plucked the first Scottish item that entered my mind. Sometimes, I don't know where this mental skittishness comes from.

There was a marked silence. Dougal, rough and outdoorsy character that he be, was decidedly unimpressed with his being likened to a kilt.

"No," he said, in disbelief. "That can't be!"
"Sure," I insisted persuasively. "Everyone who lives in the UK knows a dougal is a kind of kilt! Infact, its one of those designer cashmere kilts," I added with a sly grin, knowing this would be even more horrifying for him.
"I don't want to be a cashmere kilt!" he grumbled. "Ficali, are you messing with me?"
"Hey, if I was messing with you I'd have called you bagpipes, wouldn't I?"
He was still suspicious. Frankly, I'm surprised I could instil even an iota of belief. But there you go, I guess not everyone is as streetwise as yours truly. He looked at me with narrowed eyes, "I'm going to google that when I get home,".
I shrugged with feigned nonchalance. That's my fallback reaction when I don't trust my mouth to speak without laughing.

The next morning, when I checked my email, there was a note from Dougal, prompt and early: "After having done comprehensive internet research, I can say with 100% certainty that a dougal is not a scottish kilt."

Hardly to be dissuaded by such gentle rebuffs, I found myself wondering whether a dougal did actually mean anything. So I searched it on my handy ready-reckoner, www.urbandictionary.com.

Didn't really expect it to have a meaning.

But what do you know - here's what came up: A dougal: a klutz, or someone who takes a longggg time to do something that would normaly take seconds.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dougal

Poor chap! I'd have rathered believe I was named after a kilt, methinks! Oh, how its sometimes just best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Gadgets that zig but don't zag

Macklaine's about to take the plunge in abandoning his current job and embarking on a mission of cerebral expansion in the world of software development. I, as an HR bod for techie nerds, am the most excited from this swerve in life's long road. From slacker to hacker, whaddaya know. Leaps and bounds ahead of the gun as usual, I've already started envisioning a future with Macklaine and I working at the same company, perhaps him even transitioning over to lovely New York, etc etc etc.

So I've been considerably enthused (and supportive) about his java-coding studies.

And then the other day he IM'd me: "Hey Ficali, I've coded a program for a web-based calculator! Check this out!" and he sent me a link which, when clicked upon dutifullyl, opened a screen that looked like a caculator.
"Use it! Use it!" he urged.
So I typed in a tentative 2 + 2, and it threw back my way a proud and blazing 4.
"Try more complicated stuff!" he urged.
So I typed 3745.23 + 2947.79, and it instantly flourished a series of digits which I could only assume were the correct answer.
"Fantastic, Macklaine!" I enthused.

But then I got cocky, and typed in a 5 * 2.
ERROR ERROR
Eh? Macklaine? What's up with that?
"Sorry," he said sheepishly, "it, erm, doesn't multiply yet. But it adds pretty well, eh?"

Even as I emitted a hearty laugh (for one must never lose the opportunity to laugh, especially at the expense of others), I couldn't help but feel proud. I mean, who else has a friend who's built a calculator! And now that we have Excel, who needs a calculator that multiplies anyways!

Monday, August 28, 2006

Irrevocable proof

A few days ago, I wrote about my smidgen of soupcon that Richie Rich might just be infiltrating my healthy-pizza territory. What? Accuse a boss of filching your cheeseless veggie pizza?

So Macklaine took it upon himself to corroborate my suspicious with some sleuthing of his own, and came up with the following incontrovertible evidence. "I've proof that Richie Rich was nabbin' the odd slice of pizza on the sly," he pronounced.

And pointed me to a terribly scientific study of office food, politics and diplomacy: an experiment was performed where-in muffins were left lying around the office, next to money-collection boxes. The system was based on the honour system, employees were supposed to drop a dollar in the box each time they helped themselves to a muffin. A Private Eye then recorded happenings, to report a strong reverse correlation between employee seniority and infringement of the honour code of ethics. Basically, the study said, senior executives were most likely to steal muffins, while the baser minions tended to pay up the honest dollar.

Irrevocable, incontrovertible, undeniable proof

Friday, August 25, 2006

The hare and the tortoise

Both Delta and I were frowning at the board in fierce concentration. An intense Scrabble game was in play, with words and letters forging through, around, over and under each other, creating a delicate linguistic filigree. (And I don't use the term delicate lightly - twice already, we had accidentally shaken the table and thrown all the letters askew).

We'd eaten through most of the letter-collection, with only a handful of letters remaining in play. "You're blatantly going to kick my ass," Delta said, glancing over at the scorechart. I looked at the scores, and true, I was averaging somewhat higher numbers than he was. Averaging more than Delta! I certainly hadn't expected this. I puffed out my chest in pride, and succumbed immediately to the eternal faux-pas (cockiness) of the youthful inexperienced. With only a few letters left, it was pretty much a fait-accompli.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Delta came up with an 85-point word (I didn't even know there were such words!), and blew his competition (ie me) right out of the water. Whacked me out of the playing field. Lobbed me out of the tennis court. You get the idea. Who stores their Z's right till the end anyway?!

"Oh." I was crestfallen.

I hate sneaker-uppers.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Food, politics and diplomacy

Once a week, the office orders in pizza for lunch. Now, pizza is somewhat far from being my food of choice. It has far too much bread, far too little vegetable, and a revolting amount of cheese.

And sometimes, in life, one must look out for oneself, must one not? So I put in a special request with Fran. "When you order the catering, Fran," I grovelled in my sweetest tone, "could you please order me a veg one with no cheese?"
"Sure thing, hon."
And so I've been able to pull off a 'healthy pizza' miracle for a while now. Then suddenly, since the last two months, I noticed that someone else had been eating my healthy pizza. I'd get to the counter, and my specially ordered veg-no-cheese pizza would be gone!

I wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation, when I suddenly heard Richie Rich mention the other day that he was on a diet. My razorsharp mind at once put two and two together, and I turned to him with narrowed eyes.
"You haven't been eating my pizza, have you? Order your own!"
He laughed, but one can never trust a laughing boss.

I guess it isn't a wise idea to accuse your general manager of connery and thievery. I wonder how this will play out in my performance review due next month.

Friday, August 11, 2006

HR humour

The other day, I posted the following sign on my office wall:

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY: Company Policy
Dress Code
It is advised that you come to work dressed according to your salary. If we see you wearing Prada shoes and carrying a Gucci bag, we assume you are doing well financially and therefore do not need a raise. If you dress poorly, you need to learn to manage your money better, so that you may buy nicer clothes, and therefore you do not need a raise. If you dress just right, you are right where you need to be and therefore you do not need a raise.
Sick Days
We will no longer accept a doctor's statement as proof of sickness. If you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work.
Personal Days
Each employee will receive 104 personal days a year. They are called Saturday & Sunday.
Toilet Use
Entirely too much time is being spent in the toilet. There is now a strict three-minute time limit in teh stalls. At the end of three minutes, an alarm will sound, the toilet paper roll will retract, the stall door will open, and a picture will be posted on the company bulletin board under the "Chronic Offenders cagetory". Anyone caught smiling int eh picture will be sanctioned under the company's mental health policy.
Okay. I'm prepared to accept that perhaps this is only funny to an HR bod. I'm even prepared to accept its possibly bordering on inappropriate for an HR bod. But seriously? The amount of people who have now asked me if the policy above is for real, I'm a bit worried about the overall intellectual faculties of our staff.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Camping pictures

Sunset walk on the beach

Gazing out to sea

Walking by the beach


Burgers by the campsite


Playing horseshoes

View of the sound

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Urban Hillbillies

There was much excitement and kerfuffle about our camping trip to Long Island sound last weekend.

First there was the consternation over comfortable sleeping arrangements. "I think we should take at least 18 blankets to sleep on," I said. "You know, just to make sure we're comfortable there on the ground."
"Puhlease!" Delta responded, "this is camping!" But then a few minutes later, he ventured, "erm, do you think we should take an airbed?"
Doobie just rolled her eyes.

Then there was the last minute panic of buying Doobie a new bikini. We raced out to the stores, only to discover that that the fashion world had already progressed to autumn collections. We stared in dismay at the dwindled racks of summerwear. "There's only size 25s left!!!!" she wailed. But after much scrutiny, and some debate as to the vices and virtues of board shorts vs. boy shorts, we finally managed to feel appropriately attired for the event. I even bought a pair of shorts with ladybirds on then, just to blend in to the picnic atmosphere.

On the drive over, Delta and I started to play word-games to kill the time. The game was simple - we'd come up with a category, and then compete on who could name more items belonging to that category. In that manner, we exhausted our knowledge repositories on famous female writers, deciduous trees, and famous historic discoverers (conquerers like Alexander the Great were allowed because they must have discovered as they conquered). "Okay now your turn to come up with a category," Delta told me.
"Okay. Marsupials."
"Kangaroo!" he input.
"Oppossum!"
"Wallaby!"
*silence*
"Erm. Seahorse?"
He turned to stare at me.
"What?! They have pouches!" I said defensively.

Before we knew it, we were there, and it was time to pitch the tents. When Metrohom had lent me his tent, he'd cautioned that it might be difficult for me to figure out how to pitch it. "Don't worry, Delta will know!" I'd said confidently. With the type of confidence that can only come before a fall. It was only when Delta had spent fifteen minutes trying to pitch the rainfly instead of the tent that I realised the error of my judgement :)

The camping itself, of course, was fantastic. There was a barbecue and burgers.
There was a campfire and smores (I stared in horror at the white sticky smores until Jenn made me one without the marshmellow).
There was a voda-infused watermelon (none of us realised that the vodka would evaporate so quickly. So basically, after the first 5 minutes, there was just a watermelon).
There was general gamboling in the sea, and a two hour walk along the beach.
And there was sunshine and blue waters, as far as the eye could see.

All in all, a fantastic weekend (pictures to follow).

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Am I really a monster?

Doobie (Chief Eating Officer), Jenn (Events Organizer), Sarah (Wine Sommelier) and I (Membership Consultant) were sitting at an outdoor table in a little Mexican restaurant in the West Village, one of our Restaurant Club events.

A young couple strolled by, pushing along a happily gurgling baby in a pram. The baby was contentedly self-entertained, smiling and waving and gurgling and drooling as babies are wont to do. What an adorable little critter, I thought to myself, feeling the first nascent tugs of maternal instinct. Just then, the baby fixed me with its heart-melting eyes.

I swear to you, it looked at me. All the other people around, and it chose me upon whom to bestow its beatific smile.

Omg it chose me, I thought. Me. All these other bods around, and it still chose to smile at ME. Must be that babies just naturally love me! I couldn't help but feel a welling of pride.

Then I did that horrible thing that all adults are reduced to when faced with a smiling baby. I put on that ridiculous expression on my face, somewhere between a look of wide-eyed surprise and a frighteningly toothy grin. Personally, I thought I looked dead cute. Just what the doctor ordered for that little golden child. I thought. Personally.

But suddenly, with no further instigation whatsoever, the baby burst out crying. Not the I'm-hungry-give-me-baby-goonk kind of crying. Not the oh-dear-I-just-pooped-myself kind of crying. Oh no.

This was a terrified shrieking Mum-I've-seen-a-monster kind of bawling. With a finger pointed right at me. Shrieking screeching screaming squawking.

I was horrified (the baby continued pointing at my face and screaming bloody murder).
The parents looked stricken. "I'm so sorry," the mum mouthed at me. (The screaming continued unabated. How do babies have such lung capacity anyway? They'd make great divers.)
I glanced over at Doobie, she was doubled up in laughter (wait till this happens to her one day!).

The parents hastily wheeled the pram down the block (the baby continued to peep round the corner, and point at me and wail).

WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FACE?!!!

Maternal instincts be damned.

Curly mops

Have you ever kept your hair tied up in a hasty knot for multiple days in a row? I finally let my hair down this morning, after a three-day marathon.

The results are - uhmm - interesting.

I now somewhat rue the day I mentioned to Macklaine that his hair looked like a curly mop. Funny how things come back at ya.


This link ain't goin nowhere

I was about to send out one of my email reminders to 'All employees', reminding them of our usual Wednesday Social. I mean, seriously. It's somewhat ludicrous that these folks need their HR Bod to coax them out for basic imbibition. But far be it from me to complain or shirk from duties of such earth-shattering gravity.

Any of you guys planning to go out this evening? I first sent out a preliminary note to the regular office social butterflies - Seagull, Danby, Schaffs, Li'l Rob and crew. Only when a few of them responded in the enthusiastic affirmative did I email out the official invite to the rest. This way at least I'd be assured of some engaging company. Heh heh heh, conniving conspiring contriving HR Bod.

A group was already assembled in the bar by the time I ambled over. "So," Schaffs said as I tried to assess the nature of the conversation and where I could make my strategic entry, "why don't you tell us all about your blog, Ficali?"

My eyes almost popped out of my head.

My blog, what with references to Big Boss M, Richie Rich, Danby, Schaffs, Seagull, and (most importantly) all sorts of dubious insights into my character, is strictly not to be shared in the work environment.
"heh heh, what blog?" I said weakly, casting about a look which was supposed to make obvious to the rest that Schaffs was off his rocker. And maybe the strategy would have worked, if I actually had a modicum of credibility amongst these darned folks.

But instead all eyes were instantly riveted to the laughing Schaffs. What blog? What's it about? Our HR Bod knows what a BLOG is? How can we read it? Their popping eyes were saying.

Schaffs was basking in the undivided attention. "It's a blog about ass-grabbing!" He said. The curious looks turned to saucer eyes. I had to defend myself. So I told them the story of last year's Halloween party in Philly, and the unfortunate incident of the butt-pocket tale.
"Man! We have to find this site! What's the link?!" One of them asked.
"I'm NOT distributing the link to my blog," I said firmly. Decisively. Finally. Unequivocally.

Forgetting they were tech guys.

"That's okay we'll just google HR+Barcelona+pilot+New York and it'll be easy enough," was the response.
I don't think that would work (would it????), but at as we all know, I'm hardly the authority on the subject of technological forays.

Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Friday, July 28, 2006

Fractious fruit men

"Have you ever noticed," Delta mused the other day, "how the fruit sellers on street corners are always so unfriendly?"
"Huh?" I had to confess, observant though I may be of the nuances in life, the assessment of fruitseller dispositions had slipped by me.
"Seriously," he pressed on. "I go to the same fruit guy every morning, and I greet him every time, and he doesn't even acknowledge me!"
"Does he recognise you?" I snickered at Delta's personal affront.
"Obviously." We were passing the fruit cart by Delta's apartment right then, and he threw the fruit seller a dirty look for good measure. "It's just so frustrating!" he pressed on, "why can't they just be friendly!"
"What about your new apartment? You've got a new fruit man now."
Delta gave a dramatically tragic sigh. "He's just the same."

"Grumpy Grape guy," he said.
"Pugnacious pineapple guy," I rejoined.
"Ornery orange guy."
"Stroppy strawberry guy."
And so we continued until we had exhausted our fruit and adjectives. At least it made us feel better.

This morning, I stopped to pick up fruit at a corner fruit cart on my way to work. I decided to put the observation to test.
"Hello!" I wished the fruitseller brightly.
Grunt.
"Thanks," I added, as he handed me my fruit in sulky silence.
Grunt.
"Okay you have a good day then," I concluded our conversation mutually, in a reversal of customer service etiquette.

What is wrong with them?! This is even worse than the subway staff (and I have a personal bone to pick with the subway staff). Must be something they are taught in fruitschool.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

End of birthday celebrations

Delta called in a panic on Saturday.
"So you know those tickets to Wicked that I bought, that we're supposed to go to tomorrow?"
"Yeeeesss....?"
"Well I bought them online. You know. Like from a website."
"And?"
"And I haven't received them yet! What if the website was a dupe? I mean, I just paid so much money and now maybe we'll never receive those tickets. I should never have bought them online! And what if -"
"Hang on a sec. Was there a number? Did you call them?"
"Yes and the guy even sounded so nice on the phone!" he agonised.
"Don't worry, it'll work out in the end," I consoled, ever the sage counsel of a person advocating inaction.

And somehow, miraculously (ie due to Delta's persistence), it did.

So Sunday afternoon, Delta and I jumped excitedly into a cab inching painfully through the traffic towards theatre-land. And boy, was Wicked worth the cost and time and stress! Witty, sharp, engaging, ostentatious, all the things one would look for in a broadway performance. And, as Delta pointed out, it scared the kids in the theatre into silence.

We squinted happily into the sunlight as we exited the theatre after the show was over.
"Fancy walking over forty blocks to the Boat Basin?" I asked.
And so we ambled leisurely over to the riverside bar for a bit. And then to Calle Ocho for a lovely Spanish meal.

"Thanks a million for all that," I said, as when we were safely ensconsed in the taxi back home. "It was a lovely day."
"Anytime," he smiled down at me. "But for the record, your birthday is now officially over. No more celebrating."
"Oh." I was downcast for a moment. Then I cheered up: "But my half-birthday's only six months away!"

Suspiciously, I got no response.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Hop and step, across the pond

It seems like months ago now, when Doobie, Delta and I first had the idea of going down to Barcelona over the summer. Doobie had wanted to go travelling. She wasn't quite sure where, but just knew she wanted to travel.
"Where should I go?" she'd asked me.
"Spain," I'd responded without hesitation.

And as she busied herself thinking of tickets and transport and reservations, I felt myself growing envious. I couldn't bear the thought of her being down in Barcelona, the city which had so stolen my heart, while I was stuck at home.

"Err... maybe I'll come down to Barcelona with you," I'd ventured.
"Let's go for your birthday!" Doobie rejoined.

And then we'd turned to Delta.
"Say... you fly down to Barcelona pretty often, don't you?"
"Uh-huh."
"Fancy coming down while we're there?"
"I can certainly try."
"Fancy being the pilot on our flight if we fly Delta?"
"I can certainly try."
And we'd beamed at each other with childish excitement.

And so it came to be that Doobie, Delta and I, not too much later, found ourselves heading across the li'l pond to lovely Espagna.

There were moments of mortification, like when all the passengers had boarded the plane, and Delta announced over the PA system, "I'd like to extend a special welcome to one of our passengers, Ficali McPipe, who will be celebrating her birthday in Barcelona...". I would have heard the rest if I hadn't been busy praying the seat would swallow me up.

There were moments of terror, as we took a cablecar ride, dangling precariously hundreds of feet over a ravine, to the mountain top monastery of Montserrat. Delta and I, both terrified of heights, were needless to say little consolation to each other.

And there were moments of agony, like when Doobie and I tried to navigate the city on foot, sin mapa, and ended up walking hours in dismally wrong directions.

But I struggle to remember those moments. What sticks in my head was the continuous warmth, laughter and relaxation. The beachside strolls. The champagne picnic in Parc Guell. Sitting out in the placas till four in the morning, and then going home to fall asleep over an episode of House. The delicious birthday meal ("best restaurant in Barcelona," Noori promised, and asked the waiter in the same breath, "can we get some extra dessert for free please? It's Ficali's birthday." And we did.).

Just like a dream.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Home decor

What with Delta moving into his new apartment, I obviously offered to do my bit to help.
"Well it would be great if you could use your lady's touch and give me advice on decor," he said. Which at once put me in a state of panic. Suddenly I felt like my womanhood was being put to test.
"Jeet! Help!" I called her. "I don't have an artistic bone in my body."
"Why are you asking me for help of all people?!" she questionned.
"Because you've done such a great job with your apartment!"
"Oh dear. You really don't have a sense of taste do you."

That's how dire the situation was.

So this afternoon we schlepped over to the nearby Bed, Bath and Beyond. And seriously - is it strictly necessary to have 8000 different types of towels, sheets and curtains? In every shade of colour conceivable, in every thread count conceivable, with stripes, without stripes, in damask pattern, non-absorbent, slightly absorbent... it had our heads spinning. When we finally got to the towel section, we stood in silent awe, gazing at the walls lined with different types of towels. I picked one that I thought was a nice shade. "What about this?" I held it up to him.
"Nice colour, but its too cheap at $14, it won't be absorbent."
"But the only other towels cost $16," I pointed out.
"Let's get those then, hopefully they'll be better."

The only thing we were decisive about - a nice set of blinds, they did not have in stock. Go figure.

Friday, July 07, 2006

Choosing a new laptop

"Metrohom, can you help me choose a new laptop please?"
He looked at me. "Sure, tell me some of the specs you're looking for."
"Eh?"
Sigh. "You know, like size and weight and speed and memory and stuff like that."
"Oh that. Why didn't you just say so."
He rolled his eyes.

"Okay, size?"
"I definitely want a small one."
"Like super small? Like do you have a tiny desk you keep it on?"
"Well, actually I leave it on our dining room table."
"The dining room table! So space isn't really an issue? So you don't really need a very small one then...?"
"No, I guess not."

"Okay, weight?"
"Definitely a light one."
"Like super light? Are you going to travel a lot with it?"
"No not really. I mean, I'll move it from the dining room table to the bedroom sometimes, but that's about it..."
"Right. So I wouldn't really call weight a big issue then, would you?"
"No I guess not, not really."
Sigh.

"So is there anything about the specifications that you are particular about?!"
"Well, to be honest I just want something that's pretty fancy. And fast. And slick. You know. Hehe."
An exaggerated sigh. "You just have no clue what you want, do you?"

What's the point of having a tech guy help you out if you just can't speak the same language.

Monday, July 03, 2006

Old traditions















A quick glimpse into the weekend down in good ol' Londres.

When we made plans to meet on Saturday night for dinner, my first question was - "Can we do Pizza Express please?!". A deviation would have been unheard of. After all, for several years we had all religiously gone to the same restaurant each week. And ordered the same food. Routine and ritual are everything - ask any old and wise soul.

So last weekend found Stew, McSlurp, Macklaine and me in Pizza Express. "What's everyone going to have?" I glanced around questionningly.
"Same," said Stew
"Same," confirmed McSlurp.
"Same," nodded Macklaine.
I beamed at them. It was just as though I'd never even left.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Secret pleasures

The Finance Manager stormed into my office this morning. Slammed the door shut behind him with a resonating wham.

I looked up questionningly. Calmly. (That's what I do as an HR bod, sit there like a sedate sloth).

"I can't believe these people!" he raged.
I raised my eyebrows.
"We've got to quit offering free food in our kitchen. The staff here eat so much! We're burning through thousands of dollars in free food every week!"
"It's ridiculous," I said. "The amount people are willing to eat, just cos it's free." I shook my head incredulously.

"I knew you'd understand." Done with his rant, he gave me a curt nod and stormed back out and away.

I poked my head around the corner. Made sure that he had gone safely back to his desk. And snuck to the kitchen to grab another packet of dried fruit and nuts.

Heh heh heh.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Ficali McPipe, Olympic Heroine


Let it forever be known, that there was a hero (super human, practically) who completed 5k in the Corporate Challenge last Thursday. On the hottest day in the history of the world. Amongst an asphysixiating 10,000 other people. Through hell and high waters.

And emerged triumphant.

Well, emerged alive, anyway.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Automation

Welcome to American Airlines Automatic Reservations System. Are you looking to make a flight reservation? Say 'Yes' or 'No'.
"Yes"
I heard 'yes'. Is that correct?
"Yes"
Please tell me your departure location.
"London"
I heard Chicago. Is this correct?
"No"
Please tell me your departure location.
"London"
I heard Chicago. Is this correct?
"No"
Sorry, I can't understand you. Would you like to speak to a representative?
"Yes"
I heard 'yes'. Is that correct?
"Yes"
Sorry, there is no representative available. Would you like to try again?
"No"
I heard 'yes'. Is that correct?
"No"
Sorry, I can't understand you. Would you like to try again?
"I WANT TO SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE!!!!"
Sorry, I can't understand you. Would you like to try again?

GAH.

Ironic

I've been particularly proud of myself - I signed up for the JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge, a 5k run in Central Park. Seasoned runners will naturally pshaw at my creating such a palaver over just 5k, but this is the first time I've entered into an official run - I do have the right, don't I?

I've been doing little practice jogs on the treadmill in my gym, and I figure, if I can run 5k on a machine, through the din of my ipod + gym music + gym TVs, watching myself in horror on the mirrored walls, surreptitiously checking out the other joggers in envy, then I can definitely pull it off in the relative freshness of Central Park. Right?

But I've been setting stringent expectations with my colleagues: "Will probably end up walking the whole thing, heh heh," I kept saying. The strategy being they'd be blown away when I coolly jogged (maybe even with a dramatic sprint for the final bit!) the entire race. Fool proof strategy. Right?

This is how I establish my self-proclaimed heroism.

So, today is D-day. And what happens? I wake up in the morning with a terrible cold, coughing and spluttering about, feeling like the living dead. A firm dose of cough syrup, and I'm moonwalking about the office. Energy and adrenaline are just wishful pipedreams.

Dammit. Now I AM going to have to walk through the entire bloody race. And my colleagues will never know that I could have jogged it, any other day. Dammit. I will forever remain the undiscovered hero.

Monday, June 19, 2006

A useful use of time

Everything was going just so well, perfectly skimming along, until this afternoon. And then, I was overcome with a sudden, overpowering, debilitating, intoxicating craving for a brownie. Just-HAD-to-have-one-or-I'd-DIE kind of overpowering.

So I poked my head surreptitiously out of my office door. There's usually some enticing little teatime indulgence lying around near the kitchen area. And indeed - there was a plate of brownies on a table outside one of the meeting rooms.

Casually, I strolled towards, and past, the brownies, tryng to scope out the area. Were they meant for someone in particular? Would someone reprimand me if they caught me sneaking a brownie off the plate? It wouldn't do at all to have the HR bod caught filching food.

A quick walk (feigned stroll) with an air of affected nonchalance to and fro in the general vicinity of the brownie plate revealed that (a) the brownies were for the group having a meeting in the room; and (b) the fact that they were not paying attention to the brownies meant in my mind that it was a free for all. So, very slowly, very casually (no one could have guessed my intentions, honestly), I approached the brownie table. Glanced at the people in the meeting room, all intently staring at their screens. Glanced left and right down the corridor. Felt my hand drawn, as though by an external force beyond my control, towards the plate.

And the meetingroom door opened and the party burst forth. "Let's take a break for a brownie snack!" I heard one of them say in general congenial chatter. Stupid nonce.

I quickly withdrew my hand, stood up to my full height, and headed off back to my office, as though that's where I'd been going anyway. I gave an over-exaggerated glance at my watch and muttered about how late I was, for the benefit of anyone who might have been listening.

And then got back to my room and realised I was still craving something sweet. Supremely irritated by the somewhat pathetic timing which had rendered me brownie-less, I decided a quick jaunt to Starbucks to fulfill my craving was in tall order. Schlepped over to the one on Greenwich, stood patiently in the queue, finally reached the front of the line, got an expectantly questionning look from the young lady in the cash register, and suddenly realised I wasn't craving it anymore.

"Uh, nothing." I told her, stepped out of the line, did my little routine about looking at the watch and muttering how late I was, and headed back to the office. Just how I'd intended for the day to go. One hour later, and still on square one.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Living dangerously

The other day, just as Bobbis and I were commiserating with each other about our sweltering apartment, the pleasant UPS fellow delivered the new AC I had bought. When I call him pleasant, I don't say so lightly, because I couldn't think of how else to describe someone who can haul an AC up a five-floor walk-up and still deliver with a smile.

Once we'd gotten over the momentary excitement and elation of having an AC in our possession, it dawned on us pretty quickly that we had no idea how to install it, and even if we had known, we couldn't even lift the darned thing.

I let out an audibly worried sigh, entirely intended for Delta's ears, seeing as he was lounging about the place aimlessly anyways. Delta, who astutely picked up on my subtle hint, gave an audible sigh himself. And then (thankfully) set about being the man and doing the right thing (ie took care of everything to install the AC for us). For which, of course, we are eternally grateful.

And I was introduced to a new New York snippet of knowledge: the Window AC.
The Window AC, which looks like a carton and weighs like a ton, is fit into the window and then held in place only by the sliding down window pane itself. No fancy installation, no supporting beams. Nope, just raise the window pane, fit the AC into the open space, and then jam down the pane on top of the AC so that it doesn't have room to fall out. And it balances there like that, 90% of its ponderous weight hanging off your window ledge. Five floors above the street outside.

Does that sound secure to you??!!!

I looked at the new AC dubiously.
"That's it?" I asked Delta. "Doesn't that look unstable? What if it falls out?"
Delta glanced at me in alarm. "It won't, of course. Because you're not going to raise the window are you? Not even an inch. ARE you?"
I shook my head.
"Because if you do," he continued, "it will surely fall down five floors onto the head of a passerby below."
Suddenly I didn't want the AC right in my window anymore. It seemed like having a nuke in my bedroom or something.

Yesterday, as I walked to work, I stopped in a narrow street, buildings towering on either side of me. Glanced up at each building, the smooth walls divided into contiguous squares of windows, like vertical waffles. And in each window, a little AC overhanging the street, waiting to fall out. Instinctively I stepped towards the road, away from the building beside me, incase one should fall on my head. And realised I was almost in firing distance from the building on the other side.

The only safe place to walk now, if you ask me, is bang in the middle of the road.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Change, it comes in all shapes and sizes

Life at work has been particularly tumultuous in recent days. Big Boss M is moving into another role in the company, and won't be my boss any longer. He called me into his office a few days ago to let me know, and I at once recoiled in shock and horror.

"So I won't be your manager any longer," he concluded his explanation.
"What! I quit."I said firmly. Half the reason I love my job is because of Big Boss M's kindly presence.
"Don't be silly," he admonished. "You're going to have a new manager, Richie Rich. I don't know him very well, but he seems great."
"Richie Rich...." I rolled the name about in my mind to get a sense for it. Then, "I don't like him," I declared emphatically.
"Isn't that a bit immature?" Big Boss M pointed out, "I mean, you haven't even met him yet."
"Yes but he's not you! He's going to be just awful, and I'll hate working with him."
Big Boss M simply rolled his eyes, which, for some inexplicable reason, seems to be how all our conversations end.

So I had decided from the onset that I would hate Richie Rich. He was going to be a cruel, incompassionate capitalist, and all joy would be sucked out of my working life forever, and he wouldn't find humour in the odd facial expressions I make when I'm thinking, and things would just never be the same. I moped about with an expression of doom and gloom for a while.

Then Richie Rich came into the office the other day to meet me. Over a coffee, we sat down for an hour, tentatively getting to know each other. Each evaluating, judging and categorising everything about the other.

It took me all of five minutes to realise that despite my own stubborn insistence, I found myself liking him instantly. I'd hate to admit it to anyone, but he was warm, funny, energetic, bright - just about everything I'd want in a new boss. Despite myself, I discovered a smile plastered across my face.

Okay, so maybe it won't be so bad after all.

Friday, June 02, 2006

The games people play

This morning, for no rhyme or reason, I remembered an incident from a couple of years ago:

Trring, trring.

"Hello?"
"Macklaine? What's the number of British Rail, to make ticket reservations?"
"01457 662 4201"
"Great. Thanks!"

Trring, trring.

"Hello?"
"Hi, I'm calling to make train reservations please."
"Eh?"
"One ticket, London Paddington to Stonehouse, June 23rd, 6.30 pm Great Western Express. Do you have anything available?"
"Eh?!!"
"Ermm....."
"Ficali? Is that you??!" Incredulous voice on the phone.

Oh gawd oh gawd oh gawd.

"Erm. Macklaine's Dad?"

"Hi! How are you?! Good to hear from you again! And why are you calling me about train tickets?!"
"Oh never mind, I'm just confused. Good to speak to you too!"
"But why are you calling about train tickets?!"
....

Trring, trring.

"Hello?"
"Macklaine, you arse. Did you just give me your Dad's number and say it was for British Rail?!"
"Heh heh, heh heh."
"Gawd how juvenile."
"Hehehe heehee ha ha HA HA HA HAHAHA!!!"

Oh no how am I ever going to live this one down.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

One lives and learns (but no promises on the learning)

So, I was very conscientious about archiving all my emails into a PST file that I saved on the network. At first, I was the typical kind of sceptic that thought that kind of thing was a waste of time - you know - the impetuous brashness of youth and all that malarky.

But then my computer crashed, including all the information, and I was mighty glad for the wise old owl who had advised me to back up my emails on the network.

And then, when my computer was finally repaired, I could just re-import the PST file into my Outlook - like so - and there were all my old emails, fine and dandy.

But did you know its possible to import the PST file into the wrong part of your mailbox, so that it busts your mailbox size limit, and you can't receive/send emails anymore? Me neither. This world of technology befuddles and confuddles me.

Anyways, so there I was sitting, happy as pie. Wondering why I hadn't received any emails today, but not questionning it too hard, because it meant less work to be done. And one should never tempt fate, right? So the lack of emails in my inbox was the last thing on my mind when Big Boss M popped his head into my office this afternoon.

"Did you know you're not receiving emails anymore???!" he asked.
"Oh, really?" I was surprised.
"You need to get it checked out!" he exclaimed. "Anyway, here's the gist of the important emails I sent you this morning." And he handed me a little pile of post-its, each neatly listing my to-do actions.
"Oh. Thanks." Bless his dear heart.
He sighed. "Get that mailbox checked," he suggested, and as he headed off back in the direction of his own office, I could still hear him muttering something about mailboxes and not receiving emails.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Mid Summer Night('s) Mare

After several months of incessant complaining about the cold, I have made an absolute change of direction, like a fickle breeze, and started complaining about the heat. (I maintain in my defence, that as an unfortunate product of the confused and spoilt Generation Y, acting in this capricious and whimsical manner is my absolute prerogative. In fact I'd even go so far as to suggest that it is my obligation.)

Summer hath unleashed herself upon us in all her fury, and obviously Doobie and I had had neither the foresight nor the initiative to prepare in advance for the advent of tropical heat. And so it comes to be that this weekend found us complaining in our kitchen as we steadily melted into puddles of perspiration (because women perspire, they don't sweat, oh no).

"We should have bought fans," I lamented, as though it were no longer an option.
"We still can," Doobie pointed out, sometimes (though not always) the practical one.
"Maybe we should just get those air cooler things, like they have in India!" I brainwaved.
"Erm. Ahem," Delta interjected. "I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur on this subject, and I've never seen anything like that in the US." I threw him a glare, my preferred response to conceding that he might have a point and I might be wrong.
Bobbis entered the room. "We should just get air conditioners," She emphasised.
And that was that.

So this morning I set about the arduous task of browsing through websites to find the perfect AC for my room. Definitely something white. Definitely something small. Definitely something affordable. That was pretty much all the specifications I had in mind when I started. And then the websites threw me for a loop. There was all sort of numbers - 5,000 BTU, 13x36 inches, etc. It would be typical of me to end up buying something that didn't fit in my window or wall socket. So I resorted to some reasonable guesstimation. Stretched out my arm in front of me and squinted in an attempt to gauge how long it was. Hmm - maybe a foot and a half from shoulder to finger tips. Thought back to my window - probably an arm and a quarter in length. So basically 36 inches sounded about right.

So I bought the darned thing.

I'm excited that I'll have an AC delivered sometime within the next few days - salvation from this heat is nigh! Now all I have to hope is that it actually fits in the window. Minor details.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

The underground OCD club

I reckon I'm a pretty neat person, although not compulsively so. I mean, I'm not the type of person who is distracted into cleaning imaginary specks of dust from the tabletop as you're trying to hold a normal conversation with them. Or the type of person who is obsessively polishing their glasses all the time. (Polishing the phone, I will have you all know before you jump down my throat, is an entirely different matter. Entirely.)

So I was more than slightly non-plussed when Delta happened to notice my shoe collection the other day, all lined up neatly against the wall, and took it upon himself to start laughing at me. "Look at them!" He spluttered, "they're arranged like little soldiers, all standing up at attention side by side!"
Suddenly, I felt embarrassed about the neat row of shoes I'd been so proud of. I quietly reached over with my toe and nudged one of my boots into toppling over, so that there was a modicum of disarray (and therefore normalcy) in the ranks. Since then, every morning I glance over at my shoes and make sure that there is at least one turned over, or out of order, in the row. And that little display of disorder, while on the one hand irking my sensibilities, on the other offers me comfort. At least then I don't feel like I treat my shoes like soldiers anymore.

But I have to confess, during this week staying at Seattle, I believe I have stumbled upon my secret soulmate. The lovely lass who cleans my room has a shoe compulsion that pulls on my heartstrings. When I return to my room in the evening, not only is the bed made, as I'd have expected. Also, my shoes are arranged in a row by the wall, in height order, just so. And all my toileteries have been reorganized on the shelf, side by side, in a perfect row, even in ascending height order. And my laptop has been shifted so that its corner aligns perfectly with the corner of the desk. And my notebook has been placed on my laptop, so that the corners align perfectly. And I'm sure if I had more of an eye for detail, I'd notice more such peccadillo(e?)s all over the room.

Out of habit, I kick one shoe awry, to create the look of deliberate messiness that is so the rage these days. So that I don't feel like I'm treating them like soldiers. But for the most part, I have to confess, her orderliness makes me feel dead good.

Monday, May 22, 2006

I better be earning some instant karma points

Some confounded rule of the universe has dictated that, from all the 300 passengers on a plane, I always find my seat next to the one over-sized person who needs an extension seatbelt and 1.5x the seatspace. Predictable as sunshine.

Which means, inevitably, that I find myself with .5x the economy seatspace (being such that seatspace is a decidedly finite quantity). And sometimes, its easier to just succumb than to fight the laws of the universe. And so it comes about that I have learnt to contort myself, in a Cirque de Soleil fashion, into shapes and sizes that can fit into half an economy plane seat.

This morning, on my flight to Seattle, life threw me a further hurdle. You know. Just for fun.

I had the middle seat. Podgy chap on the right who was merrily overflowing into my seat per usual. Irritating? Of course. But what could I tell him? To wear a corset? So I meekly made him some extra room and shifted to the extreme left side of my seat.

On my left was a fellow who promptly fell asleep, within a minute of taking off, and then his head kept rolling onto my shoulder. At first a soft dip of the head which would automatically wake him up, and he would flash me an apologetic smile. And then again. And again. And then his head would just stay there, comfortably lodged on my shoulder, until I lost patience and gave my shoulder a gentle shrug. Irritating? Of course. But then I remembered the time I myself exploited an unsuspecting stranger's shoulder not so long ago. And I thought how quickly what goes around comes around. (Like a door you throw open too fast which slams back at your nose). And I remembered that the stranger whose shoulder I had fallen asleep on had been nice enough not to censure me. And I thought about how, when one is given something gratuitously by life, like the kindness of a stranger, it's important to pass the favour on. So I tolerated the lolling head.

And that brings me to where I am now. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Between a rock and a hard place. Between the frying pan and the fire. Squashed in the left half of an Economy seat. With a guy on my right pouring into my seat. And a guy on my left periodically falling asleep on my shoulder.

Somehow, in the midst of all this, with four more hours till we land, trying to find a perspective that will allow me to see the positive. Like an instant accumulation of karma points.

Our first Non-BBQ

What with Ilajna planning a five month hiatus from the rigours of New York, we had, at first planned to organise a rooftop barbecue by way of a leaving do. However, on discovering that fire regulations prohibited us from having a BBQ in our building, we had to re-think the plan. Ultimately, we decided to hold a non-BBQ, which, conceptually similar to a non-wedding, has all the trappings of a BBQ (music, rooftop, sunshine, sangria, food) without the actual BBQ itself.

In the run-up to the non-BBQ, my friends surpassed themselves in their industriousness. Ilajna and Doobie spent the three preceding days in a flurry of activity - planning the menu, drafting numerous shopping lists, chopping, marinating, baking, tasting. Jeet shared her tried and tested (and potent to the point of being illegal) recipe for sangria which proved to be the backbone of the party. Delta, self-appointeed Bartender, Light & Sound Expert and General Handyman, came by early in the afternoon to help set up the preparations.

We kept a nervous pulse on the weather forecast, which vascillated capriciously between thunderstorms and hot sunshine. Seriously. (Weather.com should just adopt the standard strategy the Beeb uses to forecast London weather: "Mild, with some potential sunshine and the possibility of showers." That way, through the practised art of committing to nothing, you can't be accused of error in judgement.

Despite the general hurry, flurry and scurry of final arrangements, the party itself went off without a hitch, I'm thrilled to say.

Before long, the crisp night air was filled with the refreshing mingle of chatter and laughter. The rooftop offered an openness so rarely to be found in the city. On one side, a view of the brightly lit edifices of corporate America, blazing against the dusky sunset (a real Howard Roark moment from Fountainhead.) On the other side, a darkening sky and the ink-black East River.

And in between these grandiose scenes, a tiny Manhattan rooftop with a cluster of friends and family, laughingly enjoying the summer's first non-BBQ.



Sunday, May 21, 2006

Gratitude

"Thank you for all your help in organising the surprise dinner. That was really kind."
"That's okay, no problem."

"And thank you for helping us organise our rooftop party yesterday. For helping set everything up. For helping with the shopping. For helping play host."
"No worries, anytime."

"And thank you for the book you gave me, what a lovely present. Really thoughtful of you."
"No probs, I really wanted you to read it."

"And - seriously - thanks for just listening, for being there, whenever I need someone to turn to. It means the world to me."
"Anytime. Really. Always."

What does one say next, when you've already had to say thank you so many times it starts to sound trite?

Monday, May 15, 2006

Some days, you are allowed to stay in bed

Like the mornings when you're jolted out of deepest sleep by a trilling alarm, and even though it's the same alarm that goes off every morning, it still sounds like an alien and unidentifiable sound. A hostile and violent enemy.

Your heart leaps into your mouth.

And as your mind fights through the multiple layers of fog, rising gradually and strugglingly towards consciousness, you wonder why you feel immobile, why your legs feel chained to the bed.

You fight a rising surge of panic.

And then realise that a night's tossing and turning has left you inextricably tangled with your duvet, chaining your legs to each other and the bed. The initial relief that your legs haven't lost mobility after all is replaced by the (logical) philosophical conclusion that life is sending you a sign - maybe you're not meant to get out of bed today.

Much happier for having arrived at this conclusion, you drift back into a contented torpor.

Only to wake up ten minutes later when reality sets in (as it inevitably does). Unfortunately, getting out of bed is not an option; it is a necessary evil.

So you fight the duvet, extricate yourself from its ponderous folds, and swing your legs over the side of your bed. Congratulate yourself for not having stepped on any of the numerous (and ensnaring) sandals lying on the ground in wait of an unsuspecting footfall. Stand up, only to find out your legs are still immobile, and when you try to step forward, you discover yourself sprawled face-first on the floor instead. Look down at your feet, and realise the undersheet is still bound tightly around your ankles.

So you give up on the struggle to make it through the day, and crawl back into bed instead, for an additional half hour.

For the pretence, even if only temporary, that some days, you are allowed to stay in bed.