Singers, stomach and a case of the piano

Now in Singapore where the temperatures are in the low 80s and all is green, lush and gorgeous. The hotel is jaw droppingly astounding and my room is all minimalism and comfort – a combination that tends not to go together too well in my experience.

All would be perfection if it were not for my rebellious guts and the corresponding lack of sleep. My colleague Ray is also having difficulties sleeping and we are like a middle aged version of ‘Lost in Translation’ but without the relationship frisson.

As I type I can hear the chanteuse in the hotel bar. It seems to me to be de rigeur to have such entertainment in hotels here and she was preceded by a piano player who played the usual repertoire…ending up with a lovely rendition of the theme tune from the film ‘The Piano’. This is one piece of music that has such profound attachments that whenever I hear it, wherever I am, it reduces me to tears. Although there is much about the film that is emotionally dark – in fact it mirrors something in the New Zealand psyche I think (the film was set and shot there and has a kiwi director) – the overall message for me is actually a very hopeful one and concerns the importance of being true to your heart, to your sense of self (whatever that might be as it isn’t always so clear as to what that consists of) even if it risks social disapproval or disavowal.

Putting your back into it

One of the things I DO like about HK is the ability to shop until obscenely late at night. Whilst this makes me feel decidedly guilty when I consider the hours people must be working, it sure as hell makes for a great post-work experience and a genuine feeling of being alive and part of something because everyone’s out on the streets. Now, if this was the UK, circa 10.30 we would have dickhead pikeys throwing up and lurid jocks on the pavements with their cans of stella shouting their (dubious) acquaintance with you. Not here. I’m not saying that people might not be getting loaded, but it doesn’t tend to detract from a pretty groovy ambience at street level.

Whilst I managed to avoid the designer shops (which were shut for some awful reason) I bought a copy of Tina Turner’s greatest hits in HMV. Well…it was sale price and someone’s got to keep the old love in her Alaia, don’t they? Back at the ranch, said purchase was robustly celebrated by TT dancing in my hotel room which ended up with me doing something subtly shite to my back. That and the whammy from jet lag finally managing to kick me in the bollocks, led to a shite night and thankfulness for a really cushy day. 30 minutes work cannot be bad and we have a day off tomorrow! I’m here for ‘staff development’ purposes but I seem to be doing precious little of the activity as far as I can tell – in fact the only person being ‘developed’ seems to be me and my dancing capabilities!

We are off to one of my favourite restaurants tonight – located at the top of HK island. It possesses great food and a lovely location and whilst one of the staff members on the trip drives me somewhat demented, I try to remember that she does, in fact, have a good heart.

Singers tomorrow and more raj-queenery on the cards in Raffles. I shall come home consumed with guilt (and gifts for Sleepy and wife).

Start me up...

At present I am in Hong Kong. Although I have not sampled a huge variety of the world’s greatest cities, I’ve enjoyed the delights of many and I think I can safely say that few (if any) are as mad as HK. A gorgeous neon pearl by night, it is a whore by day – dirty, overcrowded and overwhelmingly focused on the generation of capital. And it just doesn’t care.

I might be wrong but…I’ve only seen fur in the windows of Dior here. And whilst I can be an apologist for couture (and only couture, the rest of the fashion industry is wank as far as I can see…) I will never tolerate fur. How some bitch can think that she looks better in the skin of another gorgeous animal is beyond belief. Honey, you just ain’t all that…

And I won’t go into details as to how the animals are killed because of the need to maintain the integrity of the pelt…

Personally, I think that it is perfectly acceptable to hiss, spit and in any way abuse men and women who wear fur – and I do. Society had done a reasonable job of making wearing fur pretty unacceptable and for some reason we seem to have backtracked on this. Personally, I blame rappers and bimbo film stars like JLO, Poof Diddy and their ilk. Let’s give them a taste of the treatment that their demand for fur metes out to the animals whose fur they wear…that should do the trick.

And why am I listening to the Rolling Stones? Jesus I must be jet lagged…

Honking and singing...

Well, I’m off to Honkers and Singers tomorrow – for work, I hasten to add. And whilst I am glad to be going, today has been a stress (with the exception of Sleepy’s job application form which came as a decidedly funny relief). Firstly there was the power breakfast with Steve to discuss my book chapter and book things generally. All I can say is that after the savaging, he at least had the decency to provide me with an alternative structure. And what’s worse, he was spot on…

Then I had to take HRH cat to the vet. Capture went well, but yowling of intense proportions followed me all the way to the blessed place, continued during the wait and during the consultation. She has only just deigned to start talking to me again and treating me like her friend instead of a beast who wants to rip off her head and shit down her throat.

And what bothers me most is the seeming esteem that Steve holds the increasingly awful Sam in. Sam is a ‘colleague’: ambitious, self-aggrandising, clever, articulate, pushy and in a hurry. She is undoubtedly one of the reasons why I would like to get out of the University and I’m increasingly getting the feeling that it isn’t just me who’s getting pissed off with her. My honey has told me that I’ve got to develop the art of self-promotion. It’s not something I am good at and it’s an aspect of the world of work I find hilarious in others but don’t do myself. Who’d believe me if I suddenly developed the art of spinning meself given that I am the originator of honest, up-front Brit?

I’m depressed, bitter and thinking that if it wasn’t for the fact that HK is soooo mad and Singers so sterile, I’d make the big leap out. Thank God for Marc Bolan.

Bah.

Food for thought?

One of the things I find with regard to the yule festivities is that you tend to catch up with family and friends – it’s about the only thing I like about that time of year. This year I had the xmas missive from one of my cousins telling me (and sundry others) that his marriage had ended after 25 years. This was not a great shock – I thought that it was a possibility but sometimes people decide that they’ll make a go of it and that 25 years actually counts for something…

In order to offer some vestige of support, I took Robbo out for a wee meal yesterday. Locanda Locatelli. So I was clearly making an effort here and in all fairness, Rob has been good to me for many years, supporting me when I snotted my proverbial nose.
But I left a few hours later with a sense of depression and concern. Part of the reason why Rob’s marriage has broken up is due to the fact that he found the love of his life, somewhat belatedly in his late 50s. The woman in question just happens to me his wife’s best friend. Now, said woman is not prepared to leave husband or 16 year old daughter but I think that she reciprocates many of my cousin’s tender feelings. She has clearly not told him to piss off, but there is part of me that feels that this would be the honourable thing to do. This whole business has been dragging on for about 3 years now and it has something of an obsessive feel to it (at least from Rob’s point of view).

I am in no position to make moral judgements – I have a honey who is married and has been so for over 30 years and has two adult children. I contributed very substantially to the demise of my ex-husband’s marriage – something I feel deeply appalled by. So who am I to say ‘walk away’ build your life? Maybe I am re-living my past and projecting what I should have done in 1993 onto my cousin. I should have walked away and treated my twat of a husband as fling; all very nice at the time, but go home to your wife mate. I’m not against people having affairs but I am a great believer in discretion and care wherever possible – especially where there is absolutely no intention by one or both parties to disrupt their domestic situation. But I do understand the role passion and love play and that it is ok for me to pontificate safe in my rather nice old chair but hey, I ain’t smitten like a kitten.

No advice was offered other than to take care and none was sought. We parted amicably and I got to see Giorgio Locatelli in the flesh and eat his wonderful food.

So why the moral indigestion?

The emporium

I have a dear friend without whom life would be decidedly less vibrant, real and funny. She and her lovely partner look after my cats when I go away and they have stuck with me through all life’s vicissitudes over the past decade. That is some feat. Whilst I know that there are others with whom she shares her spectacular originality and warm heart, I have a concern that she will desiccate without the regularity of human contact forced on many of us via the daily Jay Oh Bee.

With this concern and also this desire for others in the world to share my friend’s uniqueness, I am proposing that a wealthy backer invests in an emporium – a place which reflects her unique assortment of skills and interests. The emporium would sell books – with a comfy space for people to read (and maybe buy, or maybe just sit and read, have a coffee, discuss the book…). It would also sell CDs, DVDs and have a small, beautifully formed deli. One could access the Internet, have some light meals and maybe, in the summer, sit outside in a warm, secluded garden and buy herbs.

The space needs to be cosy, so not too much space. It needs to be intimate and not necessarily run along strict business lines. Second hand stuff would be available as well as new stock (which she would choose as she has spot on taste) and the aim of it would be to bring people together – especially those whose lives can tend towards being atomised, virtual and sometimes lacking in good quality human contact. Cos let’s face it, not all workplaces are terribly sociable or friendly – take mine (or rather, don’t). Also, there are too few places like this in the world. I came across a few like this when I visited and worked in Grand Cayman – maybe there is something about the nature of the Caribbean that facilitates this, I don’t know…

I am hoping that this will not offend my friend. I guess it is also a means of indicating how I see her and her partner in the world. Very, very few people would ever have the human warmth and personal idiosyncrasies to carry this off. With some help, she could. In her sleep.