Postcards from Holly

To Venice, with love...

2012-01-22T20:19:00.006Z

So last year I headed out to Venice for the opening of the 2011 Biennale with artist Wayne Chisnall, who also played the role of official photographer for the piece I wrote for RWD.

It was an unforgettable week. The art, the people, and the city itself collectively made me swoon. And Wayne photographed me looking like a criminal in the mafia-themed section of the Italian pavilion (which I really liked even though many art critics panned it), so that was a highlight. Below is the article I wrote:

Image is nothing. Thirst is everything.

How to tackle the 54th Venice Biennale if you have an undying

thirst for art? That was our question before, during and after this year’s event. I had five days to see the art at 89 international participants’ pavilions (each country has its own venue to display work of its choosing), 37 official collateral events, and a ton of other additional arty events. Oh, and did I mention the parties? They were a conundrum in their own right, as whichever one you attended, you were consumed by the fear that you were missing out on a better one elsewhere.

Photographer Wayne Chisnall and I spent most of the first morning queuing to pick up our press passes, little knowing that queuing was to be a constant theme during our time there. What to see first? A lot of people had been hyping the British pavilion, so we thought we should probably aim for that. And lo, there was a long snaking queue in front of it and we were informed that we would have to wait for around two hours to get in. We decide to leave that until later and head for the official opening of the Japanese pavilion. Free food and wine. Yes please.

Or no thank you as it turned out. Never have I witnessed such a scrum for canapés, with people literally shoving one another out of the way to snatch a piece of bread. Then I spy with my little eye something beginning with P. Prosecco. At the German pavilion. Much less chaos (god bless the Germans). We grab a drink while a friend gets chatting to people, asking them if they’re going to see the Anglo-Japanese thrash metal band Bo Ningen. They inform him that they’re not Japanese, but Korean. Cue long round of apologies.

The Koreans actually had one of the best pavilions, featuring sculptures of robots, a video of soldiers dressed in flower camouflage moving through a set filled with plastic flowers, and more video installations projected within mirrors. They also had people dressed as soldiers who cunningly headed to the US pavilion to create an excellent photo opportunity for themselves as they posed in front of the upturned tank, which featured an athlete running on a treadmill on top of the tanks’ tracks.

Highlights inside the US space included an ATM connected to an organ which played music when people made withdrawals. Never have I seen so many people allowing themselves to be photographed while using a bank machine. Every hour, a gymnast would also appear to do somersaults and flips over the installation of replica flatbed airline seats.

The enormous queues eventually forced us out of the main sites of the Giardini and Arsenale and into Venice itself, where the more recent entrants into the Biennale were situated. Luxembourg had an incredible show reminiscent of a fairground’s hall of mirrors. 2011 newcomers Bangladesh and Haiti showcased interesting work, Iraq returned following a 20-year absence with a strong show, while Azerbaijan attracted interest by being the first pavilion to ever have work covered up by its own authorities (and sadly to Western eyes, the work really wasn’t that controversial).

All in all, it was a hectic time, as I managed to tick 59 pavilions off my list. But in true Biennale style, now that I’m back in the UK, the fear has descended. I’m left wondering, what did I miss out on seeing? So go! It’s on until November and there’s a lot to see. Just don’t tell me that the ones I missed were the best ones. I just might cry.

Simon de Pury interview for House Seven

2011-12-06T17:55:00.009Z

Here's a copy of the interview I did with art auctioneer supremo Simon de Pury last week, when I was out in Miami for Art Basel Miami Beach. I've uploaded it here as House Seven, the site I wrote the piece for, is only accessible to members of the Soho House Group. And I know most of you think I just swan around at art events getting tipsy on the free booze. But here's the proof that sometimes I actually do a little bit of work. And there will be a more comprehensive piece on the art fair itself on RWD's website soon.

AN INTERVIEW WITH SIMON DE PURY
SOHO BEACH HOUSE, POSTED: 3 DECEMBER 2011

Soho House Berlin member Simon de Pury is Chairman and Chief Auctioneer of Phillips de Pury & Company. House Seven caught up with him in Miami to talk about art fairs and the frictions between galleries and auction houses.

What did you think of the 2011 Art Basel Miami Beach?
The quality is very, very, good and everything surrounding it makes it very agreeable for collectors and art lovers to come to Miami. Mostly because the local collectors, the Rubells or the de la Cruzs or the Bramans, are so open about welcoming everybody to their houses each year. They make a great effort of showing something really worthwhile that in itself makes the trip to Miami worthwhile. The only danger is that it can become a victim of its own success; there is just so much going on, so many events happening simultaneously. For every hour of the day you have to pick between 10 different possibilities and whenever you have a saturation of things to do, it can be a problem.

What made you choose Soho Beach House for the Phillips de Pury party?
Well Soho House is a great venue and I love the Cecconi’s restaurant in the garden space. Also, it’s a relatively new place in Miami so it was fun to do it there. We had a seated dinner – trying to pull that off with the notoriously undisciplined art crowd is quite a challenge in itself! We were around 80 people over capacity, but somehow it all worked out and was terrific.

So what’s your favourite art fair?
I was born in Basel and I have been to every single Art Basel so I have a particular sentimental involvement with that fair. I like it because you find the best of the classic works as well as the best of the young emerging artists. But there’s so much happening and if you’re in the business, you have to follow it all in the same way that you have to follow all the biennials, and all the auctions happening everywhere.

Won’t this lead to a time clash for various art fairs?
The art market is a travelling circus that sets up its tent every week in a different place. But you can’t do it all, so it’s a competitive situation between art fairs. You have some fairs that really grow and develop and some fairs that may be temporarily less important and create less of an impact but everything evolves constantly.

Auction houses are participating more in art fairs, making some of the galleries nervous. What are your thoughts on the tensions between the two?
The primary market needs the secondary market, the secondary market needs the primary market, the auctions need the galleries, the galleries needs the auctions, everybody needs everybody, and it’s a false debate to say auctions versus galleries because whenever you sell a work privately, the only way you can justify the price is by similar works that were sold publically at auction. You need that public barometer. During Frieze, you have great contemporary auctions taking place during the same week. So the bigger the magnet is for what’s happening in a given week at a given place, the better it is for all the participants.

And lastly, you also DJ – do you need similar skills to that of an auctioneer?
I find it very similar because in most cases you want to be attuned to the wavelength, same wavelength as your audience, and to create excitement. And so if you’re a good auctioneer you’ll create excitement in the sales room and so obtain good high prices, and if you’re a good DJ, you equally try to create excitement on the dance floor and achieve getting people dancing. While I play a bit of current house music, I love to mix it up with dance tracks from any period and occasionally bring in something totally unexpected like a piece of yodelling or swing from the 1920s, trying to surprise the audience, but still getting them on the dance floor.

How to bag an art boy

2011-10-16T19:48:00.020+01:00

It’s been a big week for the London art scene. Frieze Art Fair was on, as well as at least five satellite art fairs, plus loads of galleries hosting events of their own to tie in with all the arty goings on. There were a lot of people about…and a lot of men in particular.

Having failed to secure some eligible prospects at the nerdfest that was Tweetcamp last week, I thought I’d turn my attention to arty boys. These wouldn’t necessarily have to be artists, but anyone who worked in the art industry. And I felt my odds were good, as in the past I’ve dated more artists than nerds (as well as one artist nerd just to keep things interesting).

I was chatting with Dscreet about this last Wednesday, and asked him what he thought I could do to improve my chances. He said: “Make sure you dress slutty, art dudes love that…mix business with pleasure, it’s a sure fire combination.” I then spent the following day reflecting on his advice, and was unsure whether I should throw my hands up in despair, or if this was simply his warped perspective, and the answer should have been "try striking up a conversation about Nietzsche's influence on contemporary artists" or something a tad more erudite like that.

So I decided to put my question to the floor. I emailed about 40 arty people I know and also put the question to my Twitter followers, asking what their top tip would be for me personally to bag an art boy. The responses were varied, and more than one concurred that slutty dressing was the way forward. I didn’t get to put that clothing tip to the test as walking around an art fair for five hours is best done in flat shoes, but perhaps I’ll give it a shot in the not so distant future. And one artist offered to take me out. So who knows? Maybe I’ll get to wear those stilettos sooner than I think…

Here are their responses in the order they were received. Feel free to add your own advice in the comments section below.

Inkie (artist): “Show an interest in his work and a knowledge of other artists. Plus being creative would help. Slutty dressing is a bonus ;-)”

Samantha Haynes (artist): “I'd say the harder you try the less they'll be interested – surely the 'boy' bit comes before the art every time. I do slightly fear that there might be something in the slutty approach. Maybe more sadomasochist than slut – stronger aesthetic potential ...”

Stephen Davids (artist): “Bag a man not some dumb ass boy :O)”

Oliver Goodrich (photographer & filmmaker): “I think you need to be more specific – are you looking for an artist, or just someone involved/working in Art/The Arts? If it's an artist you are looking for – do you want a trophy artboy (rich, successful, handsome etc.) or a genuine artist (poor, struggling, inspired, inspiring, charismatic etc.), or are you ambitious/naive enough to hope to find the elusive Artist Prince (rich, successful, handsome, inspired, inspiring, charismatic)?”

Adil Dara Kim (graphic designer): “Be yourself!”

Pure Evil (artist): “Make really cool art... art boys love an arty girl”

Anne Lander (graphic designer): “Start wearing flannel? Talk about the transient nature of all things?”

Paul Slee (artist): “Not so sure about dressing slutty, maybe that’s just easy solutions, most artists have, I’d guess, rich imaginations, so let them do all the imagining and fantasising. Dress sober, neutral, plain but tasteful, as if you could be anything (create more options and widen your horizon), and possibly even could be connected to a huge scoop of wealthy art loving relations, (but remember most artists are prob more interested in themselves than in you).
Pretend to be a white canvas, ready to be painted on, mention as little about yourself as possible, act evasive on all direct, historical, questions, but show your interest in the opinions and mutterings of the artist in question. So good luck, and remember not all art boys are worth bagging, some you might rather trash on the spot and leave for stray garbage.”

Andy Edwards (filmmaker): “Art boys are looking for a muse. That involves being interesting (i.e. crazy) and yeah, being slutty. I think you may well be too interested in personal hygiene for the typical art boys, if I were you I'd go for the art dealers/collectors/curators. An ability to talk crap about art and look good whilst quaffing free champagne is all that's required here and I think that's where you'll shine.”

Ben Street (Sluice Art Fair Founder): “All art boys worth their salt are to be found at Sluice.”

Remi Rough (artist): “1. Assuming you've set your sights on one 'Art boy' in particular: Purchase a piece from said 'Art boy'. Nothing major, a small work on paper or a print. Feign interest in his process and methodology and speak with as highbrow and art tongue as you possibly can. This is a big turn on for 'Art boys' in general. Always turn up extremely late to any shows, he is part of or in and try and gauge what colour he wears most. Then coordinate your shoes to colour match his clothing (I realise this is quite a difficult task). But if you succeed...you're in!
2. Assuming any 'Art boy is adequate and none are a particular target: Be seen to be purchasing art and enjoying it for its aesthetic value only! Never discuss the worth of any art in front of any 'Art boys' and definitely never critique an artist’s work. If it's a group show, feel free to slag off the other artists in the show and stroke the 'Art boy's' egos with your silky smooth words. Lastly 'Art boys' have a tendency to dress like total scruff bags, but you should tell them how dapper and 'Arty' they look. If these two top tips don't bag you an 'Art boy' then I'm a Monkey's uncle.”

Adrienne Cooper (photographer): “It's not really my area of expertise. I'm struggling to get past stereotypes of arty boys. However, based on those stereotypes, I'd say it's about building their confidence (if they make art) and being encouraging...and dressing like a bit of a slut. But in an arty way. For some reason I'm getting visions of a 1990s Catherine Keener.”

Riding on trains

2011-08-03T18:37:00.008+01:00

I feel like I’ve done quite a lot of riding on trains in the past few months. It’s always a pleasant experience – an opportunity to read your book, do some writing, or just gaze out the window, letting your mind go for a walk. And it is lovely outside at the moment. Lush and green. Of course, the flipside to that is that it can only look like this when it’s been raining every day for the past two months. Which it has been. Bloody British weather. Not that it’s any worse than the bloody Irish weather from which I fled 12 years ago.

But yes. Train travel. Relatively civilised in this country when the system isn’t fucked (as it regularly is with engineering works, leaves on the line, heat on the line, snow on the line, the list goes on ad infinitum), yet also quite sterilised.

The carriage I’m now sitting in is clean, which is obviously a good thing. It is also so heavily air-conditioned that one hour into my journey and I still haven’t been able to remove my coat. The toilets – well – they’re not so clean. I gave serious consideration to writing a note on the back wall: “Gentlemen. This is a unisex toilet. Apparently you are unable to aim straight while on a moving train so please sit the fuck down when you pee. Thank you and good day.” Unfortunately I didn’t have any permanent markers with me. And now I have wet shoes. Buggeration.

However, despite all of this, one of my favourite train journeys was a rough and ready jaunt from Bentota to Colombo. The two hour journey along the west coast of Sri Lanka was captivating for good and bad reasons. The guide book recommended first class tickets, but the train only had second and third class carriages, so we opted for a second class ticket priced around 50p (put that in your pipe and smoke it British rail companies). Travelling with my friend Susan, we managed to bag a pair of seats together. We then swopped seats every five minutes, no doubt to the amusement of the other passengers. There was no glass in the window so you were hit with the full force of the wind. However, there was no air-conditioning on the train, just a weak rusty ceiling fan, so when you sat in the aisle seat, you barely avoided drowning in your self-made pools of sweat. Hence the need for constant seat-swopping. And we were sharing the view I guess…

People bustled up and down the train, selling dried peppers as snack foods and other exotic items displayed on huge circular wicker trays. Sadly it was my first trip to Asia and in those days I was a bit of a wimp when it came to sampling local street food...or train food as the case may have been.

Everyone stared at us. We were the only whiteys on the train. But it was never in a malevolent way. The people we met during our time there were friendly and those who were from the less touristy areas were simply curious. (The group shot was a family who wanted to have their photo taken with me. Now I know what it feels like to be a celebrity!) And everyone was thankful, which felt strange. I have never travelled anywhere before where I have been thanked so much by so many people.

And the reason for it? Six months previously, Sri Lanka had been devastated by the tsunami that occurred on Boxing Day in 2004. The people we met wanted to thank us for the financial aid that our countries had given as a result of people making individual donations. Their message was that we should tell people about their country.

Tourism is such a key economic factor and provides income for so many people that the tsunami was a double-blow to their country. Not only had they lost people, homes and buildings, but many had lost their jobs. Everyone asked if we would tell our friends about their country. Did we like it? Would we come back? Would we recommend it to people? Yes, yes and yes.

And this is what made the train journey so captivating yet haunting. On one side was the magnificent coastline, while on the other side were thousands of temporary shelters, made from tarpaulin draped over frames constructed from palm trees. And when you gazed further inland, you could see the remnants of these people’s homes, scattered into disarray.

So that is why that train journey in Sri Lanka will always be etched in my memory and why Sri Lanka itself will always be in my heart.

I met a different him on a different subway

2011-07-08T18:34:00.006+01:00

London. The tube. Saturday afternoon. Not rush hour, but busy nonetheless. I was running late. Well...not necessarily. I reckoned that if I could quickly get through the barriers, run down the escalators, hop on a train that was just pulling into the station, run through the interchange station and get on the second train straightaway, then get off that train, walk up two sets of escalators and head straight out of the station, then I might only be five minutes late. Which is totally acceptable in my book. I just needed a clear route with nothing to slow me down.

But, this is London, awash with fucking foreigners. Having lived here for 12 years, I no longer consider myself to be a fucking foreigner – I am a native. And so I set off on my mission impossible.

Sidestepping the prams, I breezed through the ticket barriers and strode along the corridor to the escalators. This was going to be a breeze. I aimed for the left-hand side, planning to jog down the steps. Ten steps down there was a problem. It was a fucking foreigner and even worse, they had a suitcase. And worse again, they had placed it beside them. No, no, no, no, no, I said inwardly, recalling Ben Kingsley’s character in Sexy Beast. Best escalator/suitcase practice dictates that you should always place your suitcase on the step behind you and not on the step beside you. Now I was blocked in. I eventually got the woman to move her bag but I had now wasted valuable time.

I saw people swarming near the base of the up-escalator. Shit. The train was here. Maybe I could still make it. I ran down the remaining steps, projecting myself through the slow-moving arriving passengers and charged for the train. The doors beeped, then closed, and I was still on the platform.

Shit. Maybe they would open again. Sometimes that happens. I looked up and gazed into the carriage. And there he was. My evil ex. Our eyes met, his widening with recognition, mine narrowing with hatred.

The train pulled out of the station.
I had missed it.
But for once I didn’t care that I had to wait an additional six minutes for the next train.
I had been saved.
By a fucking foreigner.

Searching for my Miss World crown…

2011-06-27T14:18:00.004+01:00

I love that beauty pageants always ask the girls what they would do if they ruled the world. End poverty, end AIDS, end hunger, it’s always the same ole story with these lasses. I reckon I could be a strong contender for the title of Miss World because I have the best answer.

I would put an end to self-aggrandising job titles. Having seen CVs from business school alumni, who claim to have been the Senior Vice-President of Marketing for their volleyball team, and meeting consultants who are Associate Partners only to be told “it’s not that important, there are thousands of us in the firm”, I believe we have entered an age where job titles have become meaningless.

I propose that everyone in management should have their old title deleted and we’ll start again from scratch. If your company has 1-20 employees, then the top job can be Managing Director, 1-100 and you can have a CEO, 1-1,000 – a President. More than 1,000, you can throw some Vice-Presidents into the mix and if you have over 10,000 staff, you can probably sub-divide them by adding in some Senior VPs and maybe some Associates too. If your company has more than 100,000, then perhaps a couple of partners (not too many though).

If you have over a million staff (and yes, amazingly these companies do exist), then the big boss can have the title Lord and Master, just as long as he (for it is usually a he) doesn’t actually believe that he’s personally managing his employee base in any kind of meaningful way.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any problems with these people. But to be honest, if your company is the size of a small country and you’ve worked that hard to get to the top, then you should enjoy the opportunity to kick back with a large whiskey. Because isn’t that what it’s really all about?

Craft(ivist) Work

2011-06-17T12:41:00.002+01:00

Howdy all.
Here is another article from the archives. Last year I interviewed the lovely Sarah Corbett, who runs the Craftivist Collective, for House magazine. House is a quarterly magazine, which goes to members of the Soho House group. If you can't read the text clearly in the picture above, then you can access the entire magazine here.

Dots the Film

2011-06-13T14:12:00.003+01:00

Last October I wrote in RWD magazine about a new graffiti documentary coming your way. And then, I forgot to post it on my blog. Doh! So here is the article with a link to three of the sections that are now available to view on Babelgum. Check out James Jessop, Rowdy and Cyclops as they cover New York, Australia and India and the power of street art.

The Dance of Attraction

2011-06-13T14:09:00.002+01:00

Zzzappp. There it is. That spark of attraction. It hits you the first time you spot him. You glance at him, quickly scanning him up and down, checking for any flaws or imperfections that might cause you to think twice, but nothing catches your eye in a negative way.

Your eyes meet. You smile.

If he smiles back, you raise your eyes to meet his again. If not, you let your brain move to the next thing on your agenda for the day.

But he does smile back. So now you want to properly take him in, but it would be too obvious now to let your eyes lazily wander across his body. So you allow your gaze to occasionally dart in various directions, trying to piece each snapshot into one cohesive picture, while maintaining eye contact.

He introduces himself. This is your one big shot. Within, your internal organs breathe a sigh of relief while simultaneously tensing at the prospect of you messing this up when you open your mouth.

For oh, tis a merry dance we dance.

Close encounters of the New York kind - part 2

2011-03-30T13:52:00.008+01:00

I open one eye. Then close it. Then open the other one.
Where am I?
Oh yes, on my friend’s sofa-bed in New York.
What time is it?
Nine-ish. Sunday. Hmm. What shall I do with my day?
Hang on a minute.
I’ve made a plan. I was supposed to meet the Brooklyn hipster at midday at a gallery.
Maybe he was drunk when he agreed to do this. Should I text him to double-check the plan is still on?
Maybe in a bit.
Hmm.
Had a bit to drink last night, so should probably have some water, as I might be a tad dehydrated.
I unzip the sleeping bag and stagger over to the sink. I swig some water and stagger back to the sofa.

Urghh.
That doesn’t feel good.
No, that really doesn’t feel...shit...run...
Well there goes that intake of water.
Oh my god, my head is pounding!
Maybe I should drink some juice instead and take an ibuprofen. Then I’ll have a nap for an hour, get up and go out to meet this guy. After I’ve double-checked that he remembers who the hell I am.
Oh...oh no...quick!
Hmm.
If only I had topical ibuprofen as I don’t seem to be currently capable of retaining anything in my stomach for more than two minutes.
Bugger.
This is not good.
How can I get rid of this blasted headache?

Ok, I’ll text him. He’ll reply, saying he wants to cancel, and then I’m off the hook, and I can resume talking to god on the big white telephone.
And maybe sleep for a bit too.
He replies.
We’re still on for midday.
FUCK.

A shower. A shower will make me feel better. And more human. And less nauseous.
Unfortunately, this proves not to be the case.
My friend laughs when I tell her I’m off to meet a guy in my pitiful state.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I’ll just put an emergency plastic bag in my handbag.”
“Emergency plastic bag?”
“Yes. In case I need to be sick again.”
“Nice one Holly.”
I quickly find a bag capable of suffocating a small child, i.e. one without safety holes in the bottom, or leakage holes, as I prefer to call them, and stuff it into the depths of my handbag. Just, y’know, in case...

I rule out taking the subway (being trapped in a tunnel when you need to vom is not a good look) and plump for a cab.
At least I can jump out in an emergency.
Or wind down a window at the very least.
Half way into the cab journey and I’ve already wound the window down.
Only for the breeze of course.
I barely make it to the gallery bathrooms in time.
And sadly, in the States, toilet cubicles are not very private.
Oh well.
Maybe people will think I have morning sickness and will feel sorry for me.
No, I think I’d rather people thought that I was hungover than pregnant.
Shit.
Do I look fat?
Hmm.

The hipster shows up.
I feel rough.
He claims he also feels rough.
I reckon I can win the “who feels the roughest” contest, but decide that this may not be a competition I want to win. Or at least brag about winning.
I then feel compelled to tell him that if I suddenly run off, fear not, I’m not abandoning him, I’m just going to be sick.
God. I disgust myself at times.
Thankfully I don’t end up running off.
Of course, this means that I shared that information for nothing.
Idiot.

We move listlessly through the museum, which turns out to be a bit like the Wallace Collection in London. I highly recommend that you do not visit this place hungover. It won’t help you and frankly, you won’t help it.

We headed out into the fresh air and walked across to Central Park.
Walking through the park, we saw a number of tents.
Ooo. What’s that? Is there a festival on?
No, it looks more like a marathon.
Oh.
It’s the Colon Cancer Challenge 15km run.
Seems to be over, thank god.
Don’t think I could bear to be surrounded by sweaty healthy jogger types. That would be too much to bear.
But look. What’s that?
A blow-up tunnel.

The hipster suggests we walk through it. We get closer. It appears to be a colon.
A giant, infected, inflatable colon.
I’m instantly impressed that he also thinks that it would be funny to walk through this.
Although as soon as we start looking at the inflatable growths on the inflatable colon, my stomach starts doing flip-flop manoeuvres. I indicate that I’ve probably seen enough and we head back into the sunshine.

And I don’t get sick.
Win.

Close encounters of the New York kind - part 1

2011-03-29T20:33:00.003+01:00

I met him on the subway.

Well not really on the subway, on the platform to be precise. He was walking along with some friends and I asked them where the interchange was. They pointed me towards the end of the platform and that was that.

In typical New York style, the change between subway lines proved less easy than it looked. After existing the station, I walked three blocks (get me, with my Noo Yoik lingo) to the interchange station, only to be told that I didn’t have the right type of ticket to change lines (?) and that I needed to buy a new one. “That’s the spirit”, I thought to myself, “Fuck over the tourists who are spending money in your city.” This was the brown-icing on the shit-cake of a day I was having. As I headed to the ticket machine, I saw him again with his friends, entering the station. We smiled as we passed each other.

After much faffing on my part, I finally got myself to the Guggenheim, joining the snaking queue of canny people who know the times different museums offer ‘pay what you wish’ deals. (I had hit up MOMA the night before.) As I drifted along in my line, I saw him again. “You made it!” he called across. His friends looked puzzled, wondering who the hell he was talking to. “It’s the girl from the subway.” I waved and carried on.

From the top floor of the spiraled gallery, I looked down to survey the building design and the weaving crowds of ant-like people making their way around the space. And then, I saw him again, just one floor down. And with that, he looked up and saw me too.

I waved.

He waved.

This was now incredibly embarrassing and a tad corny. But it was also kind of cool, because it was the kind of thing that happens in a really predictable rom-com yet never happens in real life. Until now. (It’s best to not read those last two lines in a cheesy movie trailer voice-over style. Thanks.)

I strolled down to meet him. We started talking. I gave him my sob-story (the friend I was staying with had been struck down with flu-like symptoms and was confined to bed, so I could either stay in her flat weeping or roam the city alone. I chose loner option no.2). He replied with “Well we’re just hanging if you want to hang out with us” (or another Americanism to that effect), and I said “Sure, if that’s ok with you”, and then he introduced me to his friends.

So then we hung out in Brooklyn. And drank...quite a lot actually but more on that later...and then, and then, and then...at the end of the evening he walked me to a cab and offered to meet at the Frick Museum the following day at midday, so I wouldn’t have to spend Sunday in New York on my lonesome. And with that, I sped back to Manhattan.

To be continued...

3.33 is the magic number

2010-11-26T18:05:00.002Z

3.333333333 recurring.

Or should that be 3.33 recurring? Or even 3.3 recurring? At what point does one stop writing numbers while maintaining the look of a figure that’s recurring? Ahh, the aesthetic challenge of turning maths into literature.

Does it even matter? As long as it suggests infinity, something that will go on forever, something important, something without an end, something significant.

It’s a figure I think about a lot.

I went out with someone for 3.33 recurring years...

Grrr

2010-06-26T22:03:00.001+01:00

I screwed up. I forgot my book. I’m on the bus and I have nothing to read. I don’t even have my iPod to listen to. What will I do? [Write for my blog as a result of utter desperation it seems.]

I know, I know, I could look out the window. The problem is I’ve done this specific route for over ten years. On foot, in a friend’s car, in a taxi and on the bus (top and bottom deck). There is officially nothing new to see, I could recite the order of shops, bars, offices and hotels with my eyes closed.

But weirdly, unlike on the tube where most passengers travel armed with books, nobody else on the bus appears to be reading today. It’s a Saturday, so there are no free papers on offer. Even more weirdly, no one seems to be bothered by the fact that they’re not reading – maybe the shop signs and billboards are all the literary stimulation that they need.

I however, am decidedly cross.

Because I forgot my book.

Excuse me sir, would you mind filling this in?

2010-03-25T12:23:00.003Z

My ex-boyfriend (and wise counsel) thinks I should give prospective boyfriends a questionnaire. He reckons, due to my love of efficiency, that it will separate the wheat from the chaff and prevent me from wasting my time dating chaff. Which, it could be argued, is becoming a bit of a habit.

But the question is – which questions should I ask? Which of course leads to that eternal question – what do women want?

So maybe I should reflect on why the last batch all fucked up and cover those topics first with prospective candidates.

Question 1: Do you want a relationship?
If no, please go away. If yes, please go to question 2.

Question 2: Are you in a rush to have a family?
If yes, please move onto the next woman, and I would recommend you target the over-35s. There’s a huge batch of women in that category who are desperate to start birthin’ some babies.
If however you would like to spend a few years having fun while getting to know me, giving me sufficient time to ponder whether I really want my genes to mingle with yours, then please go to question 3.

Question 3: What are your thoughts on gender equality?
This one kinda relates to what you look for in a woman. I would like to think that I only date smart intelligent men who are intellectually my equal (or higher – that’s even better as I love to learn from my boyfriends).
However, history has shown that my choices do not accurately reflect what I think I have chosen.

If you want a 1950s wife/mother type, then I am not the one for you. I have a busy social life – I go out most nights of the week – theatre, galleries, restaurants, pubs, cinema, random events (flashmob pillow fight anyone?). You will always be welcome to join me.
Want to do something different? Stay in and watch tv, go for a meal together, do something that no one else is invited to? That’s fine. I love that stuff too. Give me a date and I’ll put it in my diary. Once it’s in there, I will not cancel on you. Just don’t resent the fact that I have a life and I have friends that I want to spend time with. They’ve lasted longer than all boyfriends past so don’t expect me to be one of those dumb girls who dumps her friends as soon as she gets a new man. (Note for the female readers – because if you’re that kind of girl, then one day you will be single again, only this time you’ll have no friends to fall back on. Lecture over.) Oh yeah – and some of my friends are boys. I expect that some of yours will be girls. So no need for either of us to be jealous then…

Anyway – the social life issue cuts both ways. I’m sure you will also have a busy life. You will want to meet up with your own friends. You’ll want to go on holiday with them as well as with me. That’s cool.

So if you’re looking for a quiet girlfriend who agrees with everything you say, has dinner ready for you when you come home from work and sits in the kitchen doing the darning while you watch football, then I don’t think we’re going to be compatible.

If you’re looking for an equal, who will take you to fun places around London while listening to your stories (and recounting a few of her own), who also happens to make a mean tiramisu, then please go to question 4.

Question 4: So when are you next free?

Postcard from Schiphol airport

2010-03-24T16:38:00.002Z

I wrote this in a copybook (how old school am I? Pen and paper, people. Pen. and. paper.) while waiting for my flight back to London on Monday night. Good thing I brought it with me. My flight was delayed by three and a half hours. And annoyingly, my friend Aoife (she who wows the boys at my parties), dropped me off an hour and a half before my flight. I thought an hour would be fine but she insisted. Security was quiet so I breezed through. Decided to kill time buying a birthday present for my nephew. But I knew what he wanted so that only took five minutes. Damn.

Then I discovered that there is a museum inside the departures area. How cool is that? But, as you may have guessed by now, it was closed for the evening. So I decided to read for a bit. But as my book is only 112 pages long (Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own in case you’re wondering), I didn’t want to tear through it and then be bored on the flight. Or have nothing to read while waiting for the train to Gatwick to London, which according to my flatmate who looked it up for me, was going to be a long wait of an hour and a half – bloody brilliant. Or even while on the train itself. Or on the bus from the train station to my house. Oh god. When was I going to get home?

Anyway. I got a coffee, sat down, and thought about writing for a bit. I kept seeing things moving in the shadows. Decided that I was tired and that my eyes must be acting up. Looked again. Saw a mouse. I don’t think I’ve seen a mouse at an airport before. I watched it running around the place for a bit – it clearly knew its way around. I began to feel really happy that I had plumped for a coffee and avoided food. Who knows what surfaces had felt the pitter patter of mouse feet?

Then my boredom turned my eyes to the seats that the mouse had just run across. They reminded me of something. Ah yes. Dali’s sofa in the shape of Mae West’s lips. I don’t know why they didn’t go the whole hog and fashion them the same way instead of turning them into a symphony of red and pink in pvc.

But best of all were the airport police. They rode around the airport on Segways. A bit like the dude in that mall cop movie. Well, the trailer anyway as that’s all I’ve seen. Didn’t really give the policemen an air of authority, but then all I could think of was that old Harry Enfield sketch anyway, so I just looked down at the table and smirked to myself.

As for my reflections on Amsterdam itself? Well, it’s been 15 years since my last trip, and I still haven’t been to one of their famed coffee shops. No doubt I’ll want to go to one when I come here again in about 15 years time and they’ll be illegal by then. I did see the prostitutes standing in the windows and I spotted the sex shops which are just about everywhere. Not sure how my aunt managed to take my friend and me around the city when we were 14 while avoiding all of them.

Saw the Purse Museum, two of my cousins, and of course my friend Aoife, which was the main purpose of the visit. Oh, and there was one other thing of note – chips with mayonnaise are great. But 15 years ago, they were definitely the weirdest thing ever…

I'm so excited...

2010-03-23T14:07:00.003Z

...that I've just had to do a little happy dance. Last year I went to the Guggenheim in Bilbao, which I think is now my favourite museum (although the V&A does still have fashion, so maybe let's say it's my favourite art space). The purpose of the trip was to see an exhibition by the amazing Chinese artist Cai Guo-Qiang. And it was incredible.
So, I was just looking online to see if he had anything coming up in the vicinity (he doesn't - Shanghai is next on his hitlist), when I wondered (cue Carrie Bradshaw-esque voice over) "Maybe the Guggenheim Bilbao might have something good coming up."
And I checked.
And it does.
And that was when I did my happy dance.

The Anish Kapoor show that was on at the Royal Academy last year is going to be at the Guggenheim from now until October. So very exciting. I was gutted to have missed the exhibition last year when I was in Hong Kong (it started after I left and finished before I got back), so much so that I even looked for cheap flights back to London to see if I could nip home for a weekend to catch it. Sad I know. But now I have been rewarded as (a) I will finally get to see the show and (b) I get to tie this in with a trip to Bilbao, which is a super city.

Yay.
So if you fancy a trip to the Basque country, gimme a shout.
And the picture in this article is one I took in the art musuem in Phoenix, Arizona. In the flesh, the sculpture is jet black. It was only when I photographed it that it took on the silvery hue. And that was without a flash!

It's gone all quiet again

2010-03-14T19:22:00.004Z

Sorry folks - I have been meaning to update my blog - but have been kept away from it by my busy social life. In fact, I've resorted to multi-tasking. A few weeks ago I went to an event entitled Gay Africa. Not only was it something to do, but it was also a place to bring my date (note to the ladies - this is an excellent way to see if the guy you fancy is a closet homophobe. Mine wasn't. I win). And it also served as fodder for a piece I wrote for Ctrl.Alt.Shift. Which you can read here

Going for a slash in the park

2010-01-10T12:19:00.004Z

Decided to tackle tai chi again – tackle being the operative word is this case. Found an instructor who taught a number of styles, including sword form which I wanted to learn here, so I popped along with a friend. After numerous phone calls and 20 minutes roaming the park, we eventually found the class. It didn’t seem particularly like tai chi to me, although the instructor had said that he doesn’t teach his classes in the usual manner of a tai chi class. After practising some moves in pairs about how to deflect a punch to the face, the instructor then pulled some knives from his bag. They were blunt training knives, but looked enough like the real thing to freak me out a little. Then we put the deflecting moves into practise armed with the knives.

“Aim with intent” he kept encouraging us. “Don’t aim for the side of the head, aim for the middle of the face.”
“Great”, I thought to myself. “With my slow reflexes, I’m bound to get stabbed in the face.” Thankfully, I didn’t.

However, I did manage to keep tangling my arms, so I asked the instructor where exactly I should be positioning my hands on my opponent’s arm to deflect the attack. “It doesn’t really matter. In the heat of the fight, you’re not going to have time to check that your hands are in precisely the correct position.”
True, but then in the heat of the fight, I’m more likely to kick my opponent in the nuts and scarper than try practising some new martial arts moves. And what’s the point in learning the moves if you don’t learn how to do them properly in the beginning?

He then whizzed through a sequence of moves for the sword form and asked me to repeat them on my own. All I could think was – if I was doing this with my class in the UK, what you’ve just sped through would take at least three classes to teach properly. So it wasn’t the class for me, which was a pity. I think the instructor is probably quite accomplished, just maybe not suited to teaching people. Well, not suited to teaching me anyway. Although I do now know how to stab someone in the face with a knife. Which is bound to come in handy back in London…

Explore, explore, explore

2010-01-07T11:38:00.005Z

So as I enter my final month in Hong Kong, the race is on to make sure I have seen all the key sites before I leave. Today I ventured to Kowloon for two reasons: The first was because there were a number of markets I had yet to visit, Apliu Street Flea Market in Sham Shui Po and the bird, flower and goldfish markets in the Prince Edward area. The second reason was because some contractors are doing work in my building and it sounded like someone was standing beside me with a Kango hammer, so I needed to escape. The flower market was pleasant enough and featured the ubiquitous bunches of roses with each flower wrapped in polystyrene.

The bird market wasn’t that big – possibly due to the old bird flu issue – but it did have a lot of bugs for sale, which was pretty squeal-inducing for a wimp like me. I also enjoyed watching the local birds nipping in and out around the stands, hovering up the spilt grains of birdseed.

Then to the goldfish market, which for some inexplicable reason stank to high heaven. As the fish were already packaged in plastic bags like funfair prizes, I’m not entirely sure where the whiff was coming from. However, with prices starting from $10 a fish (80p), I know where I’ll be coming should there be a food shortage in the future...

New Dan Flavin installation?

2010-01-07T11:33:00.004Z

Or stall in Sham Shui Po selling a variety of light bulbs? You decide...
You can read about Dan Flavin here.

Terrapins

2010-01-07T11:30:00.002Z

The original inspiration begind cheerleaders' pyramid formations?

Happiness is...

2010-01-06T13:14:00.009Z

…self gifting. Turns out the Americans were right all along. I decided not to give or receive Christmas presents this year because (a) the thought of posting loads of packets from Hong Kong was a headache and (b) I had no way to bring anything back from here as I had already exceeded my luggage allowance on the way out. So, having saved all that money, I decided to self-gift and spend £30 on a small box of chocolates and three pieces of cheese. Rock and roll. And so bloody Western too. Oh and the crackers are from Shanghai. Yes, I went all the way to China for Tuc crackers.

Luckily some people took pity on me and did hook me up with some amazing prezzies. Thanks to my dad for The Sunday Times (real journalism…how I have missed thee), to my mum for the mince pies (well it wouldn’t be Christmas without them) and to T for the card (although I’m not sure I approve of violence against pandas).

Thanks guys!

2009-12-02T15:30:00.002Z

Just a quick post to say thank you to everyone who sent me a card in Hong Kong. My walls don't look bare anymore!

I know the secret doorway

2009-11-10T17:07:00.001Z

Secret doorways. They’re great, aren’t they? Just so secretive. Yet door-like. I found a fantastic one the other week. I think you might be a little jealous.

If you’ve ever been to an Ikea store, you’ll know the format. You wander for miles and miles along a snaking path through the fake living rooms and fake kitchens and fake bathrooms until you finally reach the down escalator to take you to the homeware section, which was where you wanted to be in the beginning because you only wanted to buy some cheap glasses and an industrial-sized bag of tea lights. On your way out you think “I’ll remember how I exited this place so I can bypass all the crap next time”, but with a sinking heart, you realise that Ikea has terrifyingly managed to read your dark thoughts and has only installed an up escalator. Gah! Rumbled!

Well guess what? I managed to find the secret entrance into the Causeway Bay branch of Ikea. And it’s through the doorway in the above picture. Yup – no signs at all. But just walk inside, get in the lift, and go to the basement. Ta daa! However, I would like to pass on this information with a caveat. It is hard to imagine, but you have no idea just how weird it is walking through Ikea backwards, so to speak. To the point where I felt so disconcerted, I almost wished that I had taken the usual lengthy route. It was a bit like being a salmon swimming upstream. But at least I now know the secret. And that is all that matters.

An oven of one’s own*

2009-11-09T10:37:00.004Z

*With apologies to Virginia Woolf.

So, two months in, I decided to have a housewarming party. Why, you may ask? Well, why not? Of course, it did require some careful planning. As my flat is pretty damn small, and really can’t fit that many people, I decided that while I wanted to invite all my friends here, I was worried that if they all turned up, I’d have to get some of them to hang outside my windows cause there simply isn’t enough floor space. So I came up with two solutions. 1. Have the party on a week night. 2. Send out the invite only a few days beforehand so most people will be booked up already. And it worked a treat!

Of course, limiting the number of guests turned it from a housewarming party into more of a haphazard dinner party. I decided to make some food so that we would have something to soak up the booze. So thought to myself, what can I make that’s easy, feeds a lot of people, and can be cooked in one pot (I only have a one-ring electric hob). Ahh yes – the vegetarian Moroccan cous cous dish.

Well let me tell you now – that’s only easy in Europe. Sourcing the ingredients here was a nightmare. No one sells cous cous, the relevant spices were pricey and a pain in the ass to get hold of, chickpeas aren’t available in all supermarkets and are imported from the States (and called Garbanzo beans – who knew?!), and I couldn’t find courgettes anywhere. So I ventured to my local wet market to have a look at what vegetables they had in stock. Saw some things that looked like courgettes. Held one up to the lady on the stall, and asked “courgette?” She nodded and added something in Cantonese. Hmm. Was she agreeing with me or giving me a price? I picked out another green vegetable that may or may not have been a courgette and repeated my question. And got the same response. Hmm. This technique wasn’t going to work. I had already asked a friend what the Cantonese word was for courgette and she didn’t know. (So she asked her mum…who also didn’t know. Sigh…)

Suddenly I had the solution. I whipped out my camera and started photographing a number of green vegetables that quite frankly all could have been courgettes and then went home and emailed them to the gang, two of whom were able to correctly identify them, and lo, I was able to complete my shopping for the meal. (They’re much paler and larger than the ones you get in Europe, just in case you were wondering after all this hoohah, although perhaps you may have paused for a nap by now).

Managed to make the food successfully (although a ton of it splattered onto the floor – my cooking area is small and the pot I was using was even smaller. Fear not, I didn’t scoop it up and back into the pot…I think…) and everyone turned up – one to two hours late – but I was drinking red wine by this point and wasn’t too bothered.

So as it was now turning into more of a dinner party than a let’s stand around and get drunk party, I decided to dish up the food. In paper bowls. With plastic forks. Ah, the art of fine dining Chez Howe. And once we had all sat down to eat (an amazing accomplishment in itself given that I only have four seats and no one sat on the floor), we decided to indulge in some classic dinner party conversation. Thankfully it wasn’t as boring as some of the ones I have engaged in in London (talking about property and house prices is officially boring, people), although at one point it did slip into the dull Hong Kong Island vs Kowloon debate – see my previous post.

But the highlight of the evening’s conversation was…kitchen ovens. And no, I’m not being sarcastic. Only one guest had an oven. And damn, but the rest of us were jealous. There was even a moment of silence while each of us indulged in our individual fantasies of what we would do if we had an oven of our own – roasting vegetables, cooking a turkey, baking a cake – the possibilities seemed endless…

Maybe I’ll have to write a nice letter to Santa.

Not so Happy Valley

2009-11-08T15:51:00.013Z

So I decided to explore the cemeteries in Happy Valley in advance of zombie film director Andy Edward’s visit (thought I’d show him the real sites). My HK mates thought that was a weird…presumably because I haven’t yet dragged them around any graveyards as I am wont to do with my UK-based friends.
Anyway, I headed to the ironically named Happy Valley to check out their offerings – all of which were pretty different from each other. The Parsee (or Zoroastrian – y’know, like Freddie Mercury) cemetery was amazingly lush and tropical and fittingly, I was listening to Bali Ha’i on my iPod as I wandered through the foliage.

Next up was the military cemetery which was extremely quiet and austere. And featured this rather imposing grave:

Like many HK cemeteries, it is stepped up a hill, and as I climbed, venturing deeper and deeper into the cemetery, I realised that this could become one of those “in space no one can hear you scream” kind of situations because there was no one around. In fact, I’m not sure there was anyone in the place at all (apart from the dead – boom boom).

However, I brushed the paranoia away and reminded myself of how ridiculously safe HK is and carried on. When I reached the back of the graveyard, I ventured down a dark winding path and was rewarded with an unlocked gate. It led to St Michael’s Catholic cemetery and the most amazing steps I have seen in HK. An India Rubber tree had wrapped its roots around the steps – beautiful.

In this graveyard, I saw two warning signs – one which made me laugh (the Triad one) and one which I ignored (the dengue fever one). Of course I should have paid attention to the history of the area and its significance. Many British soldiers in the early 1800s contracted malaria and died there. So yeah – they still have mozzies. And yeah – they got me – again. Although luckily they appear to be disease-free ones. Well, I’m not dead yet in any case…although you now know some spots in HK where you can dispose of my body.

Tai chi, dim sum, the beach – where did it all go wrong?

2009-10-11T18:36:00.005+01:00

So my Hong Kong plan was to become a tai chi master and a dim sum mistress who would potter off to the beach everyday to write. Well, that hasn’t quite happened. I haven’t been to a single tai chi session yet – mainly because it involves getting up at 6.30am and y’all know how I feel about early morning starts (despite, for the record, holding down three different jobs that required 6am starts). Of course, the theory is that once I go, I will be able to then line-up some private tuition at a more civilised time.

Then there’s the issue of dim sum. Well it’s a sociable meal, isn’t it? And it’s a lunch thing. And all of my friends here have these funny little daily pastimes they call jobs, so they’re always engaged during the week. And my last visitor was a vegetarian, so there was no point taking him. So in short, I haven’t been yet. However, I have discovered microwaveable cheung fun which isn’t too bad. But yes, I am craving the real thing. Maybe I should set up a restaurant that offers dim sum for one? Or maybe just set up a layabouts club so I could meet other dossers to dine with (that’s dossers with a “d”, y’hear? Not a “t”).

So that leaves the beach. Why have I not gone everyday? Well initially I was looking for a flat (settled on Hong Kong Island in the end). Then came the typhoon (despite my hatches being battened, the water still poured into my flat, resulting in me sleeping in the living room and setting my alarm for 4am so I could empty the rapidly filling pots and pans). Then I had an intensive writing project so I didn’t leave the house for a week. Then Wayne came to visit and it rained for most of his stay. I have however, made it to the beach on three occasions.

The first time was on the hottest day in September (well it must have been the hottest day because everyone’s clothes were sopping with sweat at 10am while standing in the shade), when I went on a junk boat trip to Tai Long Wan near Sai Kung. I swam from the boat to the beach and then back again (see picture). With an inflatable “noodle” admittedly, but those who have previously witnessed me thrashing in the water will know that it was no mean feat for me.

The next time was on Wayne’s second last day when the sun decided to finally show its face. We went to Shek O to meet a friend at the beach. Even though it took 90 minutes to get there (which is the same as going from my London flat to Brighton), it was spectacular. And hot! It felt a bit like being an extra on Lost with the lush green hills sweeping heavenward behind the beach.

Then on Saturday I took the plunge and went to the beach on my own. Took the bus to Repulse Bay, enjoying the hairpin bends along roads with sheer drops to one side. Felt pretty relaxed about the whole trip – somehow you don’t feel like such a loner/loser in the same way that you would were you doing this solo in your own country. Got to the beach and unrolled my beach mat. Whipped off my top to reveal my bikini underneath, then paused to watch some guy line up his friend almost in front of me and take a picture. That’s weird, I thought, it’s almost like he was trying to take a picture of me getting undressed. So instead of removing my shorts, I decide to walk a little to the left so I’m out of shot and therefore not “spoiling his picture”. Only then he stops taking pictures. Hmm. So I get out my camera and take a picture of these two fully clothed men on the beach and then, unsurprisingly, they walk off. So that was a bit creepy. (Although not as bad as when some guy photographed Nathalie and I on the beach in France. I was topless, but it was Cannes for crissakes – everyone goes topless!)

Anyway, decided to ignore all that and do some writing instead. Then it was so hot that I had to go for a paddle to cool down, and on my way back to my beach mat, some guy started filming me. Now y’all know what I look like (namely, not a fit model) and I swear I’m not some sort of delusional fantasist, but this definitely happened. Because when I angrily ripped off my (pause) sunglasses and glared at the guy, he closed his video camera and turned in a different direction. And he definitely wasn’t filming anyone else. Oh well, maybe it’s just that I look like some sort of Gweilo Godzilla (GG). Good thing I wasn’t wearing my heels then, eh?!

Am off to Shanghai, Osaka and Kyoto for two weeks on Monday, so when I get back, I shall definitely get down to some tai chi/dim sum business. Promise. Love from GG xx

Footnote: Relayed the photography story to a BBC (British-born Chinese) friend on Saturday night, who just rolled his eyes and declared that they were probably “mainlanders” – i.e. those from mainland China. And my friend Marc heard me bemoaning my lack of dim sum and took me to City Hall on Sunday to experience old-skool trolley dim sum where the ladies push round carts of dumpling goodness for you pick the ones you want. Wo hoo! Oh and the shark warning picture – that’s for Miss Watkins! She loves a good shark infested beach.

Fatter, thinner, or the same? (part 2)

2009-10-07T12:56:00.007+01:00

Another reason I thought I might be able to drop a couple of pounds was due to my dire cooking facilities. In my flat I have a microwave and a single electric hob. Not particularly conducive to cooking anything. Of course I get round this by always eating out. And because it’s so cheap and the food is so good, then there is always the temptation to over-order. Which I do. Quite a bit…

Hong Kong is renowned for its hiking trails, so maybe I’ll ditch some pounds on a hike. Well, when they say trails, what they actually mean is nice paved paths, which is just peachy with me. When Wino (otherwise known as the artist Wayne Chisnall) came to visit, we decided to take on the trail by the Peak that winds down to Pokfulam Road. It was an enjoyable walk with some amazing views but it had two really bad elements to it:
1. I got absolutely savaged by mosquitoes and due to the fact that I’m allergic to mozzie bites, I now have welts on my legs (see pic) that match my newly dyed purple hair (see other pic). Of course, hopefully this will cease when the temperature drops and I can wear trousers and long sleeved tops.
2. The other major no-no was the spiders. In my life, I have never seen such monsters. (See pic, but you’ll have to look closely to spot it!) God knows how many more were lurking out of sight. I can only hope that they keep their webs off the main paths to prevent hikers from tearing through them. But still…it’s a worry. Do constant adrenalin surges help keep ones weight down? Or do they just mean that you’re more likely to have a heart attach at a younger age?!

Of course, I do live two-thirds of the way up a very steep hill (see pic, although you can’t actually see the top of the hill in the photo). So maybe I will achieve “buns of steel” trekking up and down the 45 degree slope every day on my way to…ahem…buy more food. Oh well, I haven’t invested in any bathroom scales for my flat, so we’ll just have to see when I get back to the UK. Place your bets now…

Fatter, thinner, or the same? (part 1)

2009-10-05T17:22:00.003+01:00

So the big debate before I moved to Hong Kong was whether I was going to be fatter, thinner, or the same weight when I returned to the UK. At this point in time, I reckon it’s still too early to tell. For example, today I walked from my house to the IFC in Central, which is a 30 minute walk each way. I thought I should enjoy the good weather and do some writing for my blog alfresco, while checking out the great views of the harbour (see photo). Unfortunately, I was quite hot by the time I got there and felt compelled to pop to McDonald’s for a chocolate milkshake – well they are only 40p. So there you go – a classic example of my good work being outweighed by my greed.

Similarly, I’ve now tried a number of Chinese desserts and can safely conclude that they’re all revolting. I had imagined that this would be the outcome based on past experiences, so I reckoned I would be saving thousands of calories by not eating the sweet stuff. However, it turns out that Western desserts aren’t actually that hard to come by, so it’s not like it’s gonna be four months until my next slice of chocolate cake (although it may be that long until I make a tiramisu – my local Italian deli sells mascarpone for £8 – four times the UK price!). And the local bakeries sell excellent old-skool ring doughnuts for about 30p – literally tipping the scales for a fatter me.

I also thought that I might have to give up bread (crackers – my favourite food/meal as many of you know – have already fallen by the wayside – they’re outrageously expensive and the selection is poor here). Bread is generally pretty shit here. As Vietnam Al had forewarned me, most of the bread here is sweet. Which is fine some of the time, but I have started to crave wholemeal bread or regular brown bread or anything that’s not a synthetic-looking white sliced pan with the crusts cut off (why do they do that?!). But today I found the most amazing bread at my Italian deli. Yes, it’s white, but it’s fresh and flakey with sprinklings of rosemary on the inside. It’s not sweet, yet it’s been made in a similar way to puff pastry. And they have loads of other lovely looking breads on sale that I plan to work my way though during my time here. If you’re reading this in HK, then check out Il Bel Paese on 68 Bonham Road.

Batten down the hatches

2009-09-14T11:55:00.002+01:00

So, I was going to blog about the monster of a dessert that I had last night (see picture) but I now may end up treating it as my final meal. (Oh and by the way, I’m not a total pig – I did share this with two other people. And we still didn’t finish it.)

There’s a typhoon a-coming. In about an hour or so. And I’m just a little itsy bitsy teeny weeny bit scared. I have found out that a typhoon is just a region specific name for a cyclone or a hurricane. Hmmm. This does not reassure me. I’ve cancelled my 6.30pm meeting as the warning has gone from T3 to T8. (T10 is a full-blown hit.) Even though it seems quiet and relatively calm outside, the clouds have been racing across the sky and many people have been sent home from work. The mid-level escalators will now shut and I think they will probably stop the ferries.

Oh well, at least this is more important than worrying about all those calories! Having said that, most HKers just laugh and say the government is being overly cautious and I have nothing to fear. But then, they also said that about those aforementioned “occasional cobras”.

Thankfully I’ve been to the supermarket and I’ve got my supplies. Including the most enormous amount of toilet paper ever. Despite the cramped living spaces and the obsession with miniaturising everything, you can only buy an individual roll of toilet paper in your corner store, or in a 10-roll pack at the supermarket. Now where the hell am I going to store this???

5 things I’ve learned in my first week in HK

2009-09-08T16:38:00.005+01:00

1. Despite the fact that it’s ridiculously hot and humid at the moment (around 32-35 degrees Celsius), and as an Irish person I’m dying from the heat (we’re talking three-showers-a-day kinda heat), I’ve been told that I shouldn’t talk about “sweating”. I must ignore the fact that as soon as I step outside, beads of perspiration roll from my neck, gathering speed as they pour down my back until they soak into my clothes and my underwear. No folks, I’m not sweating, I’m glowing. Hmm…

2. Further to the above point on the heat, if I want to act like a local, then I must dress like one. I have been warned that in the middle of winter, the temperature drops to a freezing 10-15 degrees. People die from the cold here. Apparently I will need a thick wool coat – and maybe a scarf and gloves too. In fact, the shops are already selling winter coats and jumpers. Of course, if it was 15 degrees in Ireland, I’d be running around in a t-shirt. But I must not talk about that. Keep quiet and button up!

3. If you’re walking along the street and you feel a large plop landing on you – fear not! It’s not bird shit. It’s just condensation from someone’s air conditioning unit high above you. Soon I hope to stop jumping in the air while flapping my arms about every time this happens. I also haven’t seen any birds in the sky, so no doubt this will help. (Is this linked to the pollution?!)

4. Creatures are scary here. Have already seen quite a few cockroaches on the street. And a rat (which my friends swear was a medium sized mouse. Now it was either a giant mouse or a rat, and my money is on the rat). Also, while someone was telling me about the wonders of living in Sai Kung (a fishing village in the New Territories – I’ve been and yes, it is rather lovely), they did mention in passing that one can find the occasional cobra sitting on one’s doorstep. Only a small one, mind. Fuck that. I’m staying in the city…

5. Every city divided by a river is also divided by its inhabitants who argue over which side is better. In Cork it’s bad, in London it’s even worse, but here it’s fricking ridiculous. Hong Kong Island is predominantly where the expat community live, whereas Kowloon is described as “more Chinese”. Both sides think the other is rubbish. HKers argue that Kowloon is “the dark side”, that it’s impossible to get to, it’s dirty, etc. A bit like the way North Londoners view South London. Kowlooners (Kowloonies?!) think HK Island is full of visiting foreigners, that it’s sterile, and that it’s a rip-off.

Now here’s the joke. You can take the MTR (tube/metro/subway) from Central (the main station in Hong Kong) to TST (the main station in Kowloon) in less than 10 minutes because they’re only two stops away from each other. Of course, have I decided which side I want to live on yet? No. Arse. Where am I going to live???

Hungry Ghostbusters

2009-09-06T18:17:00.002+01:00

Ghosts – and ravenous ones at that – have been swarming round Hong Kong recently. It’s the annual Hungry Ghost Festival, which one friend succinctly described as “Chinese Halloween”. People burn paper money and goods to pass onto their ancestors in the afterlife. And they do this on the street. In a bucket. Turns out the people I saw weren’t mad tramps after all, but respectful citizens.

Shops in Sheung Wan do a roaring trade selling replica cardboard products for budding pyromaniacs – Sony tvs, mini BMWs, Vertu mobile phones, Louis Vuitton bags – you name it, they’ve got a paper version of it. I actually had to fight the urge to buy the replica LV with the intention of passing it off as a super limited edition bag from Hong Kong.

Another friend wagged her finger at me, warning me (a) not to steal the fruit offerings left out on the pavement and (b) not to flick my cigarette butt into one of the metal buckets used for the mini bonfire. Who? Me? As if I would…

Burma VJ

2009-08-21T16:51:00.002+01:00

What would it take to make you be strong enough to sacrifice your life for a cause? That was all I could think about having watched Burma VJ, a documentary which collates footage supplied by various video journalists working for DVB, an independent media company condemned by the junta ruled state.

The courage required to partake in a peaceful protest, knowing that there was a high risk of death, is mind-boggling. In Burma, there is no such thing as safety in numbers. Demonstrations are banned. Members of the army can and will shoot civilians. Part of the reason, I imagine, is to show face. They cannot let the population get caught up in a “power to the people” movement in case they overthrow the government.

When the monks starting marching in September 2007 (part of a number of anti-government protests to remove fuel subsidies which caused the price of diesel and petrol to suddenly rise as much as 100%), people thought it would be safe to join them. The government is Buddhist and respects the monks. Their respect, however, was something of the past. This time they shot the monks too.

The film made me question whether I would have joined the protests. I believe in the cause, but would I have laid my life on the line to defend it? Probably not. I’ve already shown myself to be a lazy and selfish world citizen by having never attended a single demonstration in the past.

What is even more remarkable about this documentary is the courage demonstrated by the video journalists. Being caught filming runs the risk of imprisonment, torture, death or all three.

I urge you to watch this film for two reasons.
1. It is an interesting perspective on what’s happening in Burma, made even more relevant by the recent sentencing of Aung San Su Kyi.
2. Human courage never ceases to amaze me. And it makes me question what are the things I really believe in and how far I would go to defend these beliefs.

Ps – If you’re London-based, then there will be a screening at the Prince Charles Cinema off Leicester Square at 6.20pm on the 11th September 2009.

Enter a Fox

2009-06-03T13:06:00.004+01:00

I grew up in Cork. A city, but one that was not that far from the country. I saw the usual rural animals – cows, goats, sheep and the like. But the most interesting animals I’ve seen have been the ones I’ve spotted since I moved to London.

Squirrels. I still can’t get my head around people who say they’re just rats with bushy tales. I absolutely love ‘em, ever since I first saw them in Hyde Park. This year I’ve been blessed by being able to watch them cavort on my balcony. Admittedly they’re only there so they can have a nose in my recycling bin (which has proved fruitless) or have a rummage in our potted plants (which are dead anyway, due to our communal lack of green fingers). It also amuses me to think of the destruction they’ve caused to our neighbours’ beautifully manicured flowers. Oh dear…I’m sure I’ll go to hell for that.

Badgers. Another creature I first spotted in the UK. I was looking out the window when I was on a train back to London when I spied a dead one on the tracks. Well…I was hardly going to spot at live one in the middle of the day, was I?

Which leads me to one of my favourite London inhabitants – the fox. We have quite a few in our neighbourhood and I was enamoured the first time I saw one. Yes, they’re annoying when they shriek in the night (I’ve since been informed that they do this while having sex – filthy beasts), but I love them nonetheless. While visiting my friend Gloria in south London, I encountered one on my walk back to the tube. This was the first fox I’d seen with a “fuck you” attitude. I walked along the pavement behind it and it stopped and glared at me, as if to say “how dare you try and take over my neck of the woods”. Ahhh yes, a fox with attitude – how indicative of London inhabitants in general.

Postscript: After writing this on the tube, a fox crossed in front of me on my street as I walked home – hadn’t seen an a fox for months, then two in one night!

And this post is named after the book I'm currently reading by Simon Gray.

Deaf as well as dumb?

2009-05-26T13:27:00.005+01:00

I am sitting on the Stansted Express trying to write about the whole icky affair that was my appendicitis (coming soon to a blog near you...the story that is, not the appendicitis) and there’s a very annoying noise coming from the seat behind me. In fact, it’s a series of annoying noises that may be emanating from a series itself. A couple – white European looking types – are watching something on their laptop…WITHOUT HEADPHONES. Good god – is this what modern life has given us? Bad enough that one frequently has to listen to the whining sounds leaking from people’s iPods – but now these mofos can’t even be bothered to use headphones. I give up. I feel like an old complaining woman, but there you have it. The mind of a 90 year old trapped in the body of a 28 year old. I’ve even done the British thing and stared at them three times. Each time, they’ve acknowledged the stare and subsequently done nothing. The guy sitting opposite me has just got up and moved. I’m loathe to follow suit having secured such a good seat when I boarded, but there’s nothing for it if I want to continue to write. In my little Irish head, I’m shaking my fist, while shouting “bloody foreigners”. Oh well, perhaps one of our beloved hoodrats will relieve them of their laptop during their visit to the Big Smoke. Ahhh…that’s made me feel better…

Painting by numbers

2009-05-19T15:23:00.005+01:00

So my excuse for not writing on my blog is that I've actually been writing elsewhere. Here's an article I wrote for RWD magazine - currently available in all good record shops and in Footlocker. Click on the image should you be interested in reading the actual text!

Freeness in London

2009-05-11T16:05:00.007+01:00

One of the best things about this city is the number of free things that are available to do. Even better is the free education on offer. A number of museums, galleries, book stores and assorted venues frequently offer free (or cheap) talks. I recently went to one at the Wellcome Collection on Euston Road - an amazing venue where science collides with art. I wrote about it for Ctrl+Alt+Shift - you can read the article here.

The talk on disorders was linked to an exhibition of diary entries by the artist Bobby Baker. I only managed to get round half the exhibition before I had to scoot off for dinner, but I am determined to go back. I loved her candour, honesty and truthfulness (sorry - have just recently be reading a piece about Americans' love of linking three similar adjectives together to try to sound intelligent) and her style is reminiscent of Quentin Blake (who used to illustrate for Roald Dahl).

Winter sun

2009-04-21T22:38:00.003+01:00

The sun hung blindingly low in the sky. She continued walking down the street, into the light, into the glare, into the sun, unable to see anything.

Why was the sun so low? Was the pressure from the heavens bearing down upon the sun? Or was the earth so jubilant at its appearance that it chose to rise up to meet it? Who knew? All she did know was that she couldn’t see a blasted thing as she strode through the town but that was ok.

Maybe she didn’t want to see anything because her mind was occupied with the thought of someone else. And how that person might change the direction her life would take.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

All barriers, no action

2009-04-01T16:55:00.000+01:00

Walked through the city this morning on my way to Liverpool Street station to catch a tube to work. There were barriers everywhere in anticipation of the protests – this year’s April Fool’s Day has been renamed Financial Fool’s Day and a number of demonstrations have been organised in and around the city of London. Never before have I seen so many scared looking office security guards or bored looking city workers.

The media seem to have been hyping up the event. Despite reports suggesting that there are around 4,000 protestors and 8,000 police, the media is gagging for some action. In the online news footage, viewers can see masses of TV cameramen and press photographers, seemingly making up the majority of the frontline scrum of surging people. Some news stations are reporting an escalation of violence. This, it turns out, means 19 arrests and four broken RBS windows. Hmmm. Not particularly news worthy. Compare that will the violence of the May Day protests in 2000.

Anyway, maybe we shouldn’t be worrying about bankers, and we should, in the words of Brian, consider the lilies of the field. What have they done for the global economy, eh???

BRIAN: Consider the lilies! …
WOMAN: Consider the lilies?
BRIAN: Well, the birds, then.
MAN: What birds?
BRIAN: Any birds.
MAN: What about them?
BRIAN: Well, have they got jobs?
MAN: Who?
BRIAN: The birds.
MAN: Have the birds got jobs?
MAN 2: What’s the matter with ‘im?
MAN: He says the birds are scroungers.
BRIAN: Look, the point is, the birds, they do all right, don’t they?
MAN 2: Yes, and good luck to ‘em.
MAN 3: Yes, they’re very pretty.
BRIAN: OK! And you’re MUCH more important than they are, so what are you worrying about; there you are, see?
MAN: I’m worried about what you’ve got against birds.
BRIAN: I haven’t got ANYTHING against the birds! Consider the lilies…
MAN: He’s having a go at the flowers now.
MAN 2: Oh, give the flowers a chance.

Radio Free Europe

2009-03-31T14:19:00.000+01:00

The dude swaggered along the upstairs deck of the bus. Securing a two-seater. he spread his legs wide as he sat down. He flicked his radio on and the sound of durrtty dancehall emitted from the tinny speakers.

The other passengers shuffled in their seats. Hadn’t he seen the sign that read “Don’t play music out loud, please use headphones”? Some twitched with annoyance. Some made tutting noises. Some decided to be brave and turned round in their seats to glare at the dude. Brief glares, but glares nonetheless.

The dude was oblivious as he nodded his head to the riddims. Although maybe he wasn’t quite so oblivious. Maybe he could tell full well that his music was pissing off the other passengers but he just didn’t care.

The girl smiled to herself. The British reserve amused her. She loved the anger within the people that refused to manifest itself into any form of action. No one was actually going to say something. They would just hope that their collective anger would form a dark cloud over the dude, causing him to realise his social faux-pas and turn his radio off.

But by the time the girl was about to disembark, there was no indication that this was going to happen. And the girl laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed.

In search of the wrong season

2009-03-27T23:16:00.000Z

Constable.Yes, Constable. That was what she thought as she sat on the train as it cantered through the countryside in the dappled sunlight. Except for the barbed wire fencing, it could have been one of his paintings. Well, that and the traffic speeding alongside the tracks, which was also destroying her view.

Strange. She had taken this journey a countless number of times but the thought had never crossed her mind before. Maybe it was due to the unsocialable hours in which she usually made the journey, those almost vampric periods of dawn and dusk. Maybe it was because the English weather was generally so goddamn awful that she never got to experience this beautiful, painterly light.

It somehow filled her with a longing for autumn, which was rather perverse given that part of the reason the land looked so lush was because spring had not long commenced. But that was typical of the girl – always longing for the things in the future while failing to appreciate those in the present…

Postcard from Waterloo Bridge

2009-03-27T23:15:00.000Z

She walked over Waterloo Bridge. To her right, the National Theatre was engulfed with flames of crimson light and to her left, the London Eye glowed a malevolent red. It was like the Southbank was trying to pretend that nightfall hadn’t yet arrived, that it was still sunset. An eternal sunset that would last till dawn. And yet, it wasn’t a comforting light. It was an angry light. Like London was raging against the darkness – drawing battle lines against the black night sky.

The mood had filtered down to the people on the bridge. People marched across it, looking neither left nor right, yet subconsciously absorbing the colours of aggression. No one looked up.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what Waterloo Bridge was about. Usually the pedestrians never contemplated the origins of this bridge’s name. Why think about battles and wars when London’s beauty was spread out around them? This was a bridge for romantics. But tonight, the lovers had chosen to go elsewhere…

The girl with braces

2009-03-27T22:53:00.000Z

She stood at the bus stop and tried not to stare at the couple who were desperately clutching at each other. The girl had train tracks and smiled longingly at the boy.

She immediately started wondering about the potential dangers of snogging someone with metal strapped to their teeth before remembering that she once had train tracks too. Top and bottom. Had she made out with boys back then? She couldn’t recall. Surely she must have done. She remembered when she was a teenager dispassionately kissing a boy behind a bus at a campsite on the west coast of Ireland. She must have had braces then – hell – she had them for most of her adolescence.

The couple moved off. She tried to look discretely to see where they were going. Her discretion was unnecessary. They were too wrapped up in one another to notice this random girl staring after them.

It was cold.

It was, in fact, very cold. She wished that the man she was in love with was with her. If his arms were wrapped around her, then she wouldn’t have been looking at other couples – at a girl with braces. But maybe it was ok to be alone. Maybe it makes you take stock of what’s important, makes you realise what you really want. Makes you aware of how much you long for that particular person.

Then the bus came thundering down the road and she bounded onto it. And she was happy because it was warm. And she was happy because, when she was waiting at the bus stop, she had decided that as soon as the bus arrived, that she would sit on the top deck and write down what was going through her mind while she had been waiting at the bus stop. She would write it for him.

Delays

2009-03-27T22:42:00.001Z

There were delays on the central line again. Typical. Why were there always delays when she was in a hurry, or late for something?

Like sardines in a can, they sat and waited at Holborn station. Some people escaped from the train, but the girl stayed in her seat, ever hopeful that the train would move. After five minutes of sitting in expectation, there was an announcement from the driver asking all passengers to disembark as the tube was terminating at that station. As her feet touched the platform, a pre-recorded and very English voice came over the intercom: “London underground wishes to apologise for the disruption to your journey. This was due to a body being under another train.”

“Oh God”, she thought to herself. “How can I live in a city that has an automated message for when someone takes their life under a tube?”

The scary thing was, she had already been contaminated by the London disease because the next thing she thought was that she could have saved herself five minutes had she gotten off the tube when she first heard about the delay…