Sobriety Bites

Burning Man Lost

2011-09-09T16:36:00.001-07:00

Well hello there,

So I'm sitting back in my little house in Shrewsbury, sipping on some Welsh blackberry and apple brandy and watching a Doris Day documentary. I'm sleepless. I'm jetlagged. I'm trying to process the most remarkable week of my life. The week I lost my Burginity at the Rites of Passage Burning Man 2011.

If you've ever seen The Muppet Movie, or Labyrinth, or Fraggle Rock, or Dark Crystal and delighted in it's mayhem, then that is 90 mins of fantasy that becomes tangible and lasts for a week while at BM.

The first thing you cannot believe upon arrival is the vastness of the space. A city is created for just a week to be burnt or torn down at the end. The playa stretches out for 3 miles and your tiny brain cannot compute its immensity. There are derelict fraggles as far as the eye can see. Art work emerges twinkling and mighty from the dust. It is an apocalyptic future. A dystopian past. Another dimension. Life on Mars. The Fifth Element. There are 50,000 wild ones, all communing to love, to laugh, to lose their minds and find them again.

You have this magical originality, this alien landscape and then you have your tribe. A few of you have made a camp. I was with wonderful old friends from Hong Kong and new ones from Germany and the US. We were all cartoon characters in our own graphic novel.

We were based at a New York sound camp named Bubbles & Base. Tina Jane and myself, along with Doctor Richard were to open the bar on the first night. Dress in gold was our only instruction.

We had arrived at camp after a 15 hour RV mission bought to us by the heroic Marija. We hit the playa at 1am but didn't park til 6am due to slow traffic onto site. We slept for a few hours and adopted our first costume change. TJ was bedecked in body hugging harlequin suit, heels and Northern Thailand hilltribe headress. I wore a Jessica Simpson polka dot bubble dress and parasol. We were caricatures of ourselves. We set out into the dust. Every other camp offers free booze. So we slurped IPA in a tiny saloon, travelled by fairground whirligig for beer and sipped whatever else was available in our plastic champagne flutes. We primped. We posed. We tried to take it all in. We found Shamrock City, soon to be our Irish Bar home from home and went back to the RV for a temazepam-drenched 4 hour sleep before our 2am alarm to prepare to bar wench.

We drank some amaretto and coke, smeared our eyelids and lips with pritstick to hold the golden glitter and hit our bar. For the next 8 hours, we served champagne to the thirsty circus folk while Doctor Richard checked ID. As the sun came up for our first true BM sunrise, we knew we were somewhere incredibly special, and not of this earth.

A further nap, and another costume change, and out we walked again. This was the pattern of the week for we had camped beside the Evil Dubstep Sound Camp, pumping out chainsaws and dentist drills. Music for the deaf. Music for the gremlins. Certainly not music for me. TJ was more adept at sleeping through this but as I had spent the last year in sleepy Shropshire it was gradually dementing me. But there were open bars. And sights to be seen. So the week continued.

We donned saris and made pilgrimage to the temple of transition. A place of such beauty and meaning I cannot describe. The walls are plastered with photos and letters and clothing of loved ones. A shrine to all those you have lost or forsaken you. People kissed. People cried. People mourned. In the middle of the desert. In a structure due for burning in but one week.

The dubstep continued. The drinking continued. The bowls were passed around. The mushrooms began to be nibbled.

Time and space stuttered.

Our RV ran out of power so no oven, no microwave, no AC. It is 41 degrees. We only have noodles to eat.

And then nightfalls. The temperatures drop and you find yourself out in the middle of the desert without your friends. You've lost your way and possibly your mind, somewhere between a portaloo and an artcar. You walk the miles back, in the dark, using the Burning Man and Temple as your guiding stars. A curvaceous, illuminated structure near the Bubbles & Bass camp means you can find your way. Pilgrimage through the dust. Falling into your tent, you wrap yourself in furs and sleeping bags and know exhaustion will get you through the soundcamps all around.

The morning begins again and so does the desert. You cycle. You drink. You listen to spoken word poetry in central camps. You meet more humans.

Snowcones are nearby. If you flash your junk you jump the queue. Your top slides off and you are suddenly wandering the playa topless. And who cares? No one. Many are naked. Then to Camp Beaverton for Wayward Girls. The lesbian camp. 150 girls whooping to a lecture about female ejaculation. Women tell you you're beautiful. Stainless steel paraphernalia is shown. We leave before the demonstration moves on. TJ finds it dull. As we stroll the playa, another artcar picks us up, and we listen to sweet non-dubstep tunes in the afternoon sun. My parasol protects my modesty. Somewhat.

We move towards the best dayclub of the playa, Distrikt and are picked up on our way by a phenomenal transgender lady we name Patsy for her abfab similarities. She steps out of her Sponge Bob Square Pants car to assure us she's no Patsy, she's a much bigger girl. She makes my own look like gnat bites. We spend some time at the club then I decide I've had too much of everything. I don't want to see anymore porn, anymore nudity, anymore mayhem. I want out the movie. I want a bed. I want clean clothes. I want freshness. I want to have not eaten that hash brownie. We return. I pass out at the back of the RV and stay there for around 10 hours.

TJ brings back various friends for me to meet. All quite innocently, but in my mangled brain I imagine wrong scenarios and pretend to slumber on. The dubstep rages on, symbolising the evil techno green bad trips I had once or twice in my teens. I sleep.

The next day is better. It is the day of the burn. There are only 2 more nights. The Man Burn. The Temple Burn. I can do this!

We get up for champagne at our club and are told that a movie star has a vagina art installation just around the corner. So off we set. We climb the cock and balls. We slide down the tube. We enter the vagina. We hit the G Spot. We get misted. We emerge to the morning sun. We meet Rosario Dawson. All is well.

We have a mellow day. Lots of cycling. Lots of exploring. The oddness is feeling less odd. We drink lots of water. We prepare for the Burn. Having spent all week losing people, due to the natural and not so natural highs, our tribe plan to meet at the temple at 8 to walk over to the Man. I embrace the mayhem and the pharmaceuticals and off we trot. We have Eunice, the Unicorn as our guide. She is held aloft as we enter the most tribal happening. Every light is on. Every stereo is playing. Pyrocars spurt their flames into the air. Acid & E & mushrooms & pot & absinthe fill the air. Here is what occurs from afar: http://vimeo.com/28801666 Within is a magical, wild, untameable beast. A delirium. A celebration like no other. As he burns, the tribes woop and hug and sing and stare and the dancing begins. We are lost out on the playa for hours. Skipping and jumping. Where the Wild Things Are. The Lord of the Flies. The Island of Lost Boys. The Amazons.

As things calm, TJ and I slip away. We are not so high. We retreat to the RV to take pause and drink a glass of merlot. TJ ponders just relaxing, for the first time in the week I may add, but I reject that and off we trot once more. To have it out with the Evil Dubstep club! And we go. And we dance. Like we've never danced before. We gyrate to the dentists drill. We surf to the chainsaw. We clear the floor. We own the floor. We take back the night!

And so... to the Oirish Bar... The place of all things good.

We meet a giant Irish muppet, who shows us his show RV. He got it cheap off some fella and drove it over. It's bedecked in red velvets and an utter pit. It is wonderful.

We return to the bar where a cheeky chap offers me granola on the dancefloor. The music is wonderful.

A sparkly Wolverine Elvis type comes to talk. He hands me a bracelet. With my a silver nametag on it. It is almost my name. A L L I S O N is says. Pft. That is the American spelling. I only have 1 L. And off I flounce. I am followed by a wingman to say the spelling is bad but the math is good. TBC.....

From Welshpool to Shrewsbury

2011-06-04T13:54:00.000-07:00

‘’So how can you tell me you’re lonely and say for you that the sun don’t shine?’

This old Roger Whittaker song has my circling my brain of late. Teasing at the corners as fire licks paper. I have found this particularly perverse as I seem to have entered the God realm of late. Other terms for this would be heaven or perhaps Narnia. My life seems infused with magic. I am the Hall & Oates Busby Berkely extraganza of 500 days of Summer. I have the Midas touch. Squirrels appear at my window and bound along by me as I walk to work. Stags cross my path and deer twitch their ears as I approach, so close I can make out their unique freckles. I work in a castle with a familiar named Alan. He is a peacock. He is the first conversation I have before I breach the castle walls in the morning. He pretends I don’t exist. I dig that about him. Then there are gardeners who offer to bring me sweetpeas, volunteers who bake cakes and a whole raft of other castle folk who seem delighted to have made my acquaintance. I am so heart-openingly grateful for this period of my life, I get a bit misty as I walk to and from work. It’s just all such a dream. The dream is even more highly defined by the fact I spent the previous three months toiling like I’ve never toiled before as a waitress in a hotel. In my last role, I racked up 55 hour weeks and started at 8am to finish at 2am. I had to clean out dirty pots of ketchup and mayonnaise from messy diners. I polished things. I mopped things. I dealt with misogynistic pygmy managers. I was told to stand up straighter and be more formal with guests. I kept smiling and seem to now be offered my reward. Yet still, Whittaker’s folk song calls back to me, reminding me of a time my little soprano voice rose to harmonise with fellow angels at the first year of my catholic high school existence…

I arrived a little early at Welshpool station tonight. It is not so much a station as a platform surrounded by Welsh hills. It is very pretty so the time tends to pass quicker than at an average wait spot. I take a seat in the sheltered area in the centre of the platform as have no jacket and am wearing a summer dress. It feels a little cool as the evening sets in so I draw my red cardigan around me. Three characters begin the night’s performance. They are discussing freedom and travel.

‘I’ve done all of it, Aberystwyth, Scotland, Essex’ says the lady.

‘How old do you think she is?’ asks the baby faced boy pointing at his young friend. ‘She’s just 15, don’t look it though.’ She has a doll’s face and could be younger still. Her painted cupid lips and long asymmetric hair sprout from a child’s neck and floral corset.

‘Be careful’ says the lady. ‘My mate got carried out by three guys, nothing you could do.’

‘A bloke should never hit a girl,’ says the doll.

‘I was out, back hander by my fella. Out for six and a half minutes. Been raped, abducted, beaten daily by my ex-husband, he sold me. I’m only twenty eight. I’ve seen everything, I’ve done everything I ever wanted to do,’ says the lady, with the black gums.

‘Just enjoy life when you’re young innit, you’re only young once’ says the baby.

‘I need a Ritalin to calm me down. I’ve just taken speed’ says the doll.

‘Poor man’s coke. Hahaha,’ says the baby.

The lady interjects, ‘I’ve never been a speedfreak. Never one for the uppers’

‘Well I do like my ketamine’ buzzes the doll.

‘I can get anything, when it comes to crystal meth, anything, but it don’t do nothing for me,’ tells the lady.’

‘I can get an ounce for 160,’ says baby.

‘I can get it for 90. Here’s my number. 07896 721, hold on, that’s my old number. I’ve got nine phones. This is my number. Call me in an hour. I’ll have charged my phone by then. Lucy Grybow.’

The baby stops her here. ‘How do you spell it? I have learning difficulties, dyspraxia, my bother has mild autism. He has Aspergers. He gets Ritalin all the time.’

At this point, Mr Fascinated lumbers slowly over. ‘So what’s all this about drugs then? You reckon they should be legalized? What would you do if I gave you a thousand pounds? How much do you charge for prostituting? You chose this life of begging didn’t you? I have my job. I earn my money but I get screwed, the house, the council tax, the gas, the electricity, the water. You’re free!’

Baby pipes up, ‘Yeah, it’s a lifestyle choice innit. I wanna be free. I wanna travel the world.’

Mr Fascinated turns his attentions away from the lady. ‘You’d need money for that.’

‘No, I wouldn’t, I’d be like those people from a thousand years ago, living off nature.’

Mr Fascinated loses interest, ‘It’s so depressing how late this train is.’

He picks up interest once more and lays into the lady.

‘What do you make a day? If you average that twenty to forty, that’s thirty quid. What do you need to live on? Twenty? Well, if you saved ten pounds a day, in thirty days, one month, you’ve have three hundred pounds, in three months, nine hundred, so why don’t you do that? You choose it. It’s your decision. So begging on the streets, homeless, can’t be that bad.’

Becky, the lady, doesn’t stop to think about this. ‘Fair play. You’re right. It’s not that bad. I don’t have the discipline to save my money like that.’

All the while Roger Whittaker’s Streets of London plays on loop, reminding me of how extraordinarily lucky I am not to visit that realm any more, as I did as a doll faced 15 year old, snorting speed at Wilmslow train station with a McDonalds straw.

I return home to see a package from a dear friend in Hong Kong. ‘Bless you’ says the card. The very words that Becky had said when I passed her a tiny sum of money. The picture on the postcard in the package is of Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Light. It reads that devotion to this Buddha strengthens compassion and orients the mind to rebirth in his paradisal realm. In the stunning art, this Buddha holds an alms bowl with an unfolding lotus flower.

Bless you all, whichever realm you are in right now. Tis all an illusion anyhow, right?

xxxxx

Snowdrops

2011-02-02T13:28:00.000-08:00

It's a meaningful night tonight.

The Metal Rabbit bounds over in China.

Candlemas in Cristendom.

Imbolc for those who care for pagan ways or embrace Celtic notions.

It is particularly honoured for the Gaelic Celtic Goddess Brigit.

She was fond of poets.

So I share two with you tonight.

One from a long time ago and one from last week.

Ye Olde Proverb - which sounds most elvish if you try and read aloud:

Thig an nathair as an toll

Là donn Brìde,

Ged robh trì troighean dhen t-sneachd

Air leac an làir.

"The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bride,
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground."

Apparently this was the first idea of Groundhog Day? It sounds nicer in Gaelic.

And this one was for my cousin, who left us at the beginning of the year:

The Nature of Reality

i saw a programme last night

on the nature of reality.

Scientists fired particles

in a dark machine.

The particles became a wave.

They say this means

there are parallel universes.

When the machine was watched

The particles went back to normal.

A singular reality.

You can't be watched anymore.

You're a wave.

You're dancing in sunlight.

You're laughing with your family.

You're teaching your children.

You're complaining about state pensions.

According to science.

So, I'm lighting a candle for people I love tonight and dreaming of snowdrops, the so-called Bells of Candlemas and small buds of hope, as we have passed the heart of winter and spring is surely on its way.

xxx

Greek antiquity ft Beyonce

2010-12-01T13:13:00.000-08:00

‘Then he thrust his spear into the soil… ‘

My current crush is on Richard Miles who presents the Ancient History documentary on BBC Two. He rides horses and uses words like quixotic. Apparently he teaches Classics in Australia… the modern day Indiana Jones, although he does have a propensity to popping his pink rugger shirt, the fact he wields a copy of Homer would forgive any sin he could care to commit.

Considering that the English language is my greatest turn on, working in a bookshop is beginning to fuel fantasies rather nicely. I can extrapolate wildly from choice of book to type of man. Just last week I managed to get my flirt on with a customer with marvelously full lips as we discussed astrology, all terribly tongue in cheek but making minimum wage retail more than worth it.

Not only is my job affording me flirtations with cute men who can read but a whole new social life! Waterstones is filled with the most eccentric peoples I have met in some time. There is a Kali devotee with druid beard who is sourcing me some mead, a self-confessed fruit-machine addict, a gay Mohawk stage hand and a young girl who thinks gammon is a fish, because it’s like a sting ray, innit… a gamma ray? With this merry bunch of men, I get to go to pubs warmed by log fire and drink wine, while my new friends have their peculiar concoctions of stout, cider or port and lemonade.

From there it would appear that the C21 club, a 5 minute walk from my house, holds a gay night on a Monday. Shawbury is the RAF base nearby. This Monday the gay bar and RAF came together in a beautiful celebration of 24 year old boy men all fashioning moustaches for Movember. I romanced with a Lieutenant Jim and talked books with Lieutenant Bob. Lieutenant Josh bought the Jaeger Bombs. All most charming. I would have spent more time with young Jim, but his friend took me to one side and told me how he was a top bloke and I had to be good to him as he’d been messed around before. All hail the school disco. The Mohawk and I proceeded to the podium to insist that if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it.

Amongst all this working and merriment, I managed to complete my 50,000 words? I am rather surprised by this, especially as I had to write the last 20,000 in 3 days, heavily punctuated by hangovers. Pride won out over procrastination and all this socialising has been putting me in a jolly good mood so was all very encouraging.

I plan to keep the 50,000 a month job up, just to keep me busy, and make sure I have a vast wealth of information to write me a book. It amuses me to write it so should amuse others to read. Not entirely sure what the style will be quite yet so playing with a few. Travelogue? Erotica? Comedy? Chicklit? Coming of age story? There’s certainly a lot of high camp but one cannot fight the moonlight.

Oooh Richard is scuba diving now. Mother has just commented that he’s a rather rounded young man… Yes indeed. I can only assume he would be joining me on the podium if I were to bump into him at C21… We could discuss beautiful youths together.

Catullus LXXXV

Odi et amo.
quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio,
sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love.
How can I do that, you might ask me perhaps?
I do not know.
But that's what I feel and this is torture.

OK. Shall commit to the last few moments of Dr Richard now... and dream of exploring antiquities together.

Sweet dreams

xxx

Fishfingers and benevolent universes

2010-11-17T12:17:00.000-08:00

Hello folks

It's just gone 8 o'clock on a rainy Wednesday evening in Shrewsbury and I've now written 29,438 words into a Microsoft word document entitled A Novel by A.L.Dyer.

The more I write, the crazier the dreams become. It may be something to do with sleeping in a narrow single bed that I affectionately dub, the fishfinger. My dreams are often epic adventures which involve me on exciting missions to achieve lofty goals. There is often double crossing, love and loss, hiding under something and finally having the visuals dramatically wrenched from me as I wake up. I then lie there thinking, yes, that's a story alright, that could be a film, that's amazing and by the time I plod to my laptop I can't see it anymore. I just hear the echoes of the protagonist whispering 'help' as the new consciousness of my waking life kicks in. Thank goodness for my journals, having those memory bites right now are invaluable.

Life continues in its cozy way here. The only drama is in my head, which is where it tends to reside any way, but I haven't met any men to fantasise about or women who may become nemeses, hence my word count increases. A small turn of fortune occured in Waterstones for my writing career. Luke, the Senior Bookseller for Fiction approached me on Wednesday when I was doing my 4 to 8 shift, stacking shelves, stacking shelves, and said, 'You're interested in writing aren't you?' I smiled and averted my eyes saying 'yes, well trying to'. I am endeavouring to be less bombastic while in the Shire, the shop is too small for hyperbole at any rate. He continues with 'Well there has been some water damage of a small selection of books so you can take them home if you like, they're in the box over there.' Over I wander, to discover that the only section of books that had been damaged were the 'How to write a novel' section. Turns out there are about ten of these books, ranging from how to write for children, to how to stroke readers' thighs with your words of erotic novella. I have gladly asked to take them all home with me at the earliest of conveniences.

Yes Universe, you may well be minus 3 of late, but you are most benevolent.

Hoping you are all experiencing wee gifts of late,

Alison

xxx

Prose practice

2010-11-14T11:04:00.000-08:00

Homebase. How to describe such a place? Homebase was a slum. A hot slum. A dirty late night, early morning slum. It was always very dark. There were giant day beds lain out where you could get jiggy. The toilets which were usually flooded were for furtive explorations. Anything went. There were poles to writhe around. Axxxxx and Jxxxx were already royalty. Each weekend someone’s credit card would be left behind. Usually Axxxxs’ as he was the most capable when high. The rest of us would just roll around on the beds in messy crocodiles of limbs. Gurning. Kissing. Dancing. Talking. Squeezing hands when you’d tried the E pill. Falling over when you’d eaten the K pill. Writhing in the toilets with the right coke. The dance floor was so small that it didn’t matter if you couldn’t stand up, the hoardes of sweating bodies kept you upstanding. And then it was but a 5 minute walk up the steps, beside the escalator to return to Escapades. Home. From Homebase.

Sowing a book tree.

2010-11-11T09:38:00.000-08:00

18,424 words!

It's hard to start up the engine but once it begins it does make a lovely sound. Trawling through old diaries is such a treat. Brings back the madness of my first few months in Hong Kong. This juxtapositions in a marvellous way to the sweetness of living in windy Shrewsbury with my mum. Remembering how mayhemic everything was with how calm everything is now.

Today, I journeyed down to Shrewsbury Abbey and lit at candle at 11am for the lost soliders of the first world war, and all previous and future wars. Seeing the riots in London last night reminiscent of this. Mobs. Rage. Hatred. Fury. How it appears in different forms under different names.

Yesterday, was my first day at Waterstones. My dream job. Surrounded in books. Talking about writers. This fits in rather well with the Buddhist concept of sowing seeds. As I sell books, so I help sell my own, yet unformed book. Whatever you wish to have in your life, sow the seeds for it. Thank you Waterstones.

Thank you book tree.

x

Mills & Boon meets Hustler

2010-11-09T11:05:00.000-08:00

Hello lovely people out there on the interwebs,

Hope you are all fairing most well.

Quote of the day, courtesy of the lovely Ms Kan is 'Thou shalt not know exactly what thou dost, but thou shalt do it' which sounds like a mash up of the Bard and Gandhi so I approve mightily. It also cleverly encapsulates my life at the moment. I'm not in some high powered job, in my fancy flat, with my snazzy car and designer shoes but I really couldn't be happier.

Tomorrow, if you were to peak in at Waterstones in Shrewsbury you would see me there, as the newest bookseller, asking folks to 'Key in your pin number love' which wasn't a possibility when I left for Asian shores in 2002. The technology! And I have Mills & Boon meets Hustler fantasies of meeting a man who reads books in the Shire and possibly plays an instrument who may come seeking a book, and our eyes shall meet over a graphic novel... and well... you can imagine the rest. There'll be coffee and grimy bedsits and vast quantities of mulled wine to cope with the 4 degree temperatures we are blessed with in this green and pleasant land.

Writing a book while working in Waterstones just seemed to fit, especially a ye olde Waterstones with a tudor exterior and wiggly shaped rooms. I'm approaching the 15.000 word mark and smug as a bug in a rug. This must show as I was just carded in ASDA. Les, the check out man, deliciously asked for ID, I played along with the joke and laughed, he poker faced me and I gleefully presented my HK ID. He was befuddled. In my dream world, I shall befuddle at least one person a day.

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

I'll let you know about the world of the bookseller soon.

Sleep well. Dream of things that make you curl and stretch.

xxx

Remember, remember the fifth of november

2010-11-05T10:08:00.000-07:00

Words written now in the 5 figures.
Phew.
Debbie's birthday now - so serving cake in Altrincham.
Juggling a 7 year old terrorist who wants cake before sandwich and a technophile 9 year old who wants to know how to change her mum's wallpaper on the new birthday smartphone...
Ready for gunpowder, treason and plot...
Bang bang!
xx

Guilt 1 - Procrastination 0

2010-11-04T14:49:00.000-07:00

Today did not want to begin. It was super cold outside. I had a sore tummy. I have recently discovered the joys of bbc i player so can watch old episodes of Merlin. There was much on the side of procrastination. But I had guilt hanging over my head. Now as any good Roman Catholic I am rather good at ignoring and forging through regardless, but I knew I had pinky sworn to write something on this blog EVERY day. And I don't want to lie. So I HAD to write more of the novel. Ug.

Then HURRAH! Having rearranged the tardis that is my back bedroom, I had found a diary from 2001 and that fed me with quite enough to tippy tap into my hp laptop.

Word count today - 7,846 - over 15% done already of 50,000 target achieved already!

So now I am off to curl up like a squirrel under several duvets and read Mr Pip.

Good night

x

Crocodile? Dragon? Skinny hippo? Serpent? Stump?

2010-11-03T11:57:00.000-07:00

Here is a picture of my favourite log.
See how country I've become :)
I have a favourite log! Do you?
What do you see?
All of my suggestions may be found in the title of this post.

Closer to modern civilisation however is the local Tesco Mega Store! That was my adventure for the day. Liz from number 7 drove me over. I usually just get to walk to ASDA. They stock Leopards Leap which has a picture of 3 leopards on the front, which is also the symbol for Shrewsbury. Three shrews would not hold such gravitas? Who can say. Not sure how many leopards Shrewsbury has ever seen, but there we go. I am drinking some now. It is nice.

Managed to write a few more words today so up to 5,272, wbich is more than the 1,667 recommended per day. Phew. Am being mainly distracted at present by BBC i-player and 4 on demand... you can watch any tv you missed... so that led to the weekend's Merlin and Pillars of Stone, I am going super old school now I'm back in the Shire... It's all that Norman stone work and thoughts of Vikings.

Highlight of the day definitely meditating this morning. It was all most golden and autumnal.

Tomorrow I shall be decorating a cake for a dear friend's birthday party.

Oh the burbs!

Merry Thors' Day

xxx

Root Vegetables and Welsh Virgins

2010-11-02T13:44:00.000-07:00

Good evening folks,

Day two is now over and my word count is standing at a rather tall, blonde and beautiful 4,059. I mainly feel retarded that I have taken this long to commit to writing something. I enjoy it so much, as I rather peversely used to enjoy writing essays and doing homework. I'm reminded of my favourite school projects where I'd do little drawings to annotate each page as well - so there were more than words. I remember my King Arthur project where I speculated where he was TRULY buried, being under ten at the time I'm sure I would have known the right answer. I also collated a book of big cats. Lots of fascinating facts about each cat and a remedial drawing as only someone who still can't draw stick figures in her thirties can achieve.

As for my writing today, not much has changed. I get more definite and more clear about what I'm saying as it appears on the page. I giggle when something funny happens and steam up when I remember some fantasy I created during the most innocent of scenarios. I have recently been introduced to a phenomenal illustrator, so there may even be pictures too! I'll post some images once they're ready.

As for today, I spent the morning buying roots vegetables with my mother (it's very cold and one must snort stew to stay alive) and exploring Shrewsbury Abbey, which is only a 5 minute walk from my house. It was built in 1083 by The Earl of Mongomery, one of William the Conqueror's best buddies. Ah, 1066. Of course Henry the Eighth smashed it up in the 1500s, but the original columns and arches remain? I love being so close to such history. Creations that live on. St Winifred's relics were stored here after she was beheaded by the bloke that fancied her when she wouldn't go out with him. Her head rolled down the hill and a holy spring began to bubble up. Her head was picked up by a priest, and popped back onto the body. She then did a few miracles here and there. A saint is born. She was Welsh, but then Shrewsbury is on the borders and the Abbey was the biggest one for miles back in the day so it seems fitting her bones found a home where she could be worshipped. She's still quite popular today. She got a new stained glass window back in 1992! Just say no, ladies.

Again, thank you so much for your emails of awesome, they are sooo inspirational. Today I would like to thank Su for the enLIGHTenment, Jason for the loomage, Gerald for the hyperbole, Laurence for the cheerleading, USA Kat for the bloggage and Christina for the continuum.

Sweet dreams,

A

x

THANK YOU

2010-11-01T07:20:00.000-07:00

Sooooo...

Written the first 2,148 words to the strains of Sigur Ros... so if strange selkies and faerie folk appear in the book I wouldn't be overly suprised... so far I've been pondering travel and remembering the first 24hours in Hong Kong back in September 2002. I've not even met you HK people yet? Imagine?!

Thank you so, so, very much for your kind and lovely words of encouragement regarding this project. I'm going to put them all on one sheet and print it out so I can read over them again when considering bailing.... which I shan't... lest the Goblin Faerie Queen seek comeupance.

Alongside writing, I'll also be working at Waterstones in Shrewsbury over Christmas, first day next Wednesday when I shall begin singing the minimum wage blues... thank the elves for MPF refunds!

Here goes the thank yous...

Thank you Nari, England is misty, mellow and not disimilar to comfort eating vast amounts of Yorkshire Pudding, thank you Kelly, I'll doubtless be fact checking on your website, thank you Peter, thank you Lavinia, superb advice, I de-dongle and cannot reinsert til 2,000 words exist, thank you Vicky, thank you Kat, haiiigh faaive, thank you Jill, one of my all time favourite Goethe quotes, thank you Clare and Tony, so glad to have you both as shipmates for November's literary bootcamp, thank you Tina J, always an inspiration, thank you Alice, meow and purr, thank you Carla Bear, thank you Tina C, happy Japaning, thank you Tom, I'll holdyou to that! :), thank you Ryan, Fist & Finger indeed, thank you Louise, your words make me all fuzzy inside, thank you Tamara, thank you Al Squared, fine words indeed, thank you Laurence, ha!, thank you Fiona, marvellous email danke!, thank you Tanya, how lovely, a great inspiration to me indeedie!

And now, I can get back to the fabulous business of perusing facebook for all those phenomenal Halloween costumes. Anyone would think there were a surfeit of little monsters in Hong Kong? Devil worshippers... the lot of you!

And then watch the big silence about folks doing a vipassana benedictine monk style - http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00vjcp5/The_Big_Silence_Episode_1/

Happy writing kisses

xxx

A Fairytale by A L Dyer

2010-04-16T08:31:00.000-07:00

The air was not really for breathing any more. It was for indexes and inhalers. Factories and idling engines filled the air with Victorian smog. Old and young wheezed along the pathways of Hong Kong covering their faces with masks or cloth or clothes. Many began to live inside. In virtual bubbles. The fortunate could afford oxygen chambers while playing outside was banned. Lovers skyped and texted but rarely met. Sex was usually carried out online wearing electronic stimulators. Those cocooned from the air and growing rich from sales of air substitutes still experienced the pleasure of touch, as masseuses and stylists scuttled through the service walkways to tend to their charges.

One family at this time seemed to profit while others lost. The matriarch had suffered from breathing problems during her first pregnancy and due to her reputation as an aficionado of all things hedge and fund found funding for her new business to be no barrier to entry. The business was named Crystal Clear and produced all things to protect you from the dissolving world outside. Masks and gloves and wipes and oxygen tanks and eventually their most desirable item: The Crystal Clear Residence.

The Crystal Clear Residence was on the Southside of Hong Kong Island near many other prestigious properties but on its own piece of uncontaminated reclaimed land. The air was distilled from the waters of Faxaflói, a Fjord in Iceland most famous for it’s proximity to the country capital of Reykjavík. This water was said to combat pollutants so was at a very high premium. Few tasted it. A select few had ever breathed it. Those at the Crystal Clear Residence sipped and inhaled at length. The Nautilus inspired structure would sparkle in the humid sunshine casting rainbows across the island. Top ecologists had been called in to ensure the residence could exist with as little outside input as possible so workers such as gardeners, plumbers and cleaners need only enter rooms when the residents were elsewhere. Those who would enter the residence to carry out manual tasks were known as the ‘air breathers’ and viewed with disdainful pity from the inhabitants of the residence.

It was in the Crystal Clear Residence that baby Kenza Leila was born. A small child with giant eyes. Her mother named her after the Arabic words for treasure and dark beauty as she was her heart’s delight. ‘Kenza’ she would whisper to her daughter, ‘you are my heart which now walks around outside of my body.’ And every morning as the sun rose up over the compound, Kenza Leila would be shown the plants and the flowers that grew within. As the sun set, Kenza Leila was shown the stars in their magical patterns and told stories of the gods and goddesses who had blessed her heart, her treasure with such deep ochre eyes and calm countenance. Sometimes, late at night, Kenza’s mother would wake to check on the child that never cried and find her staring through the glass ceilings at those stars, or at the changing clouds during the day. She never cried. But nor did she laugh. And as the years passed by and Kenza’s hair grew into dark curls, her rosebud lips learnt to smile when required.

Residents would speculate that she was a wise old soul and would visit her with gifts of expensive perfumes and fine clothes to see if they could learn what she knew. Kenza so rarely spoke that visitors would place huge meaning on her utterances. Her refrain, ’Ew!‘ at a clucking chicken in the sanitised petting zoo led to their removal from the Residence and a ban on all poultry. The following year a strange Avian flu purged the rest of Hong Kong, while the Residence remained pure. While leaving for their Autumn break, Kenza wrinkled her nose when the first class tickets for Bali peeked from the travel case. The trip was cancelled while the bombs decimated the Balinese tourist strip.

Kenza Leila was no longer one mother’s treasure of dark beauty. She was the Oracle, the Sibyl. The foreseer of good and bad. The most precious of the Residence. She was revered within the Crystal Clear Residence but her premonitions came at a price. Residents began to complain that she was unnatural. A freak. Inhuman. These terms would undulate through the manicured gardens and glass lifts. A chatter of Chinese whispers dispersed from the highest echelons of society to the lowliest air breathers.

‘She knows so much. She could guide us through the markets.’

‘She knows so much. I shall find out the name of my sweetheart.’

‘She knows too much. She will destroy the markets.’

‘She knows too much. She will bewitch my sweetheart.’

Fortunately for Kenza, her detached demeanour insulated her from such idle gossip and her beauty ensured that people could not help but be kind to her face. Besides which, she was an inhabitant of the Crystal Clear Residence, the most expensive real estate in the land, her parents were influential people. Kenza would spend her days taking long swims in the large indoor heated pool following the Nautilus shell tiled pattern beneath her body to swim in endless spirals, in and out. She carried herself with a regal bearing and whether swimming or strolling or attending ballet classes, her long limbs behaved more like those of a gazelle than a normal child.

Years passed and her 16th birthday approached on the 24th February.

To be continued...

An Urban Fairytale

2010-01-24T02:04:00.000-08:00

Before you read this, know it is not from my fevered wishful imagination. This just unfolded - infront of my own very jaded eyes - and they are burning bright once more with the knowledge that love is alive and well and all around...

I'm sitting at the Bookworm. Doing my homework. Pondering Great Compassion and concluding that without a solid foundation of self esteem and worth its difficult to get a foothold and then the magic occured.

I'd been aware of a very handsome, young couple sitting at the booth beside mine. She had huge blue eyes, soft brown hair, freckles and a European accent. He was a modern day Indian prince, with heavenly wavy hair tapered into his regal neck. They were not having a fun conversation.

They were reliving their last few months or so. She accusing him of not caring. He saying that he was too hurt to behave well. He was in too much pain. My homework focus began to drift as I tuned into this real life occurence of love found and love lost. Their tones were angry, then pleading, then nervously laughing. They recounted tales of being at the same restaurant near Lan Kwai Fong, you know, the one near Bulldogs? How she arrived and he blanked her. So she thought he didn't care. But he did. But he ignored her. Can you understand how I feel? Can you?

After some time, I tuned out, this record was looping. You did this. But I hurt. Imagine how I felt. I'm sorry. Why didn't you say anything. Why did you. Why did you. Why did you?

But then the scene changed.

The Indian prince stood up and asked the waitress if he could play some Sinatra.

The music began to play and he walked back to the table and took Blue Eyes by the hand. There in the restaurant they stopped talking. They slow danced between the tables. He gently turned her watching her sway through the room at twilight. Their eyes never once left each other. The air pulsing with a need to be understood. For it all to be OK.

The song ends and he asks her to stay. They sit down once more. There is another song lined up. It's main lyric is 'One More Try' but he serenades all the lyrics to her, with such a beautiful voice and her big blue eyes begin to spill.

The only actions are his voice and her tears.

'I wish you the best. I guess.'

The music was over. They listened to each other through the silence. Eyes locked.

He gets up. Walks to the counter, 'Can I get the check?'

Another song begins to play. Instrumental guitar.

'This is in my favourite movie,' she says.

'Yeah, I remember that,' he says.

She laughs at how his plate has barely been touched and offers to share the bill. He says she can pay next time. She says there won't be one.

'There'll be no tomorrow' says she.

'There will be. I promise,' says he, 'Are you OK?'

'Errrm, yeah, no, I, I'm just surprised.'

'Let's go and take a long walk together.'

And as he collects his music, she wipes her tears away. He helps her with her coat. They leave the restaurant.

And it's my turn to mist up. I'm so touched by this display of human interaction.

The usual music switches back on. It's Burt. 'Just like me, they long to be, close to you.'

Thank you Blue Eyes and Indian Prince. I wish you love. Thank you for showing some to me.

xxx

Short Story Sunday - Banana Pancakes

2009-11-14T18:04:00.000-08:00

I wake up smiling, with kisses on my lips. Many kisses, along the path, in the garden, on the roof, lying, sitting, walking, melting. Alone. The roof top reveals a treasure map of pillows and sheets but strangely empty. As is my bed.

Your friend said I was rather hot and he had certainly never met me before, although we had also engaged in dog down on many occasions. Interesting what make up and scent will do for a lady. Your friend continued that I should give you 'a go' as you are just so flexible. This had certainly been part of the package but not the winning deal. You just seemed so kind and Scorpio mysterious, as they are want to be. The mating dance continued. You fetched drinks. We talked. The world dissolved around us. The kiss.

Hershey Melty Kisses. Unfolding, Unraveling. Melty. Gravity.

We stagger from the party as if shot. As if injured from a hunt. Leaving pieces of us behind.
A moonlit graveyard with views of the ocean beckons. We roll to our positions and kiss and kiss and kiss. Finding. Losing. Escaping. Dreaming.

The magic is interspersed with the practicalities. 'So tomorrow begins with banana pancakes' say I. 'I think we can accommodate that' says he. 'I hope we can enjoy the scenery' say I. I've made certain allowances for that' says he. The Lantau escapade stretches out in front of us. A beautiful unravelling thread into the future.

We stumble to my house. Blind with kisses. Grabbing pillows from the bedroom. Flinging ourselves to the roof. Discarded ragdolls. There is no moon tonight. Enveloped in the night. Wrapped up tightly in the nights heavy sheets and our own arms.

And as I bend and dissolve and become and disappear, you utter the words. 'I'm sorry. I can't do this.'

A if in a play, I amuse myself with a new script. “I suppose banana pancakes are out of the question?'

You say sorry to yourself more than to me. We have changed stories and are no longer performing on the same stage.

I wake up with a bed strewn with pillows, curling like a cat, at the memories of what did and the thoughts of what could.

To be continued...

Apple wisdoms

2009-10-07T20:00:00.000-07:00

“life will break you.
nobody can protect you from that,
and living alone won’t either,
for solitude will also break you with its yearnings.
you have to love.
you have to feel.
it is the reason you are here on earth.
you are here to risk your heart.
you are here to be swallowed up.
and when it happens that you are broken,
or betrayed,
or left,
or hurt,
or death brushes near,
let yourself sit by an apple tree
and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps,
wasting their sweetness.
tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.”

- louise erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247

Sharing the Love

2009-08-25T07:45:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to introduce you to my two favourite artistic muses at the moment (damn those superior Eurasian genetics at play!).

Ms Holly Suan Gray - http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/album.php?aid=101010&id=608370118

Mr Jeff Hahn - http://jeffhahn.blogspot.com/

Browse and marvel at the gorgeousnesses of their visions.

They make me sigh and believe in fairytales.

Enjoy.

x

We are the champions - Queen

2009-08-23T22:46:00.000-07:00

"I've paid my dues
Time after time
I've done my sentence
But committed no crime
And bad mistakes
I've made a few
I've had my share of sand kicked in my face
But I've come through"

Sorry Dominique, I know quotes at the beginning of anything are a slack way to explain what you're thinking without using any literary skill - but I feel a little song lyric sets up a wibble rather nicely :)

So it is eight weeks on and I completed my mofo bootcamp!!!! Wooohooo.

It has gone fast and there have been many glaring changes to my life and several that will ripple onwards for some time. Here are the few that catapult to mind immediately:

1. I get a hangover after two glasses of wine - proving that sobriety. does indeed. bite. Hypothesis proven :)
2. I've gone down a dress size.
3. Normal pants fall down.
4. My arms, shoulders and legs are showing muscle definition.
5. When I'm looking in my fridge for tasty nibbles I approach in a dogdown fashion with beautiful bendiness.
6. I cut all my hair off and got lots of nice compliments.
7. I haven't been out on a Saturday night for two months.
8. I run a lap of the footie pitch in 1 minute.
9. I plank without putting my back out.
10. I finally went to see a physio who is helping me with my back problems.

Looking back at notes I scribbled down in my blog, I was freaking terrified that first Saturday night before the whole terror of Bootcamp began. It was just something I had never envisioned myself doing. I'm just not that alpha-winner type. I like to mooch about smelling the flowers rather than whizzing about getting there faster. The fact my body is built for comfort and not speed (where does that come from, I have been hearing it for as long as I can remember?!) meant that bootcamp was not for me. Bootcamp was for people with chiselled abs who received a strange perverted joy whenever someone screamed at them. My abs have been sculpted, using cake icing, no chisels required and if someone shouts at me I become strangely quiet and plot their downfall. Anyhew, I was doing it.

I imagined everyone else would be mega fit and that I would vomit. This is what I blogged of my new comrades of Boot:

"And then I saw them, the first few boot types entering the court and walking towards me (I clearly resembled a 'booter' due to my trainers and apprehension). One larger man, one slender man, and a woman who looked like she already ran ultra-marathons.... A cheerleader type replete with ponytail came next, then another fellow fashioning an Ed Hardy T-shirt. Then the Boot Camp Leader herself... Dora, the yoga teacher..."

This was the reason I was able to complete the course and do so happily and bouncily - Dora.

For some reason, I had imagined Bootcamp to be recreations of the exercise scenes from Officer and a Gentleman, with Richard Gere. I guess this was the first time I saw someone be forced to perform the indignity of a push up while being shouted at. Yoga teachers tend not to be too much into abusing their students, as they have the concepts of mind, body and spirit which need to work in unity for any success at all. So long as I tried my best, I was applauded. So long as I sweated and grimaced then smiled, all was well.

For the first few weeks of Bootcamp, I eagerly checked my progress. Did I do an extra star jump? Leap higher up footie nets? Run further? Skip faster? But by the end that didn't feel so necessary. The fact is there were consistent warm weather warnings, so 30 minutes of any kind of movement in the still hot air outside left you feeling like Lawrence of Arabia staggering about seeing mirages of cool water. The simple fact that your body could now actually perform the feats that seemed impossible at the beginning was good enough. So we were effectively slowed down by the oppressive heat which led to us feeling more drained once inside. Luckily, a great ipod selection of music would always help us get up on our TRX systems and make sure everything hurt and we were in fact hobbling by 10am of the same day. Thank God the heat cancelled those wheelbarrows, as it turned out that I have a dysfunctional lumbar/pelvic thing going on (hehe) which explains why so many exercises have proved so painful in the past. Praise the Lord for Bootcamp, as without all this exercise, I would not have forced myself to seek out a physio in the first place.

Of course it wasn't just the two hour exercise on Sunday mornings that made so many changes in my appearance. The fact you KNOW the bootcamp is going to hurt you, means you feel most inclined to get fitter during the week. This meant yoga on Mondays and Wednesday, pilates on Tuesdays and TRX on Thursdays, all at Dora's Island Life Gym, and all under her watchful eye so she could help with any exercises you struggled with to ensure you were pushing yourself without hurting yourself. That's one of the joys of this little Lamma gym, classes often only have 3 or 4 people in, so you really do get a personal training service for an relatively tiny financial outlay.

As I noted in my blog - for the second bootcamp:

"In fact, there were only 5 of us. Mr Ed Hardy T-shirt was there, but had been out on the piss all week so had done zero exercise and felt rough. Little Miss Ultramarathon was there and whizzing around the activities in a sporty person type fashion. Herman the Incredible Shrinking Man was there doing his thing, as was the 19 year old uber-ripped Keira Knightley doppelganger. So we all got that little bit extra attention from Dora, our Trainer."

We ended our final bootcamp with 5.
Herman (our editor), Adrian (husband of Liz the ab slayer), Elissa (the physio professor), Lydia (ripped sleepy doctor chick) and me.
Five very different types of people. All very pleased with themselves.
I leave you with another lazy lyric that I think rather sums up who should get their arses to a bootcamp near them:
"Big ones, small ones, some a big as your head"
I hear the next one starts in a month, and will be by moonlight... leading us neatly up to the 10K run I've signed up for at Disney in November?
Strange, strange world
Exhausting just thinking about it!
x

Sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell

2009-08-14T09:20:00.000-07:00

Is my new crush's lament.
Florence and the Machine. Her albums Lungs. All written around mythology and the fact she feels things rather more intensely than your average person. She's like Kate Bush in a cocaine haze and ketamine reverie.
I love her. I listen to her album when I wake up, when I go to sleep and as I walk about my Hong Kong life.
Tonight it was an unusually suitable soundtrack.
I outed my new chopped hair and teamed it with panda print mini dress. I went to the comedy club, with my dear friend and ass kicker, Dora Bootcamp and two Dora Devotees from Pure BodyPump.
Of course, as the four women entering the club late, we were swooped upon. Names and statuses were enquired. Maribee had both husband and boyfriend. Dora had husband and baby. Dada had husband. I was the single one. Which is no cause for lament, particularly when with panda dress, new hair and three new friends.
Jamie, the compere, elegantly pointed out that I was from England. White. Female. And therefore fucked. No white guys would go near me. And neither would the Chinese. I would be staying single for some time.
This could seem harsh. But as a stereotype it is amusing. The joke that all white guys go for Chinese girls. And all Chinese guys are not interested in troublesome gwai mui (lady white ghosts). Is not too many million miles away from the truth. But I have lived other lives. Where I spent time with Asian guys and/or White guys, depending upon my moods at the time. I recall turning down a particularly handsome fellow named George a few years ago, as I was only into Chinese men... We all have our phases and times when one route seems the only way.
Suffice to say. I was not insulted by these comments at all.
It did not make me blush. What did, was a white guy sitting behind me shouting out, 'She's hot!'
This has been my first night 'out' in a few months.
Certainly the first time since my sobriety experiment began.
I glowed back to the ferry. Where the 11.30pm was awaiting me. The passengers were suitably relaxed and I had the joys of comments about how fabulous my new look was and how well I looked.
This may sound like my crowning Narcissus moment, due to end in my falling desperately in love with my reflection where I shall surely perish. But this is not my tale, to disdain those who love me and be punished by the Gods with the same treatment.
In the words of Florence
"Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl
Frozen in the headlights...
I wish that I could just be brave
I must become a lion hearted girl"
All very Lewis Caroll I admit
But when my life is turning beautiful
I tend to make exceptionally erroneous choices with my heart
And am determined to be less rabbit and my lion on this occasion!
Rooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrr
*twitchy nose*
xx

SEX

2009-08-10T05:34:00.001-07:00

Yes. Sex. That is this evening's musings. I would usually be at yoga round about now, but following a Samson style shedding of my long locks, I met a friend for drinks, and was unable to dog down while tipsy.

I have been growing my hair for 7 years now, it was long, and could be plaited and twirled and flicked but I wanted something new. As a snake sheds its skin. I wanted to shed some of mine.

I took advantage of the Toni and Guy Academy and paid the 25 pounds my mum sweetly sent me for a whole new look. I had full head highlights and a graduated transverse cut, or some such, for the cost of a usual trim.

It is lighter. It is 1920s flapper girl. It reminds me of sexual acceptance at school. I had always been the bookish one. Who boys never noticed. Til I took on my role as Tallulah in the Bugsy Malone musical at school. With a tight corsetted black satin number, boys soon realised I was not so bookish after all. And so Anthony Kelly, who played Knuckles, finally noticed me. Fabulous, furtive fondlings and platonic sounding sleep overs followed.

Following my sobriety journey - fondlings have been somewhat off the menu. As what a role the social lubricant of wine and beer and moijtos and B52s plays in the sexual emancipation of young ladies set astray in Hong Kong, or any other part of this world come to mention it.

So I leave the salon, bounce to the ferry, scribble madly in my journal to the F.E.A.R courtesy of the legendary Ian Brown and manouevre my way home. I feel full and bountiful of Eastern promise. I play my new Florence and the Machine CD. Which is resplendent.

I want a play mate. I have none. So devoured a Haagen Dazs Vanilla and Almonds icecream instead.

I may be bootcamping, and yogaing, and pilating, and TRXing, but without some other outlet... the icecream will win out.

Sobriety bites.

x

Moons and rabbits and mice oh my!

2009-08-05T04:33:00.000-07:00

So it's a big old lunar eclipse this evening. Which helps explain why I'm feeling mad as a March hare!

'The energies of the August 5/6 lunar eclipse are here now. This powerful energetic opening has been felt with increasing intensity in recent weeks. The third in a triad of summer eclipses, this cosmic doorway carries signatures for emotional sensitivity, spiritual knowing, psychic openings and the recognition of latent creative and artistic abilities.'

Emotional sensitivity - check (if you count getting weepy at pictures of other women with babies)

Spiritual knowing - ha - I wish! I suffer from perpetual divine discontent and deep envy of those who worship merrily at church.

Psychic openings - well my familiar has left me SIX decaying mice during this tropical heatwave - so that may some message I am yet to decode?

Recognition of latent creative and artistic abilities - hmmm. maybe. I certainly hope so! It has actually dawned on me that it's all very well changing jobs and countries and homes and various other circumstances (including alcohol consumption), but perhaps I should stop zipping from a to b and back again, and concentrate more on how I spend my time, not with whom or where. I have been encouraged to write since I was a little girl (thanks mum) but have always found some excuse or the other not to engage. Namely that I am a lazy procrastinating flibbertygibbet - who would rather read 5 books then write 5 sentences, which is what I have been doing for my life to date. I was always too busy living to actually bother with the business of recording the happenings. But as I have cut out item after item of my life, I have created the time and space where without writing, I am actually horribly bored. There is nothing for it. I am writing my first story.

I have learnt fabulous fairy stories from Stephanie Meyer of Twilight fame. She went from actually dreaming the story, to writing the story, to finding an agent in six months time? JK Rowling was a single mum scribbling in Edinburgh coffee houses and a lovely friend of mine from Leeds Uni is now published!?!

Enough of procrastination. Enough of wondering what genre? How long? Which characters? Who'll read it? Who'll like it? Enough of reading just one more book, watching one more movie.

The weather is helping with my glorious declarations as the heavens have opened and the rain is tearing down my window panes and rooftop.

I leave you with a quote from F Scott Fitzgerald:
'This is part of the beauty of all literature.
You discover that your longings are universal longings,
That you're not lonely and isolated from anyone.
You belong.'

xx

Alice Through The Looking Glass / Wardrobe

2009-07-26T07:16:00.000-07:00

Alice laughed, "There's no use trying," she said, "one can't believe impossible things."

"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

That's the sort of day I had today. It started rather ordinarily. Two weetabix and some skimmed milk. Bootcamp. Which I improved on some fronts and remedialised on others. Muffins and orange ginger juice at The Tattooists. Coffee and eggs with Little Miss Ultramarathon (whose names turns out to be Elissa, and would be more accurately monikered 'The Professor' - as she is the holder of all wisdoms to health and bendiness). Then off to Central to meet one of The Sisters. The Elder. She had been invited to 'Piano and Drinks' in Tai Tam, which sounded suitably incongruous to my experiences of Hong Kong. I was dutifully collected from the ferry terminal in the delicious open topped beamer. We collected flowers, as any good guest ought, then continued to our location.

The route should have given clues as to the rabbit hole we were about to plunge ourselves into. The tropical rains fell. We converted the car to have its roof. The sun shone. We converted the car to be topless. The rains fell. The sun shone. Top on. Top off. Eventually, we arrived at the Station House for the Tai Tam reservoir. The rabbit hole opened. The wardrobe full of coats was entered. And as we entered the house. We were in another world.

Couples and children were sat around the outdoor table, surrounded by Frangipani and rose wine. French men were seated around a solid wood table indoors, surrounded by still life paintings and arch ways to other rooms and inviting gardens. A second room offered leather sofas, carafes of wine and a piano. The house overlooked the sea, with mountains across the water, muffled in clouds. The air was infused with classical music, ranging from Swan Lake to other delightful sounds my education lacks description of. In short. Heaven. This was not Hong Kong. I was in my own personal Narnia.

I was mute. Which is quite rare for me. I clung to The Elder Sister's dress and shuffled behind her, as we kissed French men, women and babies, and found our place to be seated. And so we found our place, around a strong oak table, with artwork about, discussing Zeus, the latest agent provocateur of the art world. We were served salmon and mussels and steak and the finest dessert a woman can dream to believe of - hazelnut mousse, chocolate effects, macaroons and berry juices liberally displayed across the plate. That was just the tip of the iceberg.

The guests were fit for the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. The Club Promoter yet to sleep. The 67 year old artist with his new born son. The Professional Piano Player from Suzie Wongs in Beijing. The dapper eruditely thin older gentleman. The owner of the finest absinthe bar in Hong Kong. Yet it was daytime and curly haired children ran through the rooms, eager to play with their elegant parents.

We moved from dining room, to piano room, to terrace overlooking the sea, to vegetable patch, to outhouses, to badminton courts. Wherever you were, archways and windows showed tell of other activities happening elsewhere. It was a Narnian vision. An Enid Blyton holiday. A rare excursion from my imagination into something with form.

Mr Piano Player was invited to play, and play he did. So very, very beautifully. A professional player, on the host's one day old piano. The little foot pedal velvet pumps were still in place. Michelle My Belle. Night & Day. Girl from Ipanaema. Someday my Prince Will Come. All Jazz style. With percussion accompaniment from a Chinese maestro wearing a pink shirt and leather cap.

The sun began to set.

The elegant became more expressive. The Piano Man had an exotic dance piece played over his head by a woman with very supple joints and strong core, not to mention pelvic floor muscles. She clambored over his body, extending limbs above, below and behind. He barely missed a beat. Another fellow picked up a cow bell, and gave it a rather good seeing too, while singing along. The bathrooms became busy. We left.

I caught my ferry on time.

I walked through the streets of Lamma.

And headed home.

To write this.

And hope I fall through another looking glass soon. The unexpected is so very satisfying.

I retire now, somewhat like the Opiated Caterpillar.

To dream of A Frenchman With A View

xxx

Just because everything's changing, doesn't mean it's never been this way before

2009-07-22T06:55:00.000-07:00

Am feeling most musical and melancholy and wistful, as I said farewell to another friend this evening. Hannah and I sat by Deep Water Bay at Copacabanas, shared the sunset and bid our adieus. We had been friends for 4 years in Hong Kong. I had bumped into her randomly outside Cru on Stauntons and said, 'Erm, excuse me, are you Dan's sister, from Leeds?' I was fairly positive it was her. Seeing as there aren't many six foot amazonians in the Hong Kong populace. I used to hang out with her older brother when 'studying' at Leeds Uni. My best friend, Fiona, used to go out with Nick, who used to live with Dan... and Dan's little sister used to live there. She was a proper grown up. She would go to work when us kids were still going in the lounge. I remember staring up as she loomed down the stairs in all her statuesqueness, dressed for work, as we were dribbling messes on the floor (the hot mess was yet to be invented). That was about as much communication as we'd had until that evening in Soho when we met again. Since then. She has been an amazing friend. An exceptional hostess. And a sea of calm and stability against the rougher seas Hong Kong has had to offer. Next Monday she flies to a new life in Europe where she may graze with creatures who reach as lofty heights as herself, who understand dinner parties don't stop when Soho starts rocking and where she will be expecting a visit from me... as soon as I can afford the bus fare.

The night before had been sober - and involved pilates, which kicked my ass so hard I am almost limping today - there were 8 people in the class this week, as opposed to last week's 2 - so my rolling around on the ball like an uncoordinated teletubbie had to exhibit more control.. dammit - owch!

The night before, after a great yoga class, had seen me off to see my gay family in Central. The boys I lived with for my first three years in Hong Kong, at the farcically apt named 'Escapades' on Elgin Street. If you don't believe me, and live around, check the building name above McSorleys. Of course we retitled it 'Sexcapades' and one day, I shall write the memoir... I digress.... Following the last blog posting, I arrived in somewhat of a blissful state, all exercised and one merging, with my bag of mint and limes and cans of soda to make some virgin cocktails. I thought I was high enough on life. How foolish was I? And with an eclipse just around the corner? The boys announce they have something to show me. And play me the new video of James Morrison and Nelly Furtado - Broken Strings. It is exquisite and I feel emotional as the orchestra soars in the background. They announce they have something else to show me. Cartier tricolour gold and Lithuanian Silver. They got engaged last night. After being together for 8 years. I was the first one to be told. My family.

Blub. Sniffle. Joy. Happiness.

Bubbles for everyone!!!!

Well... two glasses never hurt anyone.

Chin chin

Love love

xxx

PS. Nice eclipse... in my house of fun... which relates to sports and play and sex. Meow!

Merging with the one - Ram Dass

2009-07-20T01:46:00.000-07:00

Sorry to begin with spiritual hocus pocus (which I do love but know upsets a number of folks) - but I am feeling particularly full of joy and found this in a magazine:

''Your ego has all these wants. Your soul only has one want. It wants to get to merge with the Lover. Merge with the One."

Of course, I was pondering this, thinking, yes, 'the one' would be nice to meet 'a one' but in the meanwhile, I am loving spending time with me and some great people. Bootcamp was lovely last Sunday, probably due to the fact I woke up half an hour into it - and only had an hour left when I arrived? I had slept through the first tropical typhoon of the year? Sleeping like a baby. I will have not touched a drop of grog in a month tomorrow? And I am loving it! Strange but true. After bootcamp, I didn't actually need a nap this time, so pottered around the house and went down to the Bookworm for some yummy salad type fare. All the booths were taken, except Little Miss Ultramarathon was sitting in one, so I asked if she minded if I joined. We spent the next two hours having a lovely conversation. She shared my loathing of the wheelbarrow, saying she couldn't do it without her back screaming out and dipping. She then shared that she'd had to sleep for four hours after the first bootcamp. So she's not so dissimilar to me. Well, clearly she still had abs of steel and the ability to run or cycle or swim for maybe ten times as long as me, but still. Common ground found.

The rest of the day was spent reading the entire Sunday Morning Post, a first, as I usually get distracted and enjoying a herbal cigarette... except this herbal cigarette was a bit of a shock to the system. Last month it would have barely touched the sides, but yesterday? Woah. I felt most peculiar and had to go lie down at 11pm....

I awoke this morning at 11am? Having previously spoonfed chunky peanut butter into my face and having peculiar dreams with werewolves and vampires... I shan't share the particulars here :) I sloooped out of bed and met a friend for brunch, then off to Hung Shing Yeh beach for a glorious sunbathe and swim.

The walk over there was redolent with gingerlilies growing alongside the walkways, a jewelled spider twinkled in the sunlight, the sky a blue concoction of turquoises, persians and greys. Blissful. The water was cool and the waves crashed over my body shining in the sunkissed water.

I return now to the Ram Dass article:

"He wasnt just mouthing platitudes; after a lifetime of physical and intellectual vigor, Ram Dass suffered a stroke that left him in a wheelchair and slow of speech. People continued to attend his lectures not to admire glibness or agility but because Ram Dass actually seemed to know what 'merging with the One' felt like. He knew that this mystical sounding process is simply what the soul - or true self, if you prefer - does when we stop interfering."

My father has not been able to talk, other than in a few words here and there since November 2001. But he is so joy filled. I like to think it's because he is finally merging with the One. Moments like today on the beach give me some insight as to where he might be in his head, and it makes me very happy to think I can join him in that same happiness too.

OK. Enough of that. Off to do a bit more yoga, then watch So You Think You Can Dance with my gay family in Central. I shall take some cocktail ingredients and just skip the vodka in mine. Feeling this good is not to be messed with.

Big love

xxx

Macbeth - Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble (not the true quote but it sounds so much better)

2009-07-15T16:35:00.000-07:00

Bootcamp 2 was surprisingly enjoyable? Sure, I felt a bit pukey and dizzy at the beginning, but that was more to do with the crazy heat outside and the banana smoothie that my body didn't have time to digest than the death by exercise. In fact, the heat was almost in my favour, as it meant we couldn't be pushed too hard or we'd all pass out.

The wheel barrow was culled - and replaced by the crocodile - which involves writhing along the floor with your elbows and knees out to the side... most natural. I did manage more press ups and box jumps. I doubled my jumping jack/burpee medley but the running distance slowed, I got to tree 5 on the second trip to the helipad (which I hope I can recognise this Sunday).

In fact, there were only 5 of us. Mr Ed Hardy T-shirt was there, but had been out on the piss all week so had done zero exercise and felt rough. Little Miss Ultramarathon was there and whizzing around the activities in a sporty person type fashion. Herman the Incredible Shrinking Man was there doing his thing, as was the 19 year old uber-ripped Keira Knightley doppelganger. So we all got that little bit extra attention from Dora, our Trainer.

We could only spend an hour outside as it was just too darn hot but spent over an hour and a half inside. THe TRX room felt like heaven with its gloriously cooling aircon and pumping tunes courtesy of DJ Anil, who mixes tapes for Dora's Spin classes over at Pure Fitness on the big island. So we lunged and squatted and lay prone and lay supine and pretended to climb the rigging and ride the catamaran and many varieties of fun things to trick one into exercise. We rolled around on the Noddytown bricks a bit more, which was much less painful, and even rather amusing, particularly when humping the giant pink cylinder to smooth out those inner thigh muscles. If I haven't had the giggles in an exercise class I rarely want to go back.

Drama ensued, as our Trainer is an advocate of natural births, and Mr Ed Hardy's wife is pregant and heavily skeptical. The fact that Mrs UltraMarathon specialises in pregnant lady physio meant everyone was weighing in... Certainly not the bootcamp I was envisaging! Much more Earth Mothery.

I bounced away from the class and went home to make magical feasts to keep me sustained for the next few days. I made a giant pot of pea, lettuce and mint soup and panfried some scallops in lemon juice. Alas, the magic was horribly lacking. I had made the same dish using relatively expensive organic items from 360 in Central a few weeks ago and it had been divine. This time the ingredients were from the local supermarket Wellcome. Everything had to be thrown away. It tasted foul! I do suspect this may be in some part due to sobriety and exercise so my body is actually talking to me... this is going to be a pricey business! But well worth it in the end.

Rest of the day was spent sunbathing on my roof and the beach and having a wonderful organic meal at my friend Laurence and Carey's house. Organic. May be pricey. But just tastes so God damn gooood.

Since then there's been yoga, and pilates and swimming. A bit of work inbetween, but when you're teaching teenagers the finer points of feature writing and Twilight plotlines, it doesn't really seem like work as I used to know it.

Still pondering whether to move to Melbourne or South Africa or England next year. Still finding gothic creatures on my second floor stairs - this month has included a giant rat, a teeny tiny bat and a horny toad. All alive and well at first, but tend not to fare so well the next time I see them. I guess I shall have to start rescuing them and taking them outside before the cat or the heat gets to them... But the thought of trying to escort a rat off the premises as it scuttles about is rather hairy.

Off to see Harry Potter this evening, so shall see how they handle their familiars and try and pick up some tips.

Today is Day 26 of the sober!

x

Brighton Rock - Hell lay about him in his infancy

2009-07-11T04:43:00.000-07:00

Whenever I get the 'mean reds' as Holly Golightly would call them - that line always springs to the forefront of my mind. The words of Graham Greene in the novel I read for GCSE back at All Hallows Catholic High School, a suitably religious text with tales of redemption and salvation.

Not sure why I'm feeling so overly miffed, but as work drew to a close I was feeling distinctly BEER O CLOCK - but seeing as it is only day 21 of sobriety that wasn't really an option. The fact it's bootcamp o clock in 12 hours helped aid my decision. So I flounced off to the Arctic temperatures of Wellcome, purchased fine proteins such as chicken and salmon and scallops, alas, by the time I was back on Lamma Island, I did not feel like cooking - so am smoking my Malborough Lights and skyping my brother and his wife to discuss - "Firemangate."

Firemangate emerged last year, when my mother, a spritely 60 something discovered her next door neighbour was a SINGLE man!!! They have been piffing and poffing ever since. Nearly hooking up but not quite. Surreal instances have included her waving to him as the hot air balloon trip my brother, Paul and I bought her for her 60th sailed over his front garden.... Not a euphemism. He came over for dinner last year and made a pass, my mother politely declined. Yesterday, they spent the day wandering through the Welsh hills, bounding over boulders and tripping the light fantastic through waterfalls. Suffice to say, dearest mama is somewhat smitten and apparently the ball is in her court. He says a fling's on the table if she wants one. It's her call. I learnt this through skype... and has suitably unnerved me. I'll get over it, I think sobriety is turning me into a prude. Hell, I'd love to think I could be having affairs with men twenty years my junior when I'm entering my grandmotherly epoch!

Enough of that. Tomorrow is Bootcamp Two. And this time it's personal! Or rather, this time, I know what I'll be expected to do, which makes me ache just imagining.

So here is the line up - as performed last week:

1. Run/jog from entrance of football pitch to helicopter landing and back with partners, if can't run/jog then walk - 5 minutes non stop.
(Yes, we have a helipad, not so glamorous though - it's used primarily for pregnant ladies whose waters suddenly break or those nibbled by snakes - hold up - that is pretty glam - nice! Last week I jogged which is not running, but not walking so I feel OK - I did there and back and there again - so will aim to get back again this time.)

2. Speed Ladder x 3 patterns, everything twice (6 in total min)
(Quite like this one - you do various moves seen in Bend it Like Beckham training, with a nice dash of aerobics ponying and sashaying which I imagine gay pop music too and get through faster)

3. Push-ups (30 secs), opposite arm leg reach (1 minute each leg)
(I managed 10 last week - haha - anticipate reaching the lofty goal of at least 11 this week, having been to yoga twice since so clearly having superior arm strength after all those down dogs)

4. Box jumps off the bleachers, low impact option, step ups (2 minutes)
(I box jumped 'off the bleachers' - hadn't known what they were til now - in layman's terms, bleachers are... wait for it... steps - but jump up a step and down off a step doesn't sound so bootie I suppose, and wouldn't have gone down so well in Navy Seal training)

5. Wheel barrows across the field / hold plank position on hands as long as possible
(THIS is my nemesis. This is what made sure I attended two yoga classes, and practiced bendy things on my roof this week. Wheel barrows are the devil's jism! They are beyond evil. Not only are you expected to support your entire body and walk on your arms, but you suffer the indignity of some poor soul you've only just met holding your ankles and attempting to assist you! The horror. I got half way across the football pitch - the short way. I intend to pass the half way line tomorrow. You will not have me beat Monsieur Wheelbarrow!)

6. 10 Jump Jacks & 5 Burpee Sequence (2 minutes)
(Ick - this is just after the Barrow of Shame and my strength had left the building, or rather walked off the pitch at this juncture. Jumping Jacks? Fine. Just a tad half-hearted. 'Burpees.' WTF!? Leap in the air, as if attempting to sell some sanitary towel product 'Whaaarrrr Body Form, Body Form for yooouuuu!' then on the ground with your legs leaping back then forward. The name is no mystery. I managed 10 Jumping Jacks and a mighty 5 Burpalots. I shall beat that tomorrow. Oh yes I shall...)

7. Speed ladder x 3 patterns, twice round.
(All good - clearly good in a hobbling sense, but compared to wheelbarrows and burpees... ALL good)

8. Vollyball vertical jump drills (20 each) with partner
(Last week, we all had to do 10, as we were shagged, but 10 from a line across the football pitch, where we were to be lay upon the floor, then jump into action, run across pitch and leap up to the 'bleacher' where our partner was holding up their arm so we could high five them... I really don't have the testosterone for this... My knees and elbows are still a tad bruised from flinging myself to the floor and scrabbling up again... wonder how I'll fare tomorrow :) )

9. W pattern - 2 minutes
(By this point, I think I was hallucinating, at least I wasn't on the floor, in the air, a la burpees and volleyball jumps, so went quite smoothly, you do a human W shape, run back, touch floor, run forward, touch floor - I mooched through 11)

10. Running legs in prone plank - 1 minute
(This is clearly NO time to be attempting to support your body weight with your arm muscles, as they have decided to stop working long ago - lord knows what I did here)

11. Shadowing - 2 minutes partner work
(Partner jumps around, you mirror it. Partner was more dedicated than I, so I copied her tricky moves. My turn. I was done at this point, so wiggled my fingers, stretched and twirled... Which was not smart. Dora, Lady Bootie, came over, and BOTH my partner and myself, had to mirror her. She kicked our asses. Lesson learnt :( )

12. Plank wrestling - 1 minute partner work
(I have NO idea what this means, pretty sure I didn't wrestle a plank)

13. Skip rope - 2 minutes
(First minute's OK, second minute, not so great. We decided to count how many times you trip. I managed 9 - which may sound laughable, however, the fact I managed to raise my arms over my head, and jump in the air at all - is pretty impressive. I feel spent having just typed the ordeal!)

And that, my friends... is the 30 minute agility/cardio conditioning BEFORE the ONE HOUR TRX training inside... well fiddley dee! :)

Last week, we were shown around the equipment and practiced a little - here is what cometh tomorrow:

1. FOAM ROLLER S.M.R (15mins) Total postural release, and core activation
(We did this bit. You roll your bits over a giant blue cylinder which resembles the building blocks of the Town Hall in Noddyville - this hurts, but at least you're lying down)

2. T.R.X Total Body Resistance Exercise with BOSU
Legs sequence, squats, lunges (3mins)
(Ow)
Rotation on feet, standing twist release, standing, oblique rotation, high-5 rotations (3mins)
(More high fives... grrrr... whimper)
Pushing sequence (2mins)
(Could be the new falling over sequence)
BOSU standing (static) balance challenge (1)
(Ah, no, THIS will be the falling over sequence)
Supine sequence
(This sounds nice - and maybe to do with wolves - I shan't google it... ignorance is bliss)
Prone sequence
(Hmm)
Side laying sequence (2 minutes each side)
(Ho hum)
TRX Legs jumping challenge (sprinters start, frog jumps, single leg lunge jumps) 6 mins
(hahahahahahahahahahahaaaaa)
TRX / BOSU Supine (one leg) challenge - 2mins
(The 'challenge' element doesn't make me happy)
TRX / BOSU Prone (one leg) challenge - 2mins
(Ditto)
TRX / BOSU Side laying (one leg) challenge - 2mins
(Vomit)
The end

Well, I don't feel that 'Hulk will Smash' vibe any longer. The visualisation of such chronic exercise has quite calmed me down... I guess I didn't to find solace at the bottom of a glass, the bootie camp has offered salvation enough.

A to the men.

To sleep, perchance to dream of weightless wheelbarrows

xx

By George I think she's got it!

2009-07-08T04:51:00.000-07:00

So - how was it?
How did it go?
Did I hurl?
Have I bottled it never to return to the evil world of camps and boots?
Well...

I was like a very good boy scout and super well prepared the day before. I ended up going to bed at 9.30pm to try and make sure I got my 8 hours sleep. I woke up at 6, made my sandwich to keep me going, and got to the football court just after 7. I was the first one there. I sat, and sat a bit more, watching the old ladies chat centre court with their wheelie shopping bags. The odd jogger waddled past slapping their white tennis shoes on the hard concrete... but no booters.

And then I saw them, the first few boot types entering the court and walking towards me (I clearly resembled a 'booter' due to my trainers and apprehension). One larger man, one slender man, and a woman who looked like she already ran ultra-marathons.... A cheerleader type replete with ponytail came next, then another fellow fashioning an Ed Hardy T-shirt. Then the Boot Camp Leader herself... Dora, the yoga teacher...

I could see this bootcamp was going to be a lot friendlier than I had envisioned :)

We dutifully filled in our forms. I'm the token type A (blood type - certainly not personality) - so was given commiserations as that killer instinct just isn't really there to force me through the pain. And pain there would be. From 7.30 til 9am outside. Then 9 til 10 inside with TRX loopy things suspended ominously from the ceiling.

But after it all, I felt joyful!

I wasn't ill. I just POWER napped for the rest of the day as my body didn't quite know what had hit it!

The next day, I woke up sore, but not too sore, and proceeded to spend day swimming in sea, and then attending an evening yoga class.

In fact, I must dash, and have another yoga class in 15 minutes.

I do believe the reformation has commenced!

More to follow

xx

The Tale of Two Cities: It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done

2009-07-04T05:43:00.000-07:00

"You may think you’re physically fit now, but can you:
Swim 500 yards using breast and/or side stroke in 12minutes and 30 seconds, rest for 10minutes, then,
Do 42 pushups in two minutes, rest for two minutes, then
Do 50 sit ups in two minutes, rest for two minutes, then
Do eight pull-ups, rest for 10 minutes, then
Run 1.5 miles wearing boots and pants in 11minutes and 30 seconds?"

Erm... no! These are the questions I am asked at the top of my Bootcamp form. The one that begins at 7am tomorrow. The one I am wondering whether: a. everyone will look like characters from High School Musical and merrily show off their jazz hands throughout the whole performance as it is so easy, or b. i will vomit, or c. i will vomit and the jazzhanders will point and laugh.

Apparenly the Bootcamp readies you up to try out for the Navy Seals? My heavily moustached Irish Uncle Alan was one of these people, and behind his smiling Irish eyes was the look that he knew more than one way to kill a man. This was his level of fitness? I always imagined our similarities would end with the ole blue eyes, but no, I shall be taking orders like a man, and not asking my trainer to be a little more polite when he asks me to drop and give them twenty...

Wrist or knee braces are recommended if there are any issues in these areas. I have never owned such a garment, as have never tried to see what my body can do. The most energetic I've been in the past few years is whooping it up to gay pop at some Morning Party in Causeway Bay. Perhaps I will own braces by next week?

My clothes ought to be made of sweat-wicking technologies... Nope. Not sure I've needed that before either, well, perhaps it has been needed, but I wasn't overly aware the stuff existed. In lieu of such items, bring a change of clothes, as the first 30 minutes is spent outside, before the hour inside.

Next I am told I ought to drink cold water, so should use an Aluminium canister to keep the temperature just right. I clearly don't have one of those, but having spoken to a friend who commented that if you drink before you starjump the likelihood of vomitting does increase, I am going to stick to sipping from a regular bottle of bonaqua - the CocaCola of waters, and choose less hydration over more vomit.

"Exercise or not, we should be drinking enough water to never experience thrust."

Thrust? Pass.

"NUTRITION: Eat a hearty meal 3-4 hours before bed the night before, get at least 8hours uninterrupted sleep the night before all BOOTCAMP sessions, get up early to make yourself an easily digestible breakfast, high carbs, high protein…"

So I have to be there at 7, thankfully the gym is only a five minute walk from my house, but still, that means breakfast at 6am, so asleep at 10pm, with that hearty meal at 7pm. I had pesto pasta with the vegetable of champions (peas) at 8pm so that's kinda OK, and I have taken it on good authority to have a peanut butter and banana sandwich for breakfast... at 6am... before jumping up and down...

Or Lord.

Twill all be done in twelve hours time.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done"

Good night

x

Jiminy Cricket: Now you see the world is full of temptations

2009-07-03T07:22:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome to the chronicles of a girl beginning to explore Hong Kong as a sober person. This is the road less travelled. A fairly quiet road, with not so many dramatic stories on a Wednesday morning at work, having not slept the night before, nor found their own bed, but a road that I am mooching along at this time. It is leading to a lot more clarity, many more insights - and hopefully the ability to act on them rather than drink another bottle of wine and purportedly deal with it in the morrow!

I have given up alcohol many times during the seven years I have lived in Hong Kong. The first was after my very first Chinese New Year here, when I fell into a plot akin to Fear and Loathing in Soho (or Drop, Homebase, Escapades and Propaganda - more of that to come). I needed The Priory, but seeing as Thailand was just a hop, skip and a jump away, off I went to the Sanctuary, for full body cleansing. I returned glowing and joyous and gleefully ran to the nearest 7-Eleven to tox up with my friends. This process went on loop for a time, til I decided a better idea was to live on a desert island, just outside Hong Kong, where I would be pure and white as the driven snow. Haha! As anyone who has visited Lamma after dark knows... that is not the natural progression. Lamma by day is a land of seafood restaurants and beach accessories, Lamma by night is more Pleasure Island in Pinocchio but without the cherubic cartoonery.

Which in a wonderfully brief fashion leads us to here. I was hoping to find religion, as then I could have a clear set of dos and don'ts and still imbibe merrily on church wines... but in lieu of such salvation, sobriety seems to be the next step, as I struggle with saying no at the best of times. So in the great words of Jiminy Cricket - 'And always let your conscience be your guide!'

I would appear to have a malevolent cicada, rather than sprightly grasshopper on my back however... as my first substantial sober act is to....

Sign up for an eight week Bootcamp, that starts at 7am every Sunday morning...

I shall be offering hilarious photographs and more information as the process develops (thanks for great idea Toko - and great encouragement other folks!)

Til the morrow

x