I Love the Smoke

Oh My God!

UPDATE FROM REAL LIFE (Yahoo! news): This is my nightmare! This is it! In real life! Today! Thank god down under and not here! (Sorry down there mates!)

In My Head

I’m hit with a realisation: reading impacts me.

Not just the greater, general concept of reading, which I quite enjoy; but rather the very specific act of reading, and, more specifically, the what I’m reading, has a material impact on me. The ‘material impact’ that is the subject of my epiphany is temporal …

Why not temporary?

and

Can a material impact be material if it’s temporal/temporary? Doesn’t seem very material after all.

What I’m reading influences my immediate state of mind. When I’ve finished with a book, my anima flutters about with a lingering theme or themes for some time – how long depends on the book and my particular susceptibility. Eventually the potency of the completed book wanes; maybe leaving a residue; maybe not.

This staggering revelation dawned on me over a period of months. It started with Doris Lessing. She had me thinking, thinking, thinking. My brain wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t just the thinking though; it had me feeling differently and walking differently and looking at the people on the tube differently. It put Anna Wolf into me, which I didn’t entirely like, but didn’t entirely mind either. I liked the experience, even if I didn’t always like her.

Before this thought dawned on me, I don’t think I would have said that I was impervious to the force of the words on paper that I generally absorb in the morning on the bus or in the evening under ground on the Underground. No, if you had asked me, I wouldn’t have said I was impervious. I would have scratched my head. I wouldn’t have known. It wouldn’t have been as obvious to me as it is now. After Doris and Anna, it was something else (less influential – obviously – as I don’t remember it now). More recently it’s been non-fiction – 2 pieces in a row – which again has me looking at people differently, has me looking at myself differently, has me thinking about my facial muscles and about what I reveal without saying a word, has me putting on a mock smile as I walk home from the tube in a bad mood, just to test out the theory that the act counters the mood. The jury’s still out on that one.

On a different note, I’m a mess.

What had been allergies is now a cold. Someone brought it over from America. I know who.

One minute I was fine (thanks to a Piritin knock-off). The next: my throat constricted, making it clear that it would ache with each swallow. My nose is running, not from pollen; but from something more insidious. I’m on the sofa because I’m trying to be considerate of the Mista’s nocturnal repose. It’d be nice if the dog came to keep me company, but she’s sleeping too.

God damn it.

And, has anyone else had problems with Haloscan? My ability to edit specific comments (how I normally respond) seems to have been disabled.

Americana 1

We have a car, a hired car. It’s our second within the week. If it were just the Mista and me, we’d make due with buses and bikes, feet and friends; but the Mista’s parents have joined us for a portion of the holiday. They require wheels.

And air conditioning. Hence the 2nd rental car within the week. The first version didn’t have powerful-enough fake,cold air. It is my experience that people from the tropics really, really appreciate a good air con. Especially in a vehicle. The 2nd car suits. So does it it’s air con.

Initially, I was stuck driving.

You may remember that the Mista does not currently have a driver’s license. Something about a strip club and a tab and a requirement to leave ID behind the counter.

Not permanently behind the counter, surely.

The Mista’s good father volunteered to co-drive. He hasn’t lost his driver’s license at a strip club in the past year. He has his license neatly tucked in his wallet, which is, in turn, neatly tucked into his back pocket. His driving, however, has deteriorated. We’re worried about age. His; not ours.

So this morning the Mista and I went to the DMV. Department of Motor Vehicles.

Actually, DMV doesn’t exist anymore. Now it’s just a subdivision of the Department of Revenue. No matter what they call it, the DMV has got to be the most depressing place on earth.

The Mista had to go in person, with passport and birth certificate in tow. I had to go wtih the Mista.

How would he get there if I didn’t drive?

While we waited 1/2 an hour for one of the people behind the desk to call out number 031, someone decided I was in need of a brochure entitled “Where will you be spending eternity?”

Certainly not the DMV, I hope.

Cars and Christianity. replacements for baseball and apple pie*.

*I reject the tenents in the flier I received today. I will stick with apple pie. As a matter of fact, today, I had a slice.

p.s.

The Mista suspiciously asked me if I wanted to go to Gourmet Burger. This was suspicious because one does not go to Gourmet Burger and not get chips. He must have known that if I agreed, his suggestion would include a side of fries.

Why the change of heart? Why the lapse in his regimen? It would not have been my last post (the few paragraphs that precede this postscript); the Mista doesn’t read this blog. Besides, he was in the shower when I last posted, and he made the suggestion when he was drying himself.

At the moment, it didn’t matter. I greedily agreed. The Mista laughed at how vigorously I shook my head.

The certainty with which I allude to my getting chips at Gourmet Burger in the opening paragraph of this postscript, is in fact, all bravado; whilst the Mista went up to place our order I wondered if our little fried friends would be joining us for dinner. The Mista had talked about splitting a lentil burger and a blue cheese burger (nb: the blue cheese burger is about as close to heaven as you’re going to get while sinning), but the subject of chips didn’t come up. It was the elephant in the room. We didn’t mention it. If he didn’t order them, I wasn’t going to ask for them.

The Mista ended my suspense by catching my eye from the till and mouthing, “do you want a dipping sauce with the chips?”

It might have been obvious for a fraction of a second that my hear soared before I regained my composure.

I mouthed back ‘naw’. I assumed mayonnaise would be included and didn’t count as a ‘dipping sauce.’

I now have some pending detective work; I need to uncover how the Mista knew I needed some chips.

Christmas Apology

In 2003, I was outside The Smoke.

For a good part of the year I was in Stratford-upon-Avon or Birmingham*.

For the better part of the year, I was in The Hague**.

It was from my hotel room in the Netherlands that I watched the making of a case for the Iraq war. The numerous iterations of evidence-giving in front of the U.N. The footage of the weapons inspectors seemingly being led on a wild goose chase by Sadaam and his cohorts. The footage of Colin Powell lending credibility to the cause with his then still-unsullied air of gravitas.

I watched the machinations with an air of detached disbelief. I didn’t think the war would really happen, so I didn’t really give a toss about the events I watched unfold on the news during those pre-war months. The BBC and CNN alternately droned on in the background whilst I ate my dinner: a Caprese Salad delivered by room service, generally a glass of red wine. On occasion, I lit up a joint that I would have picked up at one of the coffeeshops scattered across the Grand Dame of Dutch cities.

When the tanks rolled in or the bombs dropped or whatever action it was that signalled the start of the war, it hit home. Suddenly my disbelief wasn’t so detached anymore. I put my fork down. I covered my mouth. Tears began to swell up in my eyes. I reached for the phone to call the Mista.

I had never met an Iraqi before. I had met numerous Iranis, though; including the guy who ran the Pizza joint in The Hague where I would sometimes get a Pizza when I was sick of the hotel Caprese.

During the war and after the war and throughout the occupational surge, I had not met an Iraqi. The Iraqis were a theoretical people. Whereas my knowledge of the Irani people was becoming almost … well, ….intimate … until the Persian speciality shop on Fulham road that catered to my addiction for lemon flavoured almonds shut down and was replaced by the standard, run-of-the-mill off license.

Christmas Day 2007 I met my first real live Iraqi. Like me, Omar was another dinner guest at an intimate, non-traditional Christmas fete. I already knew he was gay (as were the hosts***) and fit (obvious through the tight shirt). His fantastic English was tinged with just a hint of an accent.

“Where are you from, Omar?”

When he answered, I paused. I began a stammer, began a stutter, stopped myself, and started again.

“I’m sorry.”

The Mista missed this exchange. Interestingly, he had the exact same reaction when he asked the question.

*The subject of another post.
**And another.
***Just to prove that some of my best friends really are some of them.

Public Conveniences

I like to think I know a thing or two about London toilets. For example, the public convenience* located in St. Christopher’s Street (free of charge) between Oxford and Wigmore Streets, just off James Street has an air dryer that possibly rivals the force of a good Caribbean hurricane gale. It is amazing to see the crazy pattern the skin on your hand makes when you use that air dryer. Sometimes when I’m there I’ll wash my hands two or three times, just to continue the awe at the sheer power contained in the little box on the wall.

The toilets in Green Park Station (pictured) are also free, and they get a good rating in the Clarissa London Toilet guide. Free, clean, and soap for washing your hands.**

If you’ve gotten further down Picadilly, it gets a little more difficult to find a clean public convenience. You’ll probably have to go for the private convenience. You can usually find one in Starbucks (not always! I think the one on Picadilly is one of those), but they aren’t very nice, especially when located in such an obvious tourist zone. For a Picadilly Circus side toilet experience, I suggest you wander into Waterstones on Picadilly, go up a few flights of stairs and use one of the toilets there. Or, depending upon what you’re wearing, you could also wander into the Meridien Hotel just across the street, descend the carpeted staircase, and you’ll find a plush place for a wee. Actual cloth washcloths for drying your hands!

The Mista has been known to call me when he is out and about and in urgent need of a place to go. This makes me swell up with joy. My toilet based knowledge makes me proud.

*AKA Toilet; Loo; Bathroom
**I generally cross-check my impression with Petunia’s just as a sanity check.

Lush

Here’s what happens:

We work most of the morning. To use the terminology from the Mista’s list, we ‘do the back, do the front, clean out the basement and go through the tax shit files’ so Saturday morning feels kind of cheated away from me. By the time I’m through with wiping 2 weeks of building works grime from the leaves of the Laurel trees in front of our flat (part of ‘doing the front’), I’ve got streaks of mud across my forehead, assorted grime covers my hands, grimey water trickles down my sleeve, an uncomfortable, uneasy sensation.

I’m thinking about a beer. Turns out, the Mista is too. We justify to each other why a trip to the pub is precisely the thing we need once I’ve washed my hands and face and forearms.

We have a pint. Just one.

We buy a toilet bowl brush and soap dish from the local sell-everything shop, then go home to make lunch / supper. Wine accompanies the making and eating of dinner. The Mista watches Real Madrid win unconvincingly against Espanyol (the other Barcelona team); I act like I’m going to do other stuff: blog, watch a DVD on my computer. I fall asleep pass out, who are you kidding? before 8. I wake up before midnight. The Mista tells me this is why I’m not allowed to drink.

Girls Night Out: A Flashback

When he first came to live with us, I fondly referred to Pablo as ‘the little fucker’. At the end of the year, I’d spit out his pet name with more malice than bonhomie.

Pablo entered our lives when he was 4, and the Mista and I were living in Spain. He latched onto the Mista like a bull on red. Grateful for a male influence in his life, Pablo’s single-parent mother encouraged the pseudo paternal relationship between my Mista and her son. Even after we had left Spain, she would ship Pablo off to spend a couple weeks here, a couple weeks there, with us.

Pablo entered our London flat to stay for a year when he was 19. We had just gotten rid of all the guest room furniture in a bid to convert the infrequently useful guest room to a frequently used office, when Pablo’s mother called. Pablo had failed his final year of high school. She’d done some research. It would be possible for Pablo to repeat his final year at the Spanish school in London, if he could stay with us. Could he stay with us?

Of course the little fucker could stay with us. He’s as close as we’ve got to a kid of our own (other than Butters, who was not yet a part of our plans).

Our bid for an office was put on hold.

We bought a new bed.

I readied myself to be a stand-in. I wondered what would be expected of me as a ‘mother.’ The Mista reassured me that he would take on the brunt of the expected parenting responsibilities. I would just need to bear out the year in a more cramped than usual London flat. Regardless of the Mista’s reassurances, I took the prospect of motherhood (even of a 19 year old) seriously. It was going to be a new challenge. I didn’t want to fail.

I made an appointment with the headmaster of the Spanish school, arrived at the convent-converted school on Portobello Road with 1/2 an hour to spare, and worried about my outfit

I hope I fit in.

On my tour of the school, I got excited on Pablo’s behalf. The enclave behind the convent walls promised all a student could want. A tree in bloom in a central courtyard. Quiet niches for reading or writing. If I were Pablo, I would have loved it.

Pablo arrived from Madrid with a suitcase full of baggy jeans and Slipknot sweatshirts. School started. He didn’t need me to go with him on the first day of classes. As a 19 year old, he was considered self-sufficient, autonomous.

Buzzkill.

The year with Pablo progressed with surprisingly little irritation given the extra body in the flat, the corresponding increased mess, the inconvenience of someone else using the bathroom.

Pablo had always been a precocious kid, and his 19 year old self was funny as hell. The Mista and I liked having him around. Petunia became enchanted by the little fucker. And, Pablo himself had a pretty good set-up here in London: a free place to stay, broadband, Sky TV, a Playstation. All of us enjoyed our strange little “family” and our unique part in it.

Pablo didn’t do well on his mid-year exams. The Mista laid down some rules (primarily restricting Pablo’s entertainment options). The year dragged on. The cleaning lady noted Pablo’s frequent appearances at home when he should have been at school. After the two week final exam period, Pablo swore that he thought he did well.

Turns out that the little fucker didn’t show up to take even ONE exam.

Little fucker.

£100 Quid and a Three Week Day

The “Scary” Summons has resulted in a fine. One hundred quid out of pocket to the agents of Her Majesty’s traffic fine collection services. Neither Mista nor I have any quarrel with dipping into our respective purses to pay the fine.

I do have a quarrel with having paid 900 quid for the ‘fast track’ assessment of my application for indefinite leave to remain. Fast track means a night. The next day you have your passport back in hand, leave to remain delivered.

Not in my case.

I’ve paid an agent to worry about all of the details for me; only, when there is a detail over which to worry, he contacts me directly to make sure I do the worrying. He and I obviously do not see eye to eye vis a vis for what it is I have paid him. From my perspective, he’s meant to pull some strings, explain away any “anomalies” that the bureaucrats might fabricate when looking over my application. He doesn’t see it that way. He’s an interloper of questionable use.

He gets in late, leaves early, and is hard to get on the phone. I won’t be returning with more business; nor will I be sending any friends in need of similar services.

Three weeks after I paid for the overnight processing of my Indefinite Leave application, I get the thumbs up and the stamp in my passport.

I wonder how long it would have taken if I had paid for the normal service.

The Secret

The boy asked for it; so here it is.

The only thing I ask: if you do bake them, please let me know how they turn out. It will bring joy to my sad little heart* to know deliciousness is spreading through the blogosphere.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients:

---

Butter: 1 cup / 227 grams
Brown Sugar (packed): 1.25 cups / .52 pints
White (castor) Sugar: 1/2 cup / .21 pints
Eggs: 2
Milk: 2 tbsps
Vanilla: 2 tsps
Flour: 1.75 cups / .73 pints
Baking Soda: 1 tsp
Salt (optional): 1/2 tsp
Oats (rolled/raw): 3 cups (or less) / 1.25 pint
Semisweet Chocolate Chips: 12 ounces / 343 grams

Instructions:

---

1. Preheat oven to 375°F or 190°C
2. Beat together butter and sugars until creamy.
3. Add eggs, milk, and vanilla; beat well.
4. In a separate bowl, mix flour, baking soda and salt.
5. Mix the flour concoction into the butter/sugar/egg concoction.
6. Stir in oats and chocolate chips. Mix well.
7. Drop by rounded tablespoons onto an ungreased cookie sheet.
8. Bake 9-10 minutes for chewy cookies or 12-13 minutes for crunchie cookies.
9. Cool for 1 minute; remove to wire rack and allow to cool completely.