Run! The JCIA is coming!!!!!

When I am busy, running around like a headless chicken is what I do best, and at the end of a long and tiring day I go over all that has happened and found that I accomplished next to nothing, in case I'm being harsh on myself I check my to-do list the following day and find that what I suspected the night before is the awful truth.  What on earth is going on?

I started this post having decided that I wanted to write about work and all that is going on there.  Since I am due back at work tomorrow was just called by my manager about my appraisal, and the tought of reliving everything that will inevitbaly will start to repeat itself in about 12 hours I have wisely decided against the futile regurgitation of  nightmarish work situations.

So thats where I am at now. 

Almost a year!!!

How ridiculously diabolical!

Its quite scary to think athat almost a year has flown by in that time I've made to move to another country have been back twice on holiday became a diver dropped about two dress sizes, but am still quite the miserable cow I've always been!!!  I'm glad to see that nothing has really changed.

Coming back home on holiday I've seen the state my siblings are in and one has me more concerned than usual.

I don't mean to come off like one of those people who have finally started to consider themselves to be grown up and so huff, puff,  snigger and roll their eyes at anything anyone who is more that 12 months younger than them has to say.
I'll admit I do occasionally pop the casual remark into my conversations that "when I was that age all we had to entertain ourselves with were colourful marbles,Tamagotchis, comic books (or pop up books for those slightly slower than the rest) and the occasional game of Mortal Kombat or Mario Bros (one dimensional level version, mind!) played at the home of the only kid in the neighbourhood whose parents allowed him to have a Nintendo/SEGA "  
I'm of the opinion that kids born in the '90s are growing up way too quick and are either totally hopeless (Jeremy Kyle style fighting with an equally retarded girl over a useless specimen of a man, arguments that could in fact have lasted an eternity had it not been for Mr. Kyle himself ruthlessly interjecting with less that helpful and rather painful remarks. Fully justified though, have you actually tried to settle a disagreement with such a person? I tried and failed hopelessly...) or freakishly ambituous (full BSc in applied mathematics by age 12...)

Joggers.
Totally random I know, just the way my brain likes to function, but since coming back to London and having no free gym at my disposal, unlike my place of work abroad I have taken to intermtittenly pounding the street (no not as a hooker in order to get some cash to afford the ridiculous fees...)  Just excercise in the great outdoors.

I CANNOT KEEP UP WITH THESE MANIAC JOGGERS!

I run, slow down, walk and then run again.  I actually thought that this is how most people jog.  I was so wrong.  I live right on the border of a leafy picturesque area of London so there are joggers here in abundance, but I keep seeing them running ALL THE TIME, no powerwalkers, two speeds sprint and fast jog... Thats all.
Today I was sort of put out of my misery I saw a guy turn the corner and when I caught up he was walking so my guess is that people tend to jog/run when they think they are being watched and then when they think they can't be seen they drop their super-bionic super-sonic superfit and super-fake persona and act like the rest of us... I mean me. *cough*

Saw my cousin yesterday who got married last weekend, now I'm not one for big fancy weddings... Am of the persuasion that smaller is better for weddings and that one should go all out for the honeymoon.  Right!?!?
She took the dress out and literally forced me into it at gunpoint (white lie) with the heels, the veil the engagement ring... Rather odd behaviour for her, methinks she was re-living the day through me, can't complain we both got something out of it. I was at the time totally oblivious to the weirdness of it all as mesmerised as one could be with their own reflection I stood there gazing at my virginal bride  reflction,  you wouldn't have been able to lure me away from the mirror even if you waved the latest techno gadget and a cheeseake (my vices) in front of me!  I'm almost a convert to the idea of a fancy wedding with the huge dress,  the following morning in the harsh light of day my sensible self kicked back into gear, financially its just not worth spending shit-loads of money to feed and entertain a bunch of people you barely know, having to act a certain way "its the proper way for a bride to behave"  As much as I think my community have progressed I dont think they are quite ready for  "the running man" for the bride and groom's first dance.  So as enjoyable thate experience was, an intimate do for the families and close friends and a nice long extended getaway is the way to go!

Thats it for now, I'll see what else I can come up with hopefully in less than a year.

Keeping everything crossed...

Now We Know: Wikileaks gives us Cablegate.

An apt heading for today's Independent newspaper.  It is as you've probably guessed all about the infamous latest Wikileaks publication, or Cablegate as it has come to be known.  Apparently America really doesn't care about injustice in the Middle East.

What a revelation.

The argument that the publication of these cables could actually pose a threat to the lives of civilians (which ones?) is rather an overstatement.  Simply put this affair is very embarrassing. Very simply put it is like OMG embarrassing!

The first cable I read was entitled "Tales Of A Prince: CG meets with Governor of Asir's Fixer" (CG being Consul General) This particular cable read like a gossip column and contained themes remarkably resonating Alexander McCall Smith's Portuguese Irregular Verbs.  It contained no top secret or groundbreaking news.  I was rather amused at the the whole affair of Prince Khalid bin Faisal who at the time had been living with mum dearest in "an aged palace, in dire need of renovation" and decided to invite the Prince of Wales over for a dinner party! This juicy tidbit had been classified as "secret" by Consular General Tatiana Gfoeller for two reasons

1) foreign government information
2) foreign relations or foreign activities of the United States, including confidential sources.

Tatiana Gfoeller extracted this information from a willing "prominent western business man" with close links to The Governor of Asir aka Prince Khalid bin Faisal also known for being that "extremely cheap" bloke.
The nature of the relationship between the Prince and the businessman has been boiled down to one word in the cable, the businessman is the Prince's "fixer". Sounds dangerously exciting doesn't it?  This privilege apparently also extends to an impromptu transformation into a makeover guru! How fab!

So this is what happened, The Prince rings The Fixer.  The Prince tell The Fixer he's got a job that needs completing in three weeks from the time of the phone call and The Fixer is to take care of it.  The Fixer bravely asks whether he has a choice in the matter and is emphatically told "no".  The Fixer bravely agrees to take on the job.
Fast forward three weeks and The Prince of Wales is enjoying himself at a dinner party and remarks on the "luxury and beauty of the palace".  Completely oblivious to the fact that all the electricity was cut off and holes in walls were filled with Styrofoam.  The Fixer (who we find out is somewhat of a genius) had set up projectors to project colours and designs onto the walls, and used candles as the only source of light throughout the house, no electricity had meant that a busybody could flick a light switch, if they were so inclined, and not ruin the illusion The Fixer had put into play.  The plan was successful, everybody was happy, and the affair of the "phony dinner" cemented" the relationship between The Fixer and The Prince.  I cannot say I agree with the cheapo label as the Prince is reported to have generously given The Fixer a painting and $13,333 as a "tip",  if you really think about it, this little bit of cash could cement the most arduous of relationships.

As I mentioned earlier, this "secret" information was gathered by the CG, Tatiana Gfoeller from The Fixer, no other source was identified in the cable.  So really for all we know, they were having cocktails, at a swish Embassy party and this could have been an attempt by a business man in a visually unstimulating and rather conservative country to impress a powerful attractive female (I'm taking a wild guess) and cable is actually exactly what it says in the subject heading "Tales of a Prince"

Don't think we'll find out anyhow, but it is a funny story nonetheless. 

NB. To be fair to the subject of this cable the old palace is now a university and the Prince is reported to have built a new palace probably to avoid any other embarrassing decor faux pas.
The one thing that has really come to light is the confirmation for millions, that America's Middle East Policy is steadfast by Israels side.  last night I trawled through the Wikileaks Cablegate website and saw that there are over 2000 cables on the subject of Somalia. Ever the ethnocentric I have been trying to gain access to the archive and have found it near impossible to locate this information. I'll just keep trying and if I find something particularly interesting on the topic, I'll report back duly.

In between jobs

So today I tried to be productive, brought the ironing board up to my room, emptied out my scarf drawer and proceeded to iron.  ten minutes later father walks past the bedroom door and says, "Good on ya girl, trying to keep busy I see?"  "Yes" I reply with a faltering voice "Its the only thing I can to to keep me sane."  "Well then, if it is for the sake of your sanity, let me be of assistance."  He says as he walks up to his room, seconds later a pile of shirts miraculously materialise on the red Ikea rug on my bedroom floor. "Thanks, dad...." I'm desperately holding back the tears...

Enough of the melodrama!  It hasn't been all that bad, I've has some pleasant days out with the girls at Busaba, Ping Pong and trusty old  Pizza Hut.

Green tea with a dragon flower that open up inside it @ Ping Pong

Walked around London South bank, by the BFI, sat in random cafes nursing a single cup of coffee for as long as one can without getting evil looks from the staff.
Visited my friend's adorable new addition to her ever expanding family, did the same for her sister-in-law,
tried to placate the jealous little big sister and failed miserably

Shakira Junior (replacement for Shakira Senior the 1992 VW Golf ) got hit by a fast traveling P12 bus.... 

Great timing!!

The first week after I left work I'd been having dreams of Jeddah and times to come every night.  Then nothing....  I'm stuck in purgatory as I need a police clearance letter before I can get my work visa (I had been helpfully told that it could take up to 40 working days...even better)  Just before leaving work I bumped into a certain someone, who acted laughably yet again but left me wondering at what could have been had I been able to overlook substantial personality flaws.

The Age of Youth!

Overrated as it is, once experienced, most will love and miss it like a dear old friend. Others who find it not so easy to let go, synonymising the end of their youth with the atrophy of their bodies and withering of their minds and so understandably in the face of this frightful decline of their lives refuse to limit their association with this era to mere wistful reminiscing.
Faced with their mortality they are inclined to hold onto it for as long as they are able to, even if the only way they can involves zealously gripping onto the hand of their blossoming beau or belle, meaningfully whispering into the ear of the unfortunate being who but can’t help but have wanderlust eyes.

An older man is more likely to stay attractive to a younger woman than an older woman is to a younger man. So, why is that then? Surely everything migrates south regardless of your gender? And, yes the female reproductive system does shrivel up to a useless lump (quite rightly so, an 80 year old mother to a new born is odd by anyone’s standards for reasons too many to mention). The male reproductive system stays blissfully unaware of its host’s age and so overcompensating for the fact that its owner is almost a century old becomes highly over active till calamity befalls it, unfair not?
Then again, men do not need to carry a foetus to term nor do they have to go through the pains of childbirth to become a parent, what they do have to do is find an able and willing adult (hopefully) who can overlook Don Juan’s craggy south facing edifice enough to consummate their fragile relationship and inescapably with the help of a tidy little nest egg bring up this fatherless child.

KSA, Mr Rochester and a thorny rose

There is change in the air folks! Later this year Allah willing I will ditch the oh-so familiar and yet unpredictable British weather for the relentless desert heat of the KSA.  As organised as I am I have compiled, constructed and organised lists for just about anything so I can be prepared for any eventuality. 

This change has been a long time coming.  It’s been something that I’ve wanted to do ever since I was a student, my aspirations to be a globetrotter and a world wise woman have now been replaced by the more realistic and practical “How will I ever fund my MSc without borrowing money?”  So there my answer lay bare, huddled behind an old long forgotten dream.  A tax free haven and paid for everything else, so all I should worry about are my itchy fingers and insatiable appetite to jump on a plane to a distant dreamland.

 Yesterday I had a triumphant moment in the kitchen.  Whilst watching the 2006 BBC version of Jane Eyre on my laptop I had spent almost two hours hunched over the stove stirring a dark and murky concoction bubbling away almost feeling like a witch huddled over her cauldron.  When my ‘Aha!’ moment arrived almost simultaneously with Jane Eyre’s impassioned declaration of her undying love to Mr. Rochester in the pouring rain (Toby Stephens makes a delicious Mr. Rochester).  The smell emanating from the pan was unmistakeable, the tip of my tongue burning with a droplet I couldn’t resist sampling.  With a litre and a half of apple juice, a tablespoon of lemon juice, a ¼ teaspoon of cinnamon, 4 cardamom cloves and a 100g of sugar I had managed to bring my childhood in the suburbs of Holland to a place that I never imagined I’d ever find myself.  Lest I get too nostalgic I’ll just come out with it.  My latest culinary discovery was recreating something we called appelstroop (or apple butter in other cultures) in Dutch, loosely translated into English it means apple syrup though the consistency and colour is more of Marmite but the taste couldn’t be further removed.  A tangy yet sweet dark apple concentrate best eaten on toasted and buttered Frisian roggebrood (pumpernickel bread).  I promised to leave some for Warda to sample when she comes over on Sunday, but with every spoonful I spread on each slice of toast (and sneakily eat straight out of the jar) I increasingly feel that that I may have to go back on my word.  Anyway if worst come to worst, I’ll just recount the vivid memories of our childhood eating the appelstroop has brought back in a bid to distract from my zealous appetite for Dutch foods.

Naturally no post is complete without a rant.

Aptly named after a thorny stemmed flower her personality reflects none of the pleasant parts you would associate with her name.   Complicated she is not, but after all is said and done the twisted mother-daughter nature of our relationship is something psychoanalysts would marvel over.    And no, she is not a family member, not even related distantly, we don’t move in the same social circles, and our personalities couldn’t be further removed.  She is in fact a colleague (if you could call it that).

Shapely bottom glued to the seat of the chair, eternally with a cup of tea in one hand and a digestive ready to be dunked in the other.  Her mouth spewing a barrage of critical comments hurled in my direction, when she is not calling me a “good girl” for locating notes for tomorrow’s biopsies, or demanding I massage her aching shoulders (I’m serious folks!).  When she does manage to extricate herself from the chair she occupied the first four hours of her shift she complains of creaking knees, stiff ankles and painful feet.  She adamantly puts it down to old age, refusing to believe that any other normal human being would have some difficulty in mobilising after spending a 6th of their day in a semi comatose upright state.  Her inbred laziness doesn’t actually bother me; I can get through a day perfectly without her input.  The constant and relentless haranguing leaves me wanting to strap her onto her chair and subjecting her to torture similar to what that poor bloke Alex went through in A Clockwork Orange.  Anytime she hears Beethoven’s  9th Symphony or even thinks of saying anything non-essential to me the inevitable will happen..... 

I’ve actually explained to her plenty of times that her behaviour is bothering me she pats me on the shoulder as if I am a bobble headed child with Down’s and says “oh I’ve upset you.”  Then I and the rest of the team will have to hear her account of how I falsely accused her of upsetting me.  God Almighty!!!!

Sometimes I wonder whether she may have Asperger’s syndrome , the lack of understanding of other people’s feelings highly indicates so but unfortunately the characteristic high IQ usually associated with Asperger’s is sadly lacking,  it might have been a redeeming quality in her case... the only redeeming quality.

Public transport, Stanley Tucci and the collapse of the Tangent Universe

Thanks to a radiology consultant colleague of mine, I was not too long ago banished to an NHS Foundation Trust Londoners affectionately call Guy's and Tommies. Just for two weeks mind you, so that I may observe how they run their department, forge long lasting professional bonds and collaborate writing academic nursing articles with them after some time, his words not mine. In practical terms this meant I had to venture out of my beloved car Shakira Junior and pay a ridiculously gigantic lump of cash to travel by London Transport. I noticed something strange, other than the lingering smell of urine, damp and decaying rodents, in the heating vents that is.

People are completely cut off from one another, barriered by some sort of device fashioned to entertain individuals. Be it a mobile phone, PSP, MP3/4 player, a book, a magazine or a newspaper. It seems to have gone to the extent that people can't even look eachother in the eye anymore before they start panicking. Mind you I'm just as guilty of this, I refuse to board any form of public transportation without something in my bag to fill my time. It's ridiculous really, I have my phone, in case nobody picks up, I have my ipod, in case the battery is dead I have my trusty Marxism for beginners cartoon book. More often than not there are days where nothing seems to go my way and all the technology contained in my bag fails and my book has gone AWOL. I then, for the duration of my journey will be balancing on the edge of my seat, eyes bulging, pupils dilated, knees shaking, fingernails bitten back to their beds.

Could it be that we have become too scared to be left alone with only our thoughts as company? Or perhaps the likelyhood that our minds will spontaneously implode with nothing left to fill our empty skulls deter even the most solitary inclined of us from being alone with our thoughts? Whatever it may be due to, people at bus stops these days look like mirthless zombies, programmed to fill each and every second of their lives with other people's creations, thoughts and ideas. I personally blame the excess of technology available. I remember a time, not too long ago, may I add I'm almost merely two and a half decades old, when my weekends were filled with jumping on my bike and cycling with my mates down to the local and only bibliotheek (library) picking up seven books to read in seven days, or running around outside using our vivid imaginations to create alternate realities hidden behind intergalactic portholes harbouring creatures with tentacles as long as our imaginations, endurance quests ending high up in tree branches, and afternoons spent fighting battles in the neverending war with the seedy neighbourhood kids that attended The Triangle School

A random nonsense fact -

I have fallen head over heels for Julia Child's (Streep) husband played by Stanley Tucci in Julie & Julia. I've never thought of Tucci in that way but the ever so patient husband, a mellowing accompaniement to Julia's almost bipolar like ... strange personality, speaks to me. All through watching the film I couldn't contain the urge to want to just reach out, get a hold of that bald head of his and plant a smacker on him. Strange, very strange.

Speaking of weirdness I visited the donnie darko movie website it has been years since I saw that film, but that site is even crazier than the film.