Bollywood Tears

There is a particular kind of heartbreak you feel when you see someone cry. It's one thing when it's someone you know, but when it's a stranger it seems strikingly sad, perhaps because there is nothing you can do, really.

Sitting on the train, music blaring in my ears creating that amazing disconnect between the goings-on around you and the bliss in your head, my attention was attracted to someone behaving oddly. On first assessment he looked, dare I say, like a Bollywood star. Everything he wore looked designer, oh so cool shades, a general attempt to look irresistible. (And about those shades: it was night-time). He was muttering to himself, pacing between the two doors and running his fingers enthusiastically through his hair. You could have been forgiven for thinking he was practicing lines for his new musical...but with more intent inspection I saw that he was crying. Sobbing actually.

Let me pause here to say that I too have sobbed on the train once. I couldn't help myself, but I think I tried to be discreet about it, despite the rivulets. He was full-flood waterworks...if I could hear I am sure there would have been noises and everything.

I noticed some other passengers laughing at him. I felt paralysed with sadness: his tears and the attitude of his fellow passengers. Was he a nutter? Maybe. But he could also have simply been unable to contain his misery, and I know exactly how that feels. I wasn't about to get up and pat him on the back and tell him everything would be OK. Eventually. But I like to think he felt my compassion hugging him like those big blue cuddly arms in the soup advert.

How Long ©

I left your house that day
To catch the train
How long did it take you
How long to move on

It was clear, so clear
Sorry, you were sorry
I was your regret you said
You don’t belong here

I turned my eyes in, to not see
That you were looking past me
To your next possibility

You made it clear, so clear
Sorry, you felt sorry
I was your regret you said
Why are you here

I left your house that day
To catch the train
How long to move on
You’d already gone

It made me smile

On the bus home from a late night at work, I was gazing out of the rain spattered window wondering how it could be that I was on my way home at 9 o'clock on a Friday night. I let out a deep resigned sigh at the thought of what was waiting for me: tea and toast and to bed with my book. Unexpectedly, through a gap between the buildings, I saw the London Eye in the distance, all lit up in pink. I welled with happiness. It was a brief welling, but it was one of those moments I have from time to time where I feel utter contentment.

A definite USP

Cigars...and lighters? Cigars...and matches? Cigars...and tobacco? Nope.

Truly. This shop sells cigars and firetrucks. I'm not kidding. Where? New Jersey, where else but America?

Bakelite and racy prints

Today I went to the Battersea Art Deco Fair, accompanied by Scottish Housemate. I love Art Deco. This print came home with me, as did a fabulous Bakelite lamp. How did plastic become a collectible item?

Clutching her purchases, Scottish Housemate was accosted by the TV people there filming for Channel 4's Grand Designs. She found her few minutes of fame explaining why she too loves Art Deco. "Because it's pre-tt-y!" apparently wasn't what they were wanting to hear so she tried to sound very important. Look out for her!

Ettore Tito, 'Aide toi. Le ciel t'aidera' ('Heaven helps those who help
themselves'), about 1925-30.

Tito's illustration shows a modern emancipated girl of the period: she
wears short skirts, drives her own open-topped car, and is even capable of
fixing it herself when it breaks down. She is presented as independent and
rather 'racy'; the image is clearly meant to be amusing but also
suggestive.

Wordkill

Working with Americans has its unique joys. One such joy is their language. There truly is a language called American. Its filled with heartbreaking word blends. One I hear all too often, and die inside each time, is "irregardless".

According to Dictionary.com this word is "nonstandard". I should bloody hope so!

Making a Mixtape

Recently I was invited to spend the weekend with An American Colleague at her home in Bridgewater, New Jersey, USA. They have a Mall in Bridgewater. With a Macy's. And everything. V. American.

Whilst idly passing time in the kitchen, drinking coffee and trying to ignore the fact that my toes had registered that it was minus 1.2 million on the Cold Enough For You? temperature scale, her husband asked me about music. My favourite question. He had no idea what he was in for. After naming a few bands that he had never heard of and some that he vaguely had, he rushed off to find a 'rock' CD that he was sure I would like. American Colleague looked at me with raised eyebrows and mouthed "WTF?" And then after a thoughtful pause, "It's probably ten years old, I warn you." It was. Whilst not truly awful it was not rock and it was not for me. I was a guest after all so I made some appropriate Interested Listener noises, and as quickly as it was polite to inserted Fiona Apple into the pretty silver Bose. At that moment I promised myself and American Colleague that I would make American Colleague's Husband a mixtape of proper music.

Making mixtapes is something I did as par for the course when I was younger. By younger, I of course mean when cassette tapes were the actual main component of mixtapes. I remember sitting cross-legged on the lounge floor nose to nose with the radio listening to the Top 40, finger poised and hovering over the Record button waiting for the DJ to stop talking and get on with playing the damn songs.