Let it fall

It was one of those magical moments - 3 a.m. with the street all for myself, the streetlights burning bright, and then, the snow starts falling. The moment was made all the more poignant since I'd gone out, and had returned home drunk. The beauty multipied.

I ran inside my home, grabbed a camera, and ran out, clicking pictures at will. This one is one of many I took. I like this since this was one of first, and snows is fresh, the streetlights looks like some shooting stars in the sky, and the sky is clear and dark. Awesome.

One of those moments, a rarity.

Next morning, I woke up to white London. Great, but I was the first to see the snow. Knowing that made me feel special. Or whatever.

And it was bloody cold.

The Snow

I got the news from the radio. I was lazing on my bed, trying to stir back to life after eight hours of sleep, when the weatherman on the radio said it had snowed. I got up and opened my curtians. Outside, on the grass, on top of hedges, flowers, walls, white blankets had appeared. The first snow of the year. It would have been disappointing to let winter pass without snow.

So, it's snowed in all five winters I've been in London. Despite the downside of it, the severe cold, the sludge appearing as the snow thaws, the winter is never complete without snow. Like bonfire nights, liked Christmas, snow is also a celebration. At least in London it should be, because of its rarity.

It snowed a lot in my first season here. Two days of continuous snow made me feel like romance gone sour. After the jubilation of seeing powdery stuff unfurl in the sky, we were harassed when the freezing temperature continued unabated, the snow became incessant.

But no sooner had the snow disappeared and the roads restored to its former glory, I'd already started missing it. I wanted the next badge to arrive. It's just like celebrating Christmas with your entire family, or seeing your wife leave on a business trip. No sooner has somethings gone, you want it back again. But the elusive white mass didn't arrive until next winter, and that also in far less quantity.

This year, the weather has been as unpredictable as the mood of a pregnant girl. We've had plenty of sunshine, days when the temperature was so mild that the autumn felt it hadn't left us. Then, the much-maligned drizzle interrupted. The Londoners quietly accepted their fates, went about their life. A month back, a tornado crash-landed on a London suburb, dismantling several houses. Fierce wind then battered the hapless islanders, killing about eleven people. Only the snow was missing.

This morning, it quietly sleeps, unstirred, slowly melting away as sun threatens to burst out. Even the grey sky has an aura about it, as floor underneath shines with whiteness. The sight is pleasant indeed. It's even made my writing effervescent.

Minneapolis Girls

A tall cello on the stage always gives aura of respectability. But that wasn't the only reason why the spectators watched, enthralled.

A keyboard stood ahead of the cello, not to be outdone. A girl was playing it, as well as belting out jazz numbers. When she stopped singing, the turn came for the lead guitarist to take the center stage. Behind him, a drummer kept the whole thing ticking.

About thirty people sat in a muted surrounding. The place was lit with only candlelight, the stage had its only lighting. This was a perfect setting for jazz.

I was clutching a glass of pint, swilling in, as the music suffused through my veins. So easy to guzzle beer when the music was this good.

They were the second act of the night. Before this, a boring Punk Rock band had played. I had walked out and was drinking in the main bar area. The concert room was behind the main room, where you had to pay to go in.

A lady talked me into watching this band play. I should thank her a million times.

When the first song ended, the singer introduced herself. Although her name slipped off my mind, her accent told us she was an American. By now, I was sitting next to a middle-aged woman. My friend had already befriended her daughter. I was getting the share of the spoils.

Like me, my female companion was fascinated by her. We agreed she sounded like Nora Jones. Her soulful voice as she continued to sing started to captivate us. We halted our conversation. Watched transfixed. Loud cheers greeted the ending of every song.

After six songs, she introduced another singer. She said they'd met in some songwriting convention in US. Forged a close bond. Another American treat then.

The first singer retreated. The second singer played the keyboard also, but only occasionally. She sang two blues number. But what good songs they were. Each was at least about seven minutes long. She sang with her eyes closed, going in that depth where she came out with a husky voice. She moved her hands also, in the air to the rhythm of the beat, gently rocking her body as well. To my female companion I said I was falling in love with the singer. Her reaction, I don't blame you.

Her music was more upbeat compared to the other girl. That probably was the reason why I liked her more. The fact that she sang blues, not jazz, was also another factor. Anyway, they both were very good singers.

After the blues singer finished, the first singer came back, singing couple more songs. The evening concluded after that. I realized I'd been glued to my seat all throughout their performance. The beer had long finished. My bedtime had long elapsed. They had taken us to a place where we'd forgotten all our worries.

That’s what we call great piece of music.

A Perfect Model

I sashay on the catwalk. My hips sway to the music, with skimpy clothes hugging my fifteen-year-old body. Cameras click, their flashes ignite the stage. Eyes stare at me.

I reach the top of the ramp, gyrate around it, giving the audience the glimpse of my perfect ass. ‘An eight wonder of the world,’ a journalist had called my body. I remember the words, smile. A male voice screams, “Robin!” My name.

My pictures have infested fashion magazines. Many hailing me as a stunning discovery. They talk about my vivid fuller lips, my large blue eyes, my perfect figure. A photographer described me as amazing. I had sex with him.

Returning back, I reached the end of the catwalk. I’ll vanish in the changing room, sip a glass of champagne, change clothes, come out again. My stiletto will go up by two inches, satin silk will shield only my genitals.

I turned around before exiting and looked down to see my parents. My dad’s eyes look at me. Tears are brimming in them. Tears of happiness, but mostly of sorrow.

“That explains your extraordinary growth at such a young age,” a doctor at the hospital said yesterday. I was rushed in, after collapsing from exhaustion. “Also explains why you haven’t suffered menstruation yet.”

True, but I always thought I was a goddess, literally. I had everything while my classmates looked at with envy. At twelve, I was at least two inches taller that all of them, my breasts stood prominent. Guys ogled me in school.

“You don’t have an ovary,” the doctor continued. So, big deal.

“You’ve got testes. You’re a male body gone wrong.”

I was about to slap this doctor. “You’ll never be able to have children.”

Great.

“You’re half male, half female.”

How can that be? I got up form the bed. Strippped. Showed him my breasts, vagina, everything. I was crying. “See for yourself. I’m a woman.”

“Only on the outside. You’re what is called intersex. Don’t worry, this secret will stay at the hospital. The truth won’t come out.”

My mum almost had a heart attack. My dad rushed out of the room, unable to bear her cries. But I’ve got to go on, do what I love doing.

Generosity

I don’t know if giving away a pair of old, discarded shoes can be counted as an act of generosity. But when BBC launched a campaign for shoes donation, I had no hesitation in contributing to it. It was an easy decision to make. Several pairs of my old shoes, trainers and formal shoes, lay collecting dust. Wearing out of fashion material that have seen better days, just doesn’t appeal to me.

So today, I got a pair of adiddas trainers, bundled them inside a bag, and carried it to a local charity shop. A nice smile welcomed me inside. I departed with a ‘thank you’ from a staff who collected the bag.

My shoes will now head for African. A poor boy, who until now treaded the earth bare feet, will now have opportunity to wear the shoes I purchased two years back. Just think about it, I paid 50 quid for the shoes, and after wearing for five months, the shoes went out of fashion. Since then, I’ve hoarded them inside a pit that has also claimed many more. While in poor country, millions wander bare feet, the soles of their feet frequently pricked and pierced by shrapnel of all kind.

While I don’t feel guilty for being chic, avant garde, in a city that demands me to be that, I do feel guilty when discarded clothes and shoes lie in waste.

This act of generosity definitely won't be a one trick pony.

Me Mobile Phone

Look, it's not funny. Whoever has me mobile phone, please hand it over. I'll give you a small reward. How about a tenner? That's a wee bit of money. Will buy yer four pints. If yer go to a pub where I go, five pints mate. That's how much you can drink with that dosh. So come on, I'm waiting, it's already been four days since the phone's gone.

It's got me girlfriend's number, her photo, photos of so many places, people. Ever thought what happens if yer house gets lost? That's what's happened to me. Me mobile phone is everything. I had contact details of so many people. All them numbers will be lost now.

The phone's so handy. I calculate. Last time, I calculate me budget for the month, when I spend a thick wad of cash on condoms. Oh mate, I was doing left, right and center, million times. Me so fed up putting on that rubber, one time, me done it without one. But she was a good bird, not them ones, slappers, you know what I mean.

Then, there is a calendar there. Every morning, me get up with a headache, a hangover, and have to check what date is it. Me mobile is perfect for that. Two buttons pressed, and there, the date flashes on the screen.

Oh, me music. 100 songs in there. If yer like the songs I like, yer must be enjoying the phone like crazy. Are yer? Yer bastard.

Betty Curse and Evanescences and all them lot, crazy girls, ain't it? Punk rock chicks. I like them birds. I love the black nail polish in them hands. Phew...I can bang them all right. All night mate. Listening to them gives me that sort of satisfaction. I bet yer having the same dream, eh?

So listen, how about yer give me a call and we meet. Me hand yer money and take back me mobile phone. I'll kiss yer arse also, if you want to. That phone is me everything. Don't make me cry.

Two pints of Lager and a packet of Crisp

“It’s like this park is me enemy,” Kevin said. “Freakin’ crazy the park is. It’s haunted. I’m tell yer.”

“What happened?”

“The third time it’s happened.” He looked out of the window, stared at the grey sky, the rain pissing down. “What a day. Can’t even see the heavens.”

“What happened in the park?”

Kevin turned away from the window, munched crisp.

“Them Hollies. Every time they rustle when I'm under. The branches fall off, the leaves twirl, the bark looks angry. It becomes dark.”

“And?”

“What yer do mean, and? It’s scary. Them leaves are waxy, its got spiny edges. Have yer seen them?”

“No.”

“See..see what I mean. Yer wouldn’t understand me now, would yer?”

“But what’s the problem?”

“Yesterday, a berry hit me on me head. Knocked me cold. I was lying down for hours before a gypsy got me.”

“Tell me about the gypsy?”

“Never met him before. Tatty clothes. Scruffy. He shook me, gave me water to drink. Me head’s a whorl after that, round and rickety the park was.”

“Then?”

“More leaves fell. More berries fell. I just ran off after that. Freakin’ scary. The gypsy shouted stop. Never looked back. Bolted out of the park.”

“Oh, finish that pint now. I’ll buy you another one.”

“Cheers. I need it.”

“What did you do after that?”

“Went me home and lied down, until me wife came back.”

The pint glass emptied. I ordered two more.

“Fancy going to the park yourself now?”

“You haven’t told me which park it was.”

“What’s wrong with yer? I told yer first. The heath. Over the vale.”

“Oh. No you hadn’t.”

“So, me wife wrote a letter today to the council. We want them trees knocked down.”

“Why? I don’t think the council will do that.”

“Yer want more people dead then?”

“Nothing like that has happened before.”

“It will now.”

A burly man approached the bar. “What have to been telling the gentleman here, eh?”

“What yer mean?” Kevin turned away from him, again staring at the window. He grabbed his pint and moved towards the window. His footsteps led him to an empty seat.

“I hope you got a good story for two pints you bought him,” the burly man said.

Shop-a-hoklics

Addiction can take different forms. Just read Million Little Pieces. It’s a memoir of an addict. The person writes in detail how it feels to be addicted. In short, punchy sentences, he describes his passage through the abuse – alcohol, drugs, cigarette, coffee – everything. The pages flew by when I read. The book was over so quickly it felt like a wind flipping through the pages of the book, opening the cover, tossing through the pages, and then the end. All three hundred and more pages.

Since publishing the book, we’ve come to know the author made many parts of it. Most of it wasn’t true. But I don’t care. For me, they were a great insight into what an addict goes through. Ok, they turned fiction, but it still was a great read.

In the middle of the book, during the rehab, the author is told to avoid number of things when he is released. Cigarette ok, stick to it, better than alcohol and drugs. But watch out for others, minor ones, through which you will go straight back to hardcore addiction. One of them is shopping. Control what you shop. Don’t splash out. It’s an addiction. One leads to another.

I remembered shuddering when reading I passage. I’m not rich, I don’t shop regularly. I’m not an addict also. I don’t smoke, I only drink. But yes, I am addicted to shopping, especially when I go shopping. When I enter a shop, I seldom come out without buying anything. I can’t control the urge to buy, possess what tickles my fancy. Should I watch out then? Should I be careful, worry that it may lead to more drinking, other addictions?

I’ve never had any drinking problem. I’m a social drinker. I don’t drink alone, or at home, unless I have friends, and I don’t normally drink during weekdays. But the shopping bit worries me.

Yesterday was no different. I went to one of the shopping center to buy a comb. I mere two pounds worth of comb. When I come out, I’d splashed two hundred quid.

I was with a friend and he said he wanted to buy a pair of shoes. He liked what he saw, bought them. They were really a good pair of suede from Gant. The problem was, I really liked it as well.

I came out of Gant buying a pair of jeans and a very expensive belt. I then told my friend, I wanted to buy shoes too, like the one he had. We went around looking, and when I saw the one I liked, there was no stopping.

Your guilt of spending, or what you're about to spend, doesn’t surface when you are trying the shoes in the shop. The lure of it lulls you. You move to the counter, take out your plastic, punch your pin, no guilt yet. When you leave the shop, come out in the cold of the outside, you start to think what you’ve done. That’s what happens to me.

You wait for the train. You’re not speaking to your friend. You’re thinking of home, dinner, work next day, and then your shopping, the amount of money you’ve splashed. It takes two full day’s hard work to earn that much, what you’ve spent in an less than an hour.

Then, you reach home, try all your purchases. Like mine yesterday, if you really like what you’ve bought, at least you don’t feel grieved. Or, there is no stopping taking a free fall.

I feel fashionable after the lavish acquistion. But I also feel poor. Worst, I feel like an addict.