“Most things in life are moments of pleasure and a lifetime of embarrassment; photography is a moment of embarrassment and a lifetime of pleasure”

This quote on photography, by writer Tony Benn, is a quote that I can FULLY relate to, after returning from my annual surf holiday in Newquay, Cornwall. Newquay is such a sleepy little town, but with much mysterious hidden vibrance and magic, and its own quaint little character. A far cry from your average nostalgic seaside holiday spot, the majority of people who eat, play, rest and surf there, are locals. And the locals are always extremely welcoming and friendly to tourists and travellers. Probably because, they are sitting smugly and quite content at the fact that they are locals. And that this beautiful little gem on the coast is the place they call home.

Every year that I visit Cornwall, one thing I can’t leave home without is my camera. And every year, once I arrive back home, huffing and puffing unpacking my bags and oogling in the mirror at my new found freckles, I remember “Oh, the photographs!” The digital pictures on my laptop screen bring back the memories from my spring time trip, and they are enough to infuse my heart and my head, and keep my brain (and my secret hippy at heart) ticking over until its a year later, and time to visit that beautiful little place again!

This year however, there was a new twist to the photographs I viewed on my computer screen with my family and my boyfriend. Every visit to Cornwall contained at least a couple of days of surfing. Days where I would spend the first few hours fighting against the waves, cringing in my wetsuit (which is really just a second layer of skin and does not do my lumps and bumps much justice) and realising that my upper body strength would give not even Mr Bean a run for his money. But after I get over the overwhelming “KILL ME NOW” state of mind… I generally begin to realise I’m maybe not as unfit as I thought I was (But still, not the fittest, being honest here people!) And when I actually get the hang of surfing again, after a year on the bench, standing up off that bench and standing up on my surf board, is the most rewarding and magical feeling you can ever imagine.

And then there is the huge anti climax.

Where is the evidence to prove this truly awesome moment? Fair enough I can live with the self satisfaction, but its a bit rubbish returning home with not even a photograph with me, in all my lumps and bumps and embarassing glory This year, however, the surf school that my friend Dominique and I went with, happened to have their own in house professional surf photographer. You know the old saying, a photograph speaks a thousand words? Well, no more words from me. I’ll let these long awaited and anticipated photographs do all the talking.

Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin is never far from the news at the moment… but the topic on many people’s lips is not her politics… it’s her hair!

Sarah won a beauty pageant back in 1984 and sadly, it looks like her hairstyle has been stuck in a time warp since then. We thought it would be fun to give Sarah a celebrity makeover, let us know which style you think suits her best!

Sarah Palin sports the distinctive Amy Winehouse beehive. Nice.

Perhaps this early Britney Spears pigtailed look would sway the youth vote? Perhaps not.

Sarah Palin as Beyonce. You go girl… just you go…

If she wants to continue down the retro route, how about Beegee Barry Gibb?

Or Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz?

She just wants to be your friend…

OK… we’ve taken this too far…

A splinter of a second after HE called I knew I had to do something drastic and quickly air brush myself into eye popping, jaw dropping gorgeousness.
It’s never good news when the ex comes knocking.
And now that SHE was……something had to be done.

A year since the man stepped into my premises no amount of coaxing, flattering, sweet-talking, back rubbing had smoothed him into talking about the mysterious ‘Former’. Sneakily I have often, I admit, searched through his wallet and papers in search of a stray love note or at least a toothy Polaroid which would give me a glimpse of what the lady looked like.

But all in vain.

Today a whole of 13 months, 2 weeks and 14 hours later however the curtain was finally to be raised. At last I was to rest my eyes on the Woman at dinner tonight. So effervescent was my excitement that I spent the entire afternoon speculating and getting drunk on an abandoned bottle of Vodka.

Speculation no.1
The woman was stunning.

She had to be.
Why else would he possibly keep me from the details?
Surely the guy was just being a sweetheart and saving me the heartburn.
Possibly because i knew her already.
Maybe she was a MODEL!
Maybe I had seen her already on a billboard or a magazine cover and salivated over her dress..or, worse, her perfect booty… in front of him!

He must have cracked into a nasty smug smirk at the very sight of my girlish envy!

God!

What would I do when she struts through that door looking like a groomed little peacock ready to perch on a catwalk?
I absolutely couldn’t be looking at her with puppy eyes between serving her appetizers and rummaging around the apartment for my autograph book!

That would leave him snugly satisfied with his prowess over women for the rest of the year!!!!!

Instead.
Instead I would turn the tables and make the gorgeous little thing go vra vra vroom at the very sight of me.

That’s what I would do, yes.

Tipsily I ran into the bath and turned on the shower.
With 2 hours in hand I still had enough time to transform myself into a strapping little Swan. I was a pro at conversions of the kind. Walk in the park. Piece a’cake.
One foot on the bathtub other on the shower floor I was squishily scraping away at my leg with a razor.

Quick.
Now the nail polish.
Toothbrush in mouth I tugged and pulled at my toe nails with clippers.

Maybe there was still time for a hurried visit to the beauty parlour for a nippy pedicure?
Maybe not.
Hurriedly, HURRIEDLY I jumped from one foot to the other trying to scrub my muggy looking feet into civility.
And that’s when it happened.

Well sometime around then anyway.

Speculation no.2

Daintily as i stepped out of the bath, carefully trying to get into character early and act as graceful as one can possibly look and feel in a hideous green bathrobe, I slipped on something….possibly some of the ultra luscious, super lubricating hair serum I accidentally dropped on the floor and landed, ungracefully, perhaps a tad pathetically, right on my head.

When I woke up I was in the hospital.

Looking concerned and with a buck-toothed, blinking girl, probably still in school, HE stood close by.
Through her mouthful of teeth the lady who had just cost me a twisted ankle, a couple of bruises, a nasty slash on my posterior and a visit to the hospital blinked and said

“I have heard so much about you.”

I grinned a toothy grin and wished I was in a state to bonk my head against the wall.

Exactly 7 days 10 hours and 45 minutes after I pledged my life to establishing my presence in the office room I decided it was a lost battle.
This was not to be.
It just couldn’t happen.
Trying to get my co-workers to look me in the eye and answer my questions without rolling their eyes was like asking Lindsay Lohan to make public appearances wearing underwear! (more…)

So here I am clit-clattering away on the comp in my very own dignifiedly grey office cabin.
I am here for a 3 month long internship program.
My job concerns little beyond looking around the hopeless premises with distracted concern and copy pasting incomprehensible, and hence boring, information fom one document to the other and then making the final product look like my handiwork.
Piece of cake.
I eat often and remorseleslly. Given that their is very little else to do it manages to prove entertaining every now and then.
Stacked around my present abode, in discreet niches invisible to the naked eye are salty delicacies every self respecting health freak would shriek and pass out at the very sight of.

When the present stock proves unfulfilling I smartly dial fast food numbers pasted carefuly on the wall.

Since stepping out for lunch is a complete no no no one even notices the multiple orders that make way to my desk everyday.

The sun is bright outside.
I catch a sight of it every time I walk into the ladies room for a bit of fresh air.
My colleagues are great. I am guessing.
Most of them don’t speak.
My seniors let me know that speech is not an appreciable quality within these four grey, brightly tube-lit walls.
Here IM works fine.

If you want water, just IM for it, some speechless guy or the other will bring it down to your desk. You won’t even have to thank him.

Life here is a series of oscillations.
From the water cooler to the coffee maker.
From the coffee maker to the water cooler.
And later from the cabin to the loo.
Everyone here is very important.

Everyone here fingers their keyboard importantly and fixes their tie every fifteen minutes.
To stay attuned I clatter on my comp profusely and type A to Z a couple of dozen times with intent. When I tire of that I puff puff my face like I were Grace Kelly in a press conference in Monaco.

Every once in a while my IM peep peeps to jerk me out of my guilty nap. Jerkily I spit away my reverie, collect my collectibles and dignifiedly clappity clap my way to the meeting room.
When people talk in the meeting room they speak with BBC radio like precision. Occasionally, when I speak, I put on my best fake Garbo voice and nod like I understand everything. Of course I sneak a peek every now and then to see if people are watching my little act, but sadly NO ONE does.

Last evening for instance this utter moron of a fellow colleague of mine was reading a list of all the items we needed sent off on mail ASAP. Being reminded of an important bit he missed out I raised my hand politely, feeling uncannily like I were back in school. My projected limb however failed to so much as attract a raised eyebrow from him and on he went with his dastardly little catalogue. Feeling a little miffed I waved my hand like I were hailing a cab. Shooting my characteristic sarci-comic grin at the other suited booted’s present in the room I waved and wagged clicked my tongue and hooted.

But to no avail.
By the time he was on the last paragraph I had almost clambered up on the table in desperation.
And yet…YET the man paid not the tiniest bit of heed to me!
Such insolence!!!!
Even my neighbour’s spoilt brat of a snotty poodle would throw me a woof if she saw my present antics!
Whatever would I have to do to get a little bit of attention round here huh? Stride atop the table rip of my clothes and get jiggy with some gut sickening Christina Aguilera number?

Sheesh!

Completely unused to such cold inattention I spent the whole day biting my recently manicured nails and wondering what in the world would make these pale faced monstrosities working with me wake up and see exactly how great I was. I bought a brand new pair of McQueens just so they could soothe their eyes for crying out loud!

It was their birth right to be able to feel thankful for my existence.

Something, I felt deep down, had to be done for these unfortunate individuals.

Make no mistake, you can shove your relationship guru’s advice right down your kitchen sink, the one who makes the first after-fight call is the one who has Lost! (more…)

It was a simple case of ‘fabulous’ gone ‘frumpy’. The customary Friday night dinner had followed a movie. We cabbed it to our recent favourite joint and sat snuggled under a circular overhead lamp in a cubby, which eerily resembled an interrogation room. (more…)

Last week my grumpy old Landlady finally threw me out.
It was coming, I could tell, for some time now. She has had her scrawny eyes on me ever since I set the kitchen on fire.
When she ultimately gave me the kick, she chose to be nice and had the packers wait outside while she consoled me. It would be alright, she said, the University hostel (where I was destined to move in) didn’t have any kitchen and so I was completely safe, no chance of being thrown out ever again.

The transition from the 700 sq. ft. appartment to the 200 nothing sq. ft. hostel room has not been what one would call ‘rippleless’. For starters, there is the room mate.
To be fair, I have never been much of a team player. But even if I played football I wouldn’t be able to tackle the mini monstrosity I now sleep with.
She is a nice girl, of course, quick on a joke and all that. But what really defines her identity, what really sets her apart, marks her out in a crowd is her absolute, vehement, stubborn reluctance to take a bath.
That suits me fine.
I am all for individual choice and all that. And truly who am I to question her personal principles about hygiene. But if only she wouldn’t insist on sharing my clothes!!!!!!!
Every sleeve she slips her arms into, every scarf she winds around her unwashed neck becomes a blackhole of impenetrable odour.
I have tried to ‘introduce’ her to the idea of deodorants or anything else, which might, unassumingly obstruct her personal stamp of fragnance, but in vain.
Of late, when she is asleep and unaware I have (guiltily) sprayed around her and under her to help pierce through the halo of stench. But nothing has been of much help.

To add to my current misery the lady in question has recently acquired a man (!!!!). With this creature, who is either sensually challenged or has been rendered ‘breathless’ by love, she romps around rather noisily till the wee hours of the morning while I, loveless and deprived, study what Bordwell has to say about the debatable concept of Modernity(!!!)

HmmmPh.
Tough year ahead, I can tell.