Thursday, May 13, 2010

I am losing my touch - sigh!

As evidence
Chapter the Second: Where the Lead Cast is Hungover

Dee woke up to mayhem. The world was ending... or it was the last day of a 98% discount in Mirabelle's... or her cat was singing Juditha Triumph-whatsit... or was all of this happening simultaneously... what was that infernal racket for crying out loud? Can't a body get some effing sleep in her own effing house at bloody effing three in the afternoon? Oh wait – that was the clock ticking. Loud enough to be heard in Slovenia – just like grandma.

"Might as well get up I suppose", Dee muttered as she raised her head off the pillow gingerly. It lolled a bit but remained connected to the rest of her. One leg off the bed – slide, slide, slide, flail mid-air, contact! Now the other – effing hell... maybe back to bed till the room stopped tossing around so vigorously? That would be a waste though – she was almost off the bed. And everyone knows that almost off the bed is half way to office. Not that she needed to go to office today. But she could have if she had had to.

Finally up, she vacillated – frig it, big words – must be high still! – between making a gigantic tumbler full of very hot very strong very very black coffee and calling Cilly and checking on her. She decided that since Cilly had always been there for her, ever since they met in boarding school (ha... some meeting that had been – "Hello, I am Cecilia Devrett, your roommate. My friends call me Cilly though." "As in intellectually challenged? Some friends! I am Dianna by the way – my friends call me Dee." "As in cup size? Some friends" – in all honesty, there could have been no looking back after that), it was about time she responded in kind. Right after the coffee.


Ting. What Cilly couldn't understand was the, ting, little-bell-on-the-counter. Why have a little-bell-on-the-counter when she was standing, ting, right behind it anyway – and was in fact, ting, here to do just that. There was no back-of-the-shop to disappear, ting, into and be summoned from. Emmy said the little-bell-on-the-counter, ting?, added ambience to the store. Emmy, ta-ting, was Cecilia's friendly neighbourhood librarian – her very own Casper with a penchant for Rosetti as it were. Emmy was also currently, ting, ensconced in said friendly neighbourhood library, ting-traling-aling, and not having to listen to the indeterminate-age-probably-boy-since-girls-are-prettier-monster-child playing master to Cilly's... butler? parlourmaid?... who did respond to bells?... ting ting ting (wasn't that on cue), while the indeterminate-age-etc's mother browsed Cilly's bookstore for something "suitably edifying and uplifting" for Augustus. Assuming Augustus was the monster, Cilly would have recommended the Bible. TING. Maybe a copy with notes in the margin. Ting triling. St. Peter's notes in the margin. Hoping the troll's IQ was at least double digit, Cilly was persuaded to part with The Railway Children. At least they left and she could always buy another copy so it wasn't much of a loss either, which was admittedly a funny way to run a bookstore. But no more bells ringing – Cilly could have jigged. Except she couldn't chance it – she didn't think she had enough neural control left to stop bobbing her head if she started. And she did not want to spend the rest of inst. hangover nodding like – like – like – Noddy. It was one in the afternoon. Cilly hadn't slept the whole night. Hadn't been much point to it since the binging stopped at 7 in the morning and the book shop ("The Turrets" – Cilly had spent an entire CSI episode trying to come up with a name) opened at 10. And the boss was a bitch. Well, the boss was Cilly. But then Cilly was a bitch too. Or at least she liked to think of herself as one. If she couldn't be morally loose, she could damn well try her hardest to be a bitch – after all a girl's got to have some pride. And a certain je ne sais quoi. Being a bitch qualified.

She'd give Dee another three or four hours. And then she'd call Dee, cackle on for a bit, mention some form of solid sustenance – slip it in casually. And remember to not mention a sandwich place. Neil had been wrong for Dee. Cilly knew it. Cilly's mum knew it. Dee's mum knew it. Emmy knew it. Hell, Neil knew it. Everyone except Dee in fact – and she ought to have known it. Especially because Dee always chose the wrong man – if there was a rotter within a ten mile radius, Dee'd manage to stumble upon him, adopt him, fall for him, promote him, sleep with him, be fleeced by him, be dumped by him and bemoan him – not necessarily in that order and sometimes within the space of less than a week. Dee Worried Cilly. And this was not a slogan for breakfast cereal.


See what I mean... why does the bloody muse have to be feline instead of canine.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

A re decedunt

This website now has an official seal, i.e., this. Characteristically, it has an inverted Medusa, red-and-black, vague cacophony of semi-mythological symbols, and random latin. I mean c'mon... what else does a seal need, right?

What this means for you is that you can now get an official seal of approval from me. So incentive for y'all to play nice.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

The Desert Sheikh's Secret Virgin Mistress

Apart from the fact that this is simply the maximum number of images I have ever had to work through in my first encounter with a title, there is also the intrigue... what exactly is secret? The fact that she (presumably) is a virgin? Or that she (ditto) is a mistress? And who is it a secret for? I mean the former can't be a secret for her, and the latter can't be for her and him. Us? So why bother reading?

And to think this is all explained away in 124 pages... the human mind is a wonder!

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Chapter the First - Where the Lead Cast is Bingeing

“So, the way I figure it is so –”

“Isn’t that an extra ‘so’… grammar-wise?”

“Shut up and listen Cilly… I’m philosophizing.”

“At effing 2.47 in the morning? Of an effing working day?”

“Not for me… only the staff in McDonald’s works weekends. Not us suits.”

“Great… go ahead… be a selfish bitch… show no mercy for the under-working-class friend.”

“Alright then. In which case, like I was saying –”

“Ugh Dee… just ugh!”

“Shh… listen. Everyone loves themselves, right?”

“Not everyone. Some people pretty much hate their lives.”

“But that’s just it… they hate their lives because they are convinced that they deserve better… which is because they love themselves. Even people who keep drawing attention to their faults or illnesses or shit… they just want the rest of us to notice how interesting they are. See?”

“Hmm… maybe. So?”

“So if someone knows me the way I know me… he, or she, depending on gender… no wait, it’s orientation these days… so much politics! Why can’t I call a babysitter a babysitter if what she does for a living is sit babies?”

“Knows you the way you know you?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah. Knows me the way I know me. Then he has to fall in love with me. I mean logically… I know me. I love me. Ryan knows me. Ryan will love me. Right?”

“Who’s Ryan?”

“No one. It’s just a name. Don’t you just love names with a ‘y’ in them?”

“You’re so Russian sometimes Dee.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s Russian.”

“Like salad?”

“Yup… completely tossed.”

“I wish you were a guy Cilly… then I could have fallen for you… I think.”

“Okay… disturbing visual there. Maybe we should put the bottle away now.”

“What have we been having anyway? Doesn’t taste like any wine I’ve ever had.”

“Not wine… wine finished an hour back twit. This is scavenged white rum.”


“Discovered under the sink while rooting around for kitchen towels.”

“Oh. Well. No harm done I suppose. After all, if they use alcohol to preserve stuff then alcohol itself can’t possibly go bad, can it?”

“I suppose not.”

“And it will definitely not rip your heart out, shred your self-esteem to bits, and tell you over an effing sandwich that you are not meant and that it met someone else.”

“Ah… we’re back to Neil now, are we?”

“What? Who’s Neil? Never heard of a Neil in my life. Except for that Armstrong fellow. That bastard! That assholish moronic scum-of-the-universe jelly-limbed stone-hearted bastard!”


“No! My Neil!”

“You mean ex-My Neil. Or is it My ex-Neil? No that is definitely wrong… he is still Neil. Just not yours. Maybe ‘ex-My’, give a pause, and then Neil.”

“Just give me more wine Cill.”

“Rum. We’re having rum. At least we are for another shot each. Then we’re down to vodka.”

“Whatever. Just continue pickling my liver please.”

“C’mon Dee! I gotta go to work tomorrow!”

“Why? You hate it anyway. Quit.”

“You can’t be plastered enough to not be able to spell money dear heart. Plus it’s not like you like your job either. In fact, if memory guides me correctly, which to be fair, at this point in this evening’s entertainment is fairly doubtful, you way beyond hate it.”

“Oh gawd Cill! How did I end up this way? How? I was going to be so glam… I was going to have exotic adventures… I was going to have a high-flying job, a gorgeous absolutely-Rhett love-of-my-life, a black cat, and one of those nifty convertibles. I was going to be Sex-in-the-effing-City. And now look at me! I am… I am…”


“Worse. A Teletubby rerun. And not even in plural.”

“I know honey… I know.”

“No you don’t.”

“No. I don’t... More vodka?”

“Keep it coming sister… just keep it coming.”


Saturday, September 12, 2009


I announce my presence, hereafter, on this blog.
I genuinely doubt (alternatively use 'hope') that any of you are aware of the blood relation between Betty and myself unless you are more intimately acquainted with either of us, in which case you have my pity. From now this 'web netted from threads taken out of thin air' will also host some of my sporadic ... posts?... articles?... pearls?...convictions?... epiphany?... Never mind.
Just so you know.
Well, it will definitely be amusing...
I am sure you will welcome my ________(fill from the above options) with applause and comments (a non-subtle hint. Take it.)
Thank you.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Mission Mehbooba

With all due respect, the Chinese know jack. All that zengaling about contemplation being the zenith of civilization doesn't wash. I've been doing nothing for the past few months, so I know what I am talking about - lethargy annihilates as many grey cells as indirect tax law classes. I haven't had a new thought in aeons... nothing... nada... zero... (see what I mean). Aargh!
Allegedly, the perfect way to snap out of a state of somnolence is to find direction... hence, I hereby announce the launch of Mission Mehbooba... get 3.64 inches off my waist or perish in the attempt.

Ooh... thought! Umm!

Thursday, April 23, 2009


I’ve always been a decisive sort of person professionally… the obsessive kinds with a twenty-three year plan (A, B, C and fallback). On a personal level, I’m a mess… I should have been born a decade earlier… then I wouldn’t have to explain why I have an unexplainable affinity towards disco heels, Top Gun theme, Fifth Element and Independence Day, George Michael (yes… I do… deal), the Beanstalk logo, Maurier, Gericault, bubble wrap and high-rises.

And then there’s the fact that I can never shop for anything for myself… and when I do buy stuff for myself, ten minutes out of the store and I already hate what I bought. I could pretend I like something except image consultants are so darned expensive… and let’s face it, until I take over the world, I remain the proletariat. But then, how long can they restrain greatness? I shall bide my time… and meanwhile have disastrous wardrobe days thrice a week.

This is also why I shall be looking like an underage-wannabe-pink-cinderella-in-a-vague-semblance-of-an-evening-dress-thingummy for my farewell.

At least I am passing out of the Uni. And the food’s free.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Loose Ends

Having them - a second disc that doesn't work... last few pages of a book torn... case briefs I work on and can't attend... ad nauseum.

Being at one - nowhere to go... nothing to do... staring at the ceiling fan and attendant chandelier-cobwebs... very whatever, if you know what I mean.

I don't know if I'd rather be braindead of boredom or have panic attacks due to impending change. I don't know what I am now.

Someone please tell me it's just hormones and will soon pass.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Epitaph to Mrs. Amos Pinchot

What are those dime-a-dozen and loopy-rhyming thingummies called Hans? Not sonnets… too mellow. Jingles? No… they’re sung, aren’t they. Not ballads… so intensely prosaic. And limericks, everyone knows, are too short and hardly subtle. Something sillier. Ah… doggerels… that’s the word.

Here it is then… a doggerel… called nothing… inspired from a property law class (hence, you’re not expected to understand)… I’ve always found ennui exceedingly conducive to the Muse.

There was once a man
With a woman next door –
Who had moved in three months back
And they’d never met before.

But as often happens
In cases such as this,
Non-acquaintance didn’t stop them
They often shared a kiss.

Then within a month
Of such last shared kiss,
The lady had a baby
And said that it was his.

The enterprising lady then
Took to court this man,
Poor fellow, he panicked
And to his lawyer he ran.

The lawyer was a huge comfort:
“Suit’ll be dismissed with cost…
Babies aren’t born in four months”
But – goodness! The man lost!

He was declared the father
Made liable for the maintenance
The judge was asked to explain
It just didn’t make sense.

Said the judge: “Family law isn’t my game,
For me, negotiable instrument is much clearer,
And there the principle is my friend,
The instrument belongs to the last bearer.”

P.S. Knock thrice if you understood. It’s easier to aim if the quarry makes a sound