Life, Love and Assimilation

The Fourth Decade

2011-11-20T16:42:00.002+01:00

Is there a term to describe an abandoned blog? Perhaps it entered the vernacular a few years ago and has now become obsolete because everyone already knows that the cool kids don’t blog anymore. Even so, it saddens me that my blogging frequency has dwindled from 1 post a week to 1 post a year. It used to be a place in which I could voice my anger and disappointment, trumpet my triumphs and lament my failures. Here, I could write outside of my ‘writer mode’. Some posts were tooled together in seconds, others took a bit more thought.

Today’s post was prompted by a few different things: first, a reader’s email about a specific post which led me here and made me realise that I have blogged only once this year; second, the customary end-of-year review most people do, be it on a blog, on paper or in their heads; and third, the fact that it’s the third anniversary of my 27th birthday next year (yes, I’m turning 30).

With any sort of milestone birthday comes a certain level of self-criticism. As with anyone, my 20s were some of the best and some of the worst years of my life. There was everything from marriage and divorce to disownment and bereavement, one that still echoes almost five years on. This year – despite my name trending on Twitter for all the wrong reasons – has been relatively drama-free. My family has finally found some semblance of balance; my job, though stressful, allows me a living from something I love; and I have managed to tick off most of this year’s ‘to-do’ list (unofficially I’m allowed to leave one item unticked). Learning the new things on my list has been more fun than I had hoped. I’ve always preferred mental-based learning but this year I started horseriding and also learnt to ride a bike (yes, at 29) with the help of a very patient friend.

The prospect of turning 30 is scary. When I was 17, age 27 seemed old but when I got there, I still felt young. Now that I’m on the cusp of my fourth decade, I actually feel old. I don’t know what next year’s list will hold yet, but I think the key is to learn about things that make you feel ignorant and do things that make you feel silly. And in the spirit of this philosophy, here’s me after 40 minutes of feeling very, very silly indeed:

On to the next.

Kia

Snippet

2011-10-20T08:23:00.002+01:00

Kia: Is it okay if I run in my North Face or will I get too hot?

Friend: It's fine. Just take it off if you get too sweaty.

Kia: But I don't want to sweat in my North Face!

Friend: What? But that's the whole point.

Kia: No, the whole point is to look like the kind of person who sweats in a North Face!

In Pursuit of Happiness

2010-12-31T03:54:00.011+01:00

I should probably be heading to bed but I wanted to write one more entry before the year is out. It's that time of year when people start evaluating their lives and thinking about the year ahead. In 2008, I made a to-do list for the next year to roughly complement my 'life to-do list'. It felt good to cross off all the items (ok, most but let's face it, I was never going to get fit). I made no such list at the end of 2009.

My life had just begun to settle down after the acrimonious breakdown of my marriage. I moved back to East London to be closer to family but things were a little scary for a while. All my money was tied up in the house I left behind – and the ex-husband refused to sell. Eventually I sold my half to him at a 25% loss because I just wanted to move on. I moved into a pretty flat that had a second room for my study, got a new job and published my second book that year. I kinda felt that I owed myself some downtime, hence there were no plans for 2010. The concept of making plans and setting goals made me think about the meaning of happiness and its complete capriciousness.

Humans are forever in pursuit of happiness but it is always transient. No-one is ever in a permanent state of happiness – it comes and goes in fits and starts. You may feel generally content as I did for some of 2009 and most of 2010 but true happiness never lasts. You might have a great job, the perfect partner, a beautiful home and wonderful friends and family, but you can still feel a great degree of unhappiness on a day-to-day basis.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we should stop worrying if things aren't perfect. That is not to say we shouldn't make plans and have goals, or try to steer the course of our lives, but we should accept that we will never achieve a state of perpetual happiness. A writer friend put it well when he said "when you get there, there is no there there". Having everything you want can feel very similar to when you had a mere fraction.

So, my friends, as another year draws to a close, make your plans and set your goals as I have done below but enjoy happiness when it comes because there's no guarantee that it will visit you again this year or the next, even if you tick off every item on every one of your lists.

2011

~~Visit two countries I haven't seen (22/04/11)~~
~~Complete an intermediate Spanish class (07/07/11)~~
~~Learn to ride a bicycle (11/09/11)~~
~~Learn to ride a horse (23/10/11)~~

~~Start writing the third book (24/12/11)~~
Go fishing for the first time
Oh, and get fit ;)

Happy New Year. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.

Kia

Nightcrawlers

2010-12-23T16:46:00.001+01:00

This summer I wrote a column about a new practice I’d like to see implemented across the streets of London. It specified that you shouldn’t approach a lone female stranger on the street after 10.30pm. You don’t ask for her number. You don’t ask her the time. You don’t ask her where the local cash machine is. You don’t ask her anything – apart from maybe where the nearest hospital is because your appendix has burst.

I wrote it after taking the last train home and being followed out of the tube station. To cut a long story short, I first noticed the man on the train platform after he walked past me several times. Later, on the train, I overheard a phone conversation in which he said he would be arriving at his stop in 10 minutes. When he exited the train at my stop instead of his (which was two stops after mine), I straggled so that he would overtake me. He didn’t. He followed me out of the station and walked behind me for a short while. When he saw that I was approaching a taxi rank, he stepped in my path.

“Excuse me, I think–” was all I caught before I sidestepped him and dashed into a taxi. I don’t care if the end of that sentence was “you’ve dropped your winning lottery ticket or “you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen” or “I need some help”, you just don’t follow a woman like that. What would have happened if I wasn’t taking a taxi? Would he have followed me home before saying what he had to say? The episode angered me more than it scared me but it did make me wonder what was going through his head.

I was reminded of the incident by Hannah Pool’s article in today’s Guardian. In it she describes how she faces street harassment on a weekly basis, and makes a case for better prevention and protection measures.

Predictably, several people trivialised her article with comments like “Look at the way young women dress and present themselves… If you set out your stall, you get customers", a sarcastic “You seem like a lot of fun”, a simplistic “A polite no thanks might be the best answer”.

I don’t know if these commenters were being facetious, deliberately obtuse or if they genuinely believe that Hannah is being a ‘spoilsport’ – I’m baffled either way.

I’m the first to admit that certain types of attention can be flattering. A couple of years ago I described it in terms of Class A and Class B men, the former being those who approach you in a polite, sweet and complimentary way, and the latter being the w*nkers who behave threateningly or abusively. I don’t think the two should be confused.

I don’t encounter Class B men anywhere near as often as weekly but when I do, it leaves me deeply angry and disturbed. I still remember my worst encounters even though two of them happened over ten years ago. Frequency is almost moot – the fact that it happens at all justifies Hannah’s article.

I’m not quite sure what can be done about this behavior though. We are told that women need to speak up but at what cost? Do we risk provoking the perpetrators? Do we report the incident to the Police? Do we ignore it and walk away where possible? Websites such as Hollaback UK and ASH's (the UK Anti-Street Harassment Campaign) Harassment Map allow people to share their stories but while this may help us feel better, what tangible change will it effect?

ASH also campaigns for social education via the media, local authorities, schools and the Police. There are several ways to get involved but my favourite is its community art project that aims to highlight the issue of street harassment. It may not change the behavior of Class B men any time soon but it’s a great way to start tackling the issue. Get involved here.

Late Expectations

2010-11-17T13:50:00.002+01:00

A female friend recently tweeted the following: ‘Work colleague has just come back fuming from a first date where they went dutch. Should the man always pay?’

I replied with: ‘On first date - yes! The woman should offer but the man should insist.’

A few days later, a male friend tweeted: ‘This morning I learn that an engagement ring should be worth twice the groom’s [monthly] salary. Never been told this before.’

I tweeted that it would have to be at least a carat (a clean well-cut one), that I was a size H and I liked Hearts on Fire in case he wanted to pick me something up too.

I realised that this made me seem much more high-maintenance than I am in ‘real life’, whether you’re talking about my beauty routine, spending habits or expectations in a relationship. As I said in this piece, I use £3 moisturiser from Tesco and would rather spend £400 on a holiday than a Mulberry bag. My 'life to-do list' is relatively non-materialistic, and I have never expected a man to pay for anything other than the first date. This last point, however, has made me wonder if I’m being naive.

I remember how my first ex-boyfriend told me that he was amazed I paid for half our dates throughout our 4-year relationship and that he would have been more than happy to take care of everything. "You can pay for our dinners for the next 4 years," I joked, but seriously I wondered if my feminist principles were somewhat misplaced.

I think singer Mariah Carey summed it up well when asked if it was true that she insisted on paying for half her first marital home (a sprawling mansion) out of principle. "Oh yeah," she said drily. "Quite the silly little girl, I was."

I guess my insistence on paying my way is linked to the Superwoman Complex (i.e. the aggressive fight to prove one’s independence), which makes me a silly little girl rather than an independent young woman.

Perhaps my expectations should be higher. I understand that this is selective feminism (we want equality but, hey, can you pay for dinner?) but if a man wants to pay, then why shouldn’t the woman let him? I know plenty of men that are traditional at heart. They encourage their wives to work but, ultimately, they see it as their responsibility to look after the family financially. I get that. Am I being regressive simply because I get that? Is it okay to expect the man to pay majority of the time or should I continue stamping my feet and crying independence like I have been all my adult life?

I do wonder if this debate is still relevant – whether couples don’t just fall into a natural rhythm anyway – but the polarised reactions to my friend’s original tweet proved that there is still a lot to be figured out.

Snippet

2010-10-05T19:43:00.002+01:00

Kia: Is 12.30pm too early? We could meet at Canary Wharf, have lunch at Carluccio's and then walk over to West India Quay for a movie? Buried is on at 2.30pm. The trailer/premise is terrible but it's got good reviews.

Friend: Sure, but it all seems a bit disorganised... Could you put into an Excel doc and email it over to my PA? I'll discuss it with the board and see if it's workable. Have you got any 2009 data that will support this?

Kia: Ok, point taken.

Private Eye

2010-09-17T15:48:00.001+01:00

I’m a teensy bit under the weather today so am using that as an excuse to spend (waste) some time on Twitter. I found a link to a really interesting blog entry: Flickr Perversion by Dr Alec Couros (via @labnol and @mathewi). In short, it describes how pictures of Alec’s four year old daughter were ‘favourited’ by a person whose account linked to pages and pages of pictures of semi-clothed pre-teen girls. If you have a look at the screen grabs, you’ll get an idea of what the images were like.

My first reaction was: ‘That’s disgusting’. My second reaction was: ‘What the hell is he doing posting public pictures of his kids online?’ He explains that he is a bit of an idealist, likes to live his life openly and believes in the greater good of people. I wasn’t convinced – but was I being hypocritical?

I never have posted and never will post pictures of my nieces and nephews in public but my personal Facebook page has plenty. I justify this by the fact that I’m not publicly searchable and that I only add people I know.

Right now, I have 170 friend requests. While I’m sure these are from lovely, normal people – some of whom are readers I deeply value – I don’t really know them and I don’t want to give them access to my personal account with or without customised privacy settings. I share a fair amount anyway via this blog and Twitter and my public Facebook page; the personal account is where I can interact with my family and friends without exposing them to the dangers of the ‘Flickr Perversion’ mentioned above. But is that protection strong enough? Should you ever post pictures of your children or any child publicly or privately? Is the parents’ permission enough? What about the child’s right to veto a picture? Do you know if you even own those pictures anymore?

If I’m honest, I think taking a hard-line approach to this isn’t the right way. I’ve had some fantastic times with the kids in my family and I want to share that – but where do the boundaries lie? Should there be some guidelines about this sort of thing or are we swaying into nanny-state area?

Snippet

2010-09-17T15:30:00.022+01:00

Little sister: I feel all grown up and responsible. I record delivered that letter.

Kia: Lol. You can call yourself grown up and responsible the day you graduate.

Sis: The day I have a kid Ill call myself responsible – not right now.

Kia: How about the day you learn to use apostrophes?

All Animals Are Equal

2010-08-26T21:10:00.001+01:00

A couple of weeks ago, as A-level students began their scramble for the last university places, I read a statistic that made me want to weep: last year, of 80,000 children who were eligible for free school meals (i.e. the very poorest kids in the country), only 45 got to Oxford or Cambridge (less than 0.06%).

I’ve read disheartening statistics before (e.g. that Oxbridge gets over half of its students from the privately educated 7% of the population or that the 70th brightest pupil at Westminster or Eton is as likely to get a place at Oxbridge as the very brightest pupil at a comprehensive) but this statistic in particular just made me want to weep.

I would like to meet those 45 kids and shake their hands and tell them how incredible they are. You see, I was one of the kids who got free school meals; who got vouchers to buy their uniform; who wore a hand-me-down coat for six years running. I never thought of myself as a child who grew up in poverty – I still don’t – but some of the markers indicate that I did. It doesn’t really matter either way because I had a family I loved (for the most part), and I had ambition and smarts.

I’ve banged on about those smarts before but I’ve also admitted my regret in not aiming higher. Say what you want about Oxbridge and its alumni, there’s no denying that few UK universities can compare when it comes to future prospects (I won’t go into more stats but some relevant ones can be found here - pdf).

I’m not one of those bleeding hearts that think every poor kid should get a university education. It’s not for everybody and, as Aditya Chakrabortty explains in this piece, it can actually turn out to be pretty useless. I DO, however, think that there were more than 45 kids in that 80,000 that could have/would have/should have gone to Oxbridge.

These kids are being failed – by teachers, parents and politicians. They’re being failed by the system. We need a way to help the ones with potential. I’ve always believed that intelligence is more to do with nature than nurture. Either way, I don’t think it’s difficult to identify those with the most potential.

Take my nieces and nephews for example. There are 16 of them and I can identify the brightest two very easily (sorry sisters, I’m not saying which ones). I would like to pick out these two and help develop their ability. I know what you’re thinking: it’s unfair on the others and as divisive as the current system. That may be somewhat true but it’s not the majority that I’m heartbroken over; it’s the ones that can really make it but never do. They don’t constitute anywhere near 80,000 I’m sure but, for fuck’s sake, there’s got to be more than 45.

Snippet

2010-07-16T02:25:00.008+01:00

*Me and a friend watching David Cameron talk about Raoul Moat*

F: Apparently there's a Facebook page with loads of people supporting him.
Kia: What!? What the hell for?
F: I don't know, they just are.
Kia: It must be fake.
F: But people are using their real names.
Kia: And it's in SUPPORT of him? But why?
F: Because people like gangsters.
Kia: But why do they think that?? Because of the budget?
F: *Long pause* I'm talking about MOAT.
Kia: Oh. Now It makes sense.

('Snippet' idea stolen from Radioshak)

A (Not So) Suitable Boy

2010-07-07T18:42:00.003+01:00

When do you know that the person you are with is not ‘the one’? And, more importantly, what do you do about it?

I think I realised mere months into my relationship with my now ex-husband. In fact, I remember the exact day. It was five years ago today. Four bombs had gone off across London and our beloved city lay frozen in disbelief.

The ‘sign’ was utterly trivial compared with everything else that happened that day, but it had an impact nonetheless: At the end of the working day, the man I was with didn’t make his way to me despite working minutes away in the City. He didn’t ask to walk me home despite living on the same street I did. In times like that, you reach out to the people closest to you, but there I was, picking my way through city streets – crowded but alone.

We married three years later after one ‘break’ and four other ‘signs’ that I ignored; small infractions with deep implications. To guard against those implications, I trained myself to be as indifferent towards him as he sometimes was towards me. And it worked – for a while. I convinced myself that companionship and stability were apt substitutes for real passion, real love, but illusions never last. And so the cracks began to appear. I started to spend more and more time alone, upstairs in my study while he caught up with work in front of the TV. The cracks eventually gave way to a river of distance – one neither of us knew how to cross.

The first time I found an incriminating message to another woman, I didn’t quite believe it. He was one of the good guys, you know? The sensible, respectable Ronan Keating type. Now I know that innocent faces are often the most deceitful of all. I ended it as soon as I was sure he was being unfaithful. He tried lying, begging, crying to keep our charade intact, presumably to 'save face’, but my shock and disgust were tinged with a tiny wisp of relief. I didn’t have to spend the rest of my life with someone that didn’t want me unequivocally – and so I left.

I once read that infidelity is not about ugly or beautiful, stupid or smart, boring or charming; it’s about old and new. While that soothed my wounded ego, I think it was more a question of right and wrong. We were never right for each other, but we were too cowardly to admit it.

The thing is, I’m not convinced that people who are right for each other are immune to infidelity. It’s why I refuse friends’ offers to matchmake. It’s why I’ve been apprehensive about dating since the break-up a year ago. I can’t be with someone I don’t trust. I have never been, nor do I want to be, the type of girl that feels the need to check text messages and emails or constantly question her partner’s whereabouts. Until I’m sure I won’t turn into that girl, I will happily stay single.

Some have questioned whether I’m truly happy alone. The truth is, being with someone you love is better than being single, but being single is infinitely better than being with the wrong person. So many people stay in relationships simply because they’re comfortable with the status quo, or because they’re scared of hurting the other person, or because they’re scared of being alone. I went through a lot of trauma because of my ex’s unfaithfulness, but at the end of the day, I’m glad my hand was forced. You see, cowardice is an easy option and I may just have stayed comfortably numb forever.

Sisters in Arms

2010-06-11T02:25:00.004+01:00

A few days ago, I watched The Godfather for the umpteenth time. I’ve always loved gangster films; Goodfellas, A Bronx Tale, Carlito’s Way, The Untouchables, Scarface and possibly Donnie Brasco are some of my favourite movies of all time. The blood, violence and loose morality of our anti-heroes have never bothered me – in fact, I think they’re necessary to the genre. I watched the horse’s head scene, the restaurant scene and the Luca Brasi strangulation scene without blinking an eye as usual, but there was one scene that made me flinch this time: As Carlo whipped Connie with his belt, chased her into the bathroom and then beat her as she screamed for mercy, I started to cry. It was probably partly to do with the Fallen Soldier syndrome (i.e. becoming more sensitive/emotionally weak after the loss of a loved one), but it was also partly to do with memories of my childhood.

The ‘Images’ page on the main site mentions that I grew up in a violent household with a drug addict brother, but I’ve never really spoken about it on the blog. I don’t want to exaggerate the situation; the actual violence wasn’t frequent (depending on what you define as ‘frequent’). It possibly happened 5-6 times a year and usually to one of my less headstrong sisters who wouldn’t defend themselves as carelessly as I would. It was the weekly threats and screaming matches that were worse; the smashed plates and broken furniture when he couldn’t get a fix; the knowledge that my parents would continue to support his habit with money they couldn’t afford so he wouldn’t flare up. It was the anger at their inaction and the feeling of total instability and insecurity. It was having to lock my bedroom door every time I went to the bathroom so that my money, phone, books, shoes, clothes, underwear wouldn’t go missing, peddled for pennies or maybe a few pounds where possible.

Life is difficult in that type of situation, yes, but I don’t think we realised the severity of what was happening. Despite having to call the police to our home several times every year, for us, it was just par for the course. It was getting up and going to school and coming home and getting through the day, and then doing it all over again. And so it went for years and years. Only now I look back and realise that it was an unacceptable environment to raise children in. What breaks my heart is that this is happening all over Tower Hamlets. I got out. Most of my sisters did too. But my mother still spends part of her weekly state pension supporting his habit, same as mothers all over the borough; mothers who can’t or won’t let go of sons who have been hopeless for almost two decades. Perhaps that’s what mothers are meant to do. Perhaps that’s why I never want to become one.

The one thing that helped me survive was my sisters’ presence. The eldest two left home after marriage, but the three of us in the middle bore the worst years together. I was usually the one who spoke out, unable to bite the tongue that has got me into much trouble over the years, but I couldn’t have been strong without them. My youngest sister is still at home. I tell her I know how she feels, but, more than fear or anger, I know she feels abandonment. And it’s true. We all abandoned that house the first chance we got.

Today, I live alone and I’m happy. Or, at least, happier than I used to be.

The dedication in my second book says:

For my sisters, five of the strongest, most beautiful
women I know.

And I mean it. They truly are the strongest women I know. And I’m more thankful for them than anything else in my life.

Right, it’s 2.30am now – I can be forgiven for a bit of soppiness, alright?

Goodnight x

Fair Share

2010-02-11T19:36:00.002+01:00

In the last seven days, I’ve told complete strangers the following seven things:

I’m nursing a celebrity crush on Michael Bublé
I hate flying American Airlines
I watched Shahrukh Khan’s interview on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross
I have Facebook friends in common with Salman Rushdie and Hanif Kureishi
I eat a lot of pizza
Where I was on Saturday morning
Did I mention the crush on Michael Bublé? (Don’t laugh. I haven’t felt his way since Jordan Knight.)

These things are all pretty general and inane, I’m sure you’ll agree, but go back a bit further and you’ll see that I’ve also told strangers about the bitter consequences of having an arranged marriage, the utter naiveté with which I entered my second marriage, my less-than-perfect relationship with my mother, and, the most affecting of all, my father’s death in 2007 and what I felt in the years after.

I guess that kind of explains why a few people I’ve been introduced to in the past have said “I feel like I know you.” Some of them will have read my first book, others will have developed an idea from my blog and articles. This is flattering on one hand, but disconcerting on the other. Invariably, people will probe further, using my candour as some sort of license to demand an explanation as to why a “bright, modern, intelligent girl like [me] would ever agree to an arranged marriage”. (That one was at a dinner party a few months ago.)

I always take it in good humour. At the end of the day, if you’re sending personal information out into the ether, you can expect a little curiosity in return. However, a recent post by the wonderful Nathan Bransford got me thinking about the line between an author’s personal and professional online presences. I wondered if I was oversharing, but, having thought about it, I realised that this blog has always been a personal thing. It was never set up to sell books or gain exposure (especially since I was giving books away for free at the start); it was a way for me to share my thoughts, experiences and frustrations – just a tiny piece of the internet that belonged to me. I don’t deny that I’ve used it occasionally to push the books, but overall, I leave the commercial stuff to Facebook, Twitter and, of course, the official site.

So, for me, the blog isn’t a question of "How much personal information should this author share here?" but "How much professional information should this person share here?" I like my blog the way it is. Yes, I share personal information, but, for me, that’s kinda the whole point.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

2010-02-05T02:09:00.005+01:00

Things change after you lose someone close to you. For a while, the change is big and dramatic. You wake up every day and you feel the loss echoing through your chest. Your movements seem slower, your regrets cut deeper. But as time passes, life slowly begins to resemble normality again. First you find that you can get through the day with dry eyes. Slowly, you stop crumbling when people say ‘I’m sorry’. Eventually, you remember how to smile again. For some, this happens within days; for others, months – maybe years.

You think you’re doing okay because those big, dramatic changes have slowly drifted away. But then something subtle will bite you so hard, it leaves you breathless. It can be an old man with a beard like your father had or the old Dunhill catalogue you kept because it was the last piece of post addressed to him. It can be something more obvious like the birth of a nephew that will never know his amazing grandfather, or opening a closet in your old home and realising your mother still hasn't packed away shirts and jackets three years after your father's death. It can even be something bizarre like a blue alien daughter losing her blue alien father on a 3D screen in a darkened movie theatre. Those moments, those quiet, subtle, everyday moments, are when the loss cuts deepest, when you realise you didn’t say enough, didn’t do enough.

We all complain about our families, but we can also tell the difference between a ‘normal’ dysfunctional family and one that’s simply not worth knowing. Chances are, those of us in the former group don’t see our families as much as we should. Or, if we do, we don’t tell them we love them as often as we should.

I grew up in a conservative Asian family. I get that ‘I love yous’ don’t tally with tradition, decorum and etiquette. I get that love is unspoken and often takes second place to respect. I get that Asalaam Alaikum is more appropriate than a hug or a kiss. I even get that some people are better loved from afar.

But that understanding, however complete, fails to help in those breathless moments; moments where regret feels like a spider in your veins, crawling through the very fabric of your being. In those moments, you wish you had expressed your love, by words or by actions. In those moments, you wish you had spent more time, called more often, made an effort. That’s the funny thing about time. Yes, it lasts forever, but it leaves everyone behind.

Do I really need to tell you what you should do now?

Child's Play Extract

2009-12-31T00:18:00.006+01:00

Chapters 1 and 2 of my amazing*, wonderful*, fantastic* and sexy psychological crime thriller Child's Play are now available below so if you haven't got a copy yet (grr), have a read and see if it helps convince you to buy the book.

In the mean time, I hope you have a fantastic New Year. I'll be blogging more frequently in the coming months so please don't give up on me (if you haven't already).

Kia

* Slightly biased opinion.

Unbroken

2009-09-22T22:18:00.001+01:00

“I wish I was as strong as you,” my friend laments, stirring her coffee wistfully. “Look at me – mine did it twice and still I stayed but you– you were straight out.”

She is, of course, talking about her husband who was unfaithful. Twice. Unlike mine. Who was unfaithful once (or not depending on who you believe*).

But she’s right – I was straight out. I wasn’t interested in recriminations or mediation or denials and accusations. I was straight out. Because when someone as neurotic, distant and emotionally claustrophobic as me lets you in, you damn well better not expect forgiveness when you screw up. We don’t do forgiveness. We do bitterness, resentment, anger and a whole host of other less-than-charming things. But we don’t do forgiveness.

And so to a late afternoon gathering with a close friend in Costa Coffee, where she continually expresses amazement at how strong I am; a sentiment echoed by all the friends that have learnt of this latest unravelling in my life.

And it’s strange because, even though I like to think that I am indeed a strong person, I don’t think I’ve ever stopped to think what strength actually is. Is it being able to exist without financial and emotional dependence? Is it as facile as ‘not crying’? Is it not feeling the need to weep to the friends you confide in?

One says it’s “not giving up”, but what does that mean? Not giving up what? Your job? Your social life? Your will to live? I mean, people go through all sorts – bereavement, abuse, crime – and they experience all sorts of consequences – depression, apathy, fear, loneliness, sadness – and they survive. So are they strong only once they have stopped feeling those emotions or are they deemed to be so regardless of how they react simply because of what happened in the first place?

What I mean is, if I was crying every day and weeping and feeling lonely and depressed, would I still be strong? Is the mere fact that I’m still here enough to warrant that label or do I have to be as focused, determined and normal as I ever was to earn it?

* Yes, I can hear Ross Geller whispering “Whom, whom”.

The Monstrosity

2009-07-30T13:01:00.001+01:00

I need to rant. I’ve ranted in my head and at my publishers and to my best friends and to pretty much anyone I’ve had face time with in the last three days and I’m still not ranted-out. So, dear reader, I am now ranting to you.

So you spend a year writing 95,000 words, which you hope form some sort of cohesion. You spend another half a year editing it. And then editing it again. And a little more. And then a bit more. And you’re almost on the home strait. You have a week to finish your final touches before the first typescript is set.

Being the ultra-organised control freak you are, you already had a vision for the cover from day one and you get an image shot and put together a cover suggestion and send it to your publishers. It looks something like this, which I’m going to insist is a gorgeous image and a gorgeous cover. The publishers say they like the image but come back to you with an adjusted cover. You’re horrified and, as a way of compromising, say you’re willing to change the cover to this, which, though perhaps not as striking as your first choice, still kinda works.

Your publishers insist that their cover is better even though the image is off-centre, the font is ugly and there are pastels. PASTELS. You can’t help but moan about it so they feel compelled to call you up. They explain that every design decision has been thought out and has a specific reasoning; that the cover isn’t the 5-minute Microsoft Word knock-up you’ve accused them of. That the version you want is too stark and “cynical”, that their cover is kitsch and quirky and makes it obvious that the book is a thriller rather than a misery memoir.

I moan and bitch and whine and rant and beg, but to no avail. And I hate my publishers just a little bit. Don’t get me wrong, I love the company and the people and the ethos, but I HATE MY COVER. I HATE HATE HATE it. I think it looks like something that’s been created by a Year 7 student for a book project. I LOATHE it. And, yes, it’s unprofessional to talk about it but, hell, so was giving my book away in the early days.

And to prove my point, here is THE MONSTROSITY.

I know there’s the bullshit about not judging a book by its cover, but, please, who doesn’t? I feel really disheartened because after working on a book for so long, you really want something you can be proud of. I’ve always said that I don’t care about the commercial side as much as I should (and I don’t, despite vowing to start). What’s more important to me is a quality product that makes me proud. And this cover just makes me sag. I’ve tried to convince myself that it works in a kitsch, throwback-to-old-Hollywood-movie-posters-like-The-Thing kind of way but it’s not working its mojo.

So, yes, I hate it.

But I’ll get over it. I’ve decided that it’s going to take me roughly two years to get over it. But I will. Until then, please, please, PLEASE don’t judge a book by its cover.

Kia

PS. I mean, come on, look at this. HOW is the monstrosity better?

Five by Five

2009-06-02T16:18:00.002+01:00

We all have problems, right? Some of us are riddled with neuroses, others with egotism. Some of us feel a need to be needed; others feel suffocated by the very same thing. Some hunger love and intimacy while others are ensconced in so many layers of protection, that no-one can ever really touch us again. Most of us recognise our problems. We may even know the reasons behind our various maladies, but how many of us have contemplated them to any meaningful degree?

No, I haven’t been reading bad philosophy – just bear with me. Basically, having pretty much finished my book (due for release in December), I realised that I had had enough of my main character. I cared for her (in the pretentious way writers care about their characters) but I didn’t want to think about her problems anymore (of which she has many). When thinking about this, I realised that it’s a good way to build characters for my next novel; writing down, say, five things that shaped that particular character. They could be bad things or good things; they could be things that equipped the character with strength and ability, or that crippled them with fears and insecurities. They can be random or subtle or violent and tragic or epic or sweet or all of those things. I just have to know what they are and use them to build my characters’ personalities.

This, of course, got me thinking about the five things that shaped me the most. Some are random, some are nice, some are awful, some are ordinary – all are a part of the strange, sprawling mess that life can sometimes feel like. Maybe I’ll list my five in the next entry, but for now, I’d like to hear about you. Can you think of five things that have shaped you as a person? Are they good or bad? How have they affected you? Would you change any of them? Does thinking about them help or hurt, or a bit of both? Would writing about them and sharing them be terrifying or cathartic? If the latter, would you be willing to do so here, even if it’s under ‘Anonymous’? What about if you can’t or couldn’t think of five things? Would you count yourself lucky or just inexperienced? In short, what five things have made you, you?

Scales of Indifference

2009-04-14T21:46:00.009+01:00

There is a wide and varied range of things that piss me off. I hate it when people walk slowly in front of me or blow smoke in my face or when friends are late more than five minutes or when they steal chips off my plate. I hate it when the heel of a shoe wears out while the rest is still brand new. I hate it when publications pay me late and expect me to accept it as par for the course. I hate it when I hear stories about 53-year-old film stars in steamy clinches with women who are not their wife of 28 years (*cough* Mel Gibson *cough*). But more than all of that, I hate it when skinny girls moan about being fat.

It’s exasperating when a size six nothing pinches her almost non-existent waist and gasps in horror at the amount of fat she’s managed to amass between her emaciated fingers (I used to work for a fashion mag – believe me, it happens). I know how stupid and superficial it is so please, please bear with me while I, er, moan about getting fat.

Before I start, I’ll just say that if you’re a new reader who’s landed on this blog and is reading this post, I totally forgive you for casting me aside as a vacuous airhead.

Right, now that all the disclaimers are out of the way, I can start.

As I’ve mentioned in a couple of previous posts, I’ve always been able to eat like a pig and not put on an ounce of weight. And I do. I mean, I eat chips and crisps and chocolate and cakes and pastries and burgers and fritters and waffles and pancakes and popcorn and nachos and pizza and ice cream and... well, the list goes on. I have always loved food and, proportionately for my body size (and usually even in absolute terms), can out-eat most of my friends (male and female). So, no, food and weight have never been issues, but as I said in one of my previously linked posts, I’ve always suspected that my metabolism will catch up with me (or, er, the opposite so to speak) when I’m 26.

Now, for the first half year of being 26, I was all good but then, in December of last year, I went on the pill (after marriage, mind) and oh, how it’s gone downhill from there. I’ve put on about 5-7 pounds (making that 7 stones and 5 pounds on a 5'2" frame) and, no, it doesn’t exactly make me clinically obese but I can really feel it. I now understand that all my sneering and smirking at the salad-munchers and gymrats was completely misplaced. Yes, some women are delusional when they think they’re putting on weight, but I now realise that even a few pounds worth of weight gain can have an effect on a person. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly hiding behind the duvet, wrapped up in shame and embarrassment but I can feel the extra weight and it’s not pleasant.

It’s great to be carefree about food – it can even give you an attractive edge – but when that translates into superiority over those who have to watch their weight, it turns a natural advantage into something quite nasty. So next time a friend passes up on that decadent dessert, please don’t roll your eyes like I used to you – have a bit of understanding.

I’m determined to lose the extra weight but I won’t find it easy to change my eating habits. I’ve been told that weight gain due to the pill peters out but, after four months, it still hasn’t. I may actually have to start exercising (gasp!). In the mean time, just to prove that I’m not delusional, I've linked to some pictures below. I’m doing this despite extreme reservations. After all, if people disagree, they’re clearly being patronising and if they agree, well, that just means I really am getting fat. Hmph.

*EDIT*: A friend has very helpfully sent me this.

The Small Things

2009-04-08T12:02:00.002+01:00

I watched ‘Crash’ (Matt Dillon, not James Spader) for the first time the other day. It’s a film about racial tensions in LA, and was touching, poignant, subtle and sweet; one of the best films I’ve seen in a while. It made me think of the small things that affect foreigners and immigrants. You see, people don’t need the word ‘Paki’ blared at them to make them feel bad; it’s the smaller, subtler things that can make them feel like crap.

I remember being on the DLR a few years ago and this Bengali man was asking the DLR officer for some help with directions. The DLR guy couldn’t understand the man’s accent. After a few seconds, he huffed and said impatiently, “I don’t understand what you’re saying – sorry,” and just turned away. The Bengali man, chastened, simply stood there with downcast eyes, saying nothing further. I couldn’t quite believe it. I stood and, in Bengali, asked him where he wanted to go. Now, I admit that even I had trouble understanding him but the point is, I persevered. I figured out that he wanted to go to Morden. As we were on the DLR headed from Bank towards Limehouse (lovely Limehouse where I used to live... sob), I told him he needed to get off now (at Shadwell) and take the train in the opposite direction. I told him the train goes no further than the next stop where he needs to get off and catch the Northern Line. I was worried that he wouldn’t be able to find his way to the right platform so I told him to ask another person to point him in the right direction when he got to Bank.

After he left, I realised that I should have written down ‘Morden’ for him on a piece of paper because, most likely, the person he asks at the other end would just shrug and say, “I don’t understand what you’re saying – sorry”. It mays sound strange, but over the past few years, I’ve often thought about that man and felt really sad.

There are people who struggle with language and life every single day. Yes, people should make an effort to learn the language of their land (that should apply as much to British ex-pats in, say, Dubai as to Bengali immigrants in the UK) but in the interim, imagine the sense of disorientation, embarrassment and even fear they feel on a daily basis. When they can’t get from A to B without having to ask for assistance, and consequently feeling ridiculed for the way they speak, well, that's pretty sad, right?

Anyway, sorry – that’s enough melancholy for one day. I don’t know why I’m thinking sad thoughts when the sun is so bright outside. ‘Til next time.

Playing Favourite

2009-02-08T23:29:00.007+01:00

Despite reading some pretty bad reviews, I went to see
He’s Just Not That Into You today. I actually thought it was really funny and laughed out loud quite a few times. There were also some sad bits.

There’s one scene where Kris Kristofferson’s character tells Beth (Jennifer Aniston) that she’s his favourite daughter (even though he isn't meant to have one). It made me smile because I’ve always maintained that I was my father’s favourite daughter (even though he wasn't meant to have one). I remembered one occasion where my youngest sister, probably about 14 or 15 at the time, text herself from my dad’s phone with simply “To my favourite daughter” and then presented it to me as irrefutable evidence that it was actually her (and not me) that was his favourite. It made me laugh at the time and I laughed again as I remembered it. I wanted to text her to remind her of it but I figured it would only bring back memories and upset her. It kinda upset me.

Later on in the film (and this isn’t a spoiler), Beth’s father has a heart attack. It made me dissolve into my Fallen Soldier routine which was a little bit pathetic. A couple of hours later, as I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I was still biting back tears.

I just wanted to send that into the ether so it wouldn’t keep me up tonight.

Goodnight x

BBC Gaza Appeal

2009-01-28T11:09:00.007+01:00

Up until Monday evening, I was comfortable in the assumption that the BBC’s decision not to air the DEC’s Gaza appeal was being sufficiently fought by various journalists, politicians, pundits and the public. I figured that every intelligent, non-partisan person could see that the BBC were being completely idiotic in their decision, and hence felt no need to actually do anything about it myself.

On Monday evening, however, one of my (intelligent, non-partisan) friends vehemently defended the BBC’s decision. This completely bowled me for six – as said above, I figured that any reasonable person could see that the BBC were wrong. My friend said that the Gaza crisis was “man made”; a result of a conflict rather than a natural disaster and therefore the BBC would be compromising its impartiality.

I kept crying Vietnam at him (the BBC aired the DEC’s Vietnam appeal, which read: “No politics. No boundaries. Send us money now. We'll rush your aid to the people of Vietnam”) but he maintained that the BBC’s decision was right. In addition to Vietnam, I believe the BBC has aired appeals for Darfur, Burma and Congo – all results of “man made” conflict. With that in mind, is it not hypocritical to veto the Israel/Palestine conflict?

Yes, this conflict is particularly complex but the point is, the politics shouldn’t matter in this case. The DEC appeal is purely humanitarian with no political overtones. It aims to take food, water, shelter and medical aid to children who are dying in Gaza. Humanitarian aid is inherently impartial. If anything, the BBC is compromising their impartiality anyway in wishing not to offend Israel.

A number of journalists and public figures have spoken out against the decision including Jon Snow (a personal hero) and Rageh Omar. I also give kudos to actress Samantha Morton who said she will refuse to work for the BBC again if it does not reverse its decision. Unfortunately, most BBC workers don’t have the same luxury. Many of them are reportedly furious about the decision but cannot speak out about it. I do bits and pieces of work for the BBC (e.g. I’m scheduled to guest on BBC Radio 2’s Jeremy Vine shower later today) and as a freelancer, I’m grateful for the income they provide, but I feel kind of dirty now.

At least I, unlike in-house journalists, can speak out about the decision. I truly believe that the BBC bottled it. They got it severely wrong and are stubbornly refusing to back down. I just wish I had the courage, like Tony Benn, to read out the appeal address while on air later today. In lieu, I will add my complaint to the thousands already received by the BBC. I won’t rely on other journalists and members of the public to fight the decision. I will add my voice to the dissent and I urge you to do the same:

WATCH THE APPEAL: www.guardian.co.uk/media/video/2009/jan/26/dec-gaza-appeal

DONATE TO DEC: www.dec.org.uk or call 0370 60 60 900

COMPLAIN TO THE BBC: www.bbc.co.uk/complaints

Look at me – I’m sooo clever

2009-01-20T21:11:00.004+01:00

I’ve always lived by the ‘No regrets’ dictum. I believe that things happen for a reason and that even the bad things in our lives make us stronger. One thing I have questioned a few times, however, is my choice of degree at university. I studied Computer Science at university and while it introduced me to some of my friends for life, I have wondered if I would have been better off studying something that made more sense to what I actually wanted to do, perhaps an English or Journalism degree.

Today, while cleaning up my hard drive, I stumbled across my Final Report. Fellow CS graduates will know just how much headache and stress was induced by the dreaded Final Report (the words ‘Final Report’ should actually be boomed by one of those deep, film-trailer voices instead of rendered harmlessly on your screen). Basically, we had to plan and develop an innovative piece of software during our final year at university, accompanied by (cue booming voice) the Final Report. This report had to take examiners through the planning, development and testing phases of the software. It, along with writing the software, was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in an educational or professional setting. It sapped my spare time and squeezed every grey cell in my body. Since then, nothing has challenged my intelligence, ability, discipline or tenacity in quite the same way.

For that reason alone, I don’t regret my degree choice. While I’m sure an English or Journalism degree would have been difficult, I doubt it would have challenged me in quite the same way.

Plus, this way, I can say: Behold my Final Report! Come and witness my superior intellectual capacity! I write not just measly words but transcendent code!

In short, look at me – I’m sooo clever.

(BOOMING VOICE): The Final Report

Kia

PS. For those of you who actually click on the link, I'm PROUD of my geek roots, okay?

Imperfect Love

2009-01-12T22:00:00.006+01:00

Today I cancelled a meeting with the organisers of a writers awards initiative, cancelled a meeting with a magazine editor, cancelled a ‘read more’ visit to a local school, refused a comment commission from the Guardian and fell behind on some freelance work I’m doing for Anglomania Magazine. This is all important stuff, some of which pays my bills, so I’m pretty pissed off that the flu is KICKING MY ASS.

But anyway, this isn’t meant to be a moan about being ill (though I am really ill so any sympathy is very welcome) or an exercise in self-importance (though the flu could have chosen a less important week to kick my ass), in classic tangent fashion, it’s actually about marriage, or, at least, about relationships.

Last Thursday, a friend commented that he had never been envious of anyone’s relationship, bar one couple; a couple whose marriage fell apart after the woman was unfaithful. I didn’t really give it much thought – people cheat, marriages end.

Today I read a piece in the Guardian, in which Charlie Brooker is talking about kinda-maybe-sorta wanting a wife and very astutely makes the following observation:

“In the face of love's potential destructive fury, you're left with three options:
1) Pull down the emotional shutters and try to avoid it.
2) Find someone you admire or like, rather than love, and try to make do, rendering both of you miserable in the process.
3) Throw caution to the wind and gingerly place your fragile, beating heart in the hands of another human being and hope they don't crush it in their fist for giggles.”

While reading it, I realised that I, like my friend, don’t know one couple whose relationship/marriage I envy. I don’t know one couple that makes me think, “That is what love is meant to look/feel/be like”.

Maybe that’s ok. Real relationships are messy and imperfect – my one certainly is – but I’m still surprised and perhaps saddened by the fact that I don’t know a single couple whose relationship is wonderful and amazing. Is this because I fraternise with pessimists and misanthropes? Is it because I’ve been brought up in a culture of arranged marriage? Is it because I’ve been fed impossible ideals by a diet of unrealistic romcoms? I think not.

I have happy, optimistic, laidback friends; I know people who have had non-arranged marriages and who are miserable (as well as people in arranged ones who are relatively happy); and as for the impossible ideal, I know there’s enduring, all-encompassing love – I just don’t know anyone who has that in their relationship. That been-together-fifty-years-and-still-haven’t-run-out-things-to-say type of love seems to have died in modern times. Do you agree? If not, please convince me. If so, it’s kinda sad, don’t you think?

Free (free) Palestine

2009-01-03T20:58:00.005+01:00

Right, this’ll be a quick one because The Untouchables is on Film4 in seven minutes.

Exactly one week ago, I added ‘Attend a protest’ to my to-do list for 2009. I didn’t know what protest I would be attending or when (I gave myself a deadline of 31 Dec 2009) but I knew I wanted to go to one. It may be a weird thing to have on a to-do list but I had never been to a protest before and wanted to experience the energy and excitement felt by a collective who was making a stand for something it believed in.

A few days after the post, I learnt about the Gaza demonstration in London and decided to attend. I have to say, even this cynical young Londoner was amazed. The turnout was brilliant and the passion and intensity among the crowd was electric. I went there naively expecting a majority of brown faces but there was such a wide mixture of people. The Israel-Palestine conflict is seen by many as a Jews vs. Muslims issue but, even though there were a few people shouting “Allahu Akbar”, religion didn’t become the issue as Muslims, Christians, Atheists and even Jews marched side by side to protest the Israeli attacks on Gaza.

A number of people threw shoes at the gates of Downing Street in tribute to Muntadar al-Zaidi* and there was a scary moment when a bunch of protesters set fire to a banner a few feet away but things calmed down pretty quickly. All in all, it was a very worthwhile way to spend an afternoon. In fact, I may have to stop myself from attending more in case it becomes a sort of Tyler-Durden-group-therapy** kind of addiction.

Kia

* If you haven’t already, do upload a picture to
www.thankyouforthrowingyourshoe.com. It’s a collection of images of people all across the world (including yours truly) holding up their shoe in tribute to Muntadar al-Zaidi.

** Technically a Jack-group-therapy kind of addiction if you’re the type that does technical.

The Plan

2008-12-27T16:00:00.011+01:00

As we approach the end of 2008, I, like may others, am inevitably evaluating the year gone by.

2005 was inconsequential, hence my vow to make 2006 count.
2006 saw the publication of my first book as well as the unravelling of my first marriage.
2007 began with the death of my father but turned into a fantastic and crazy year at Asian Woman magazine.

2008 saw me struggle with the aftermath of Asian Woman. As I explained in Under Pressure, it seemed that the year passed by in slow motion, with little passion or intensity.

That’s not to say that good things didn’t happen. I published pieces across a range of publications, including the Guardian and, of course, I got married (to a man I actually wanted).

But even with those great things, I still feel like I’ve been floating through the year aimlessly. I think it’s partly due to the lack of a full time job. While freelancing is great, it doesn’t provide the fast-paced working environment I enjoy or the pressure I need to be productive. This is why I’m setting myself clear goals for 2009.

A list means that I have a tangible set of criteria to measure 2009 against. And, yes, being the geek that I am, I have included deadlines in brackets (the * indicates deadlines that may run late depending on external factors). It’s not a particularly long list but I think it’s a worthy one.

~~Find a job I enjoy (15 Feb*) (done 27 Aug)~~
~~Finish second book (15 May) (done 30 April)~~
Get fit (15 May onwards)
Enrol in a Spanish class (15 May onwards) (done 29 Dec)
~~Publish second book (15 Dec*) (done 04 Dec)~~
~~Attend a protest (31 Dec) (done 03 Jan)~~
~~Visit two countries I haven’t seen (31 Dec) (done 20 Dec)~~

Happy New Year.

Here's hoping it all goes according to plan.

Kia

Rhys

2008-12-18T23:37:00.003+01:00

I’ve been meaning to write about Rhys Jones and the sentencing of his killer for a few days now. For those of you unfamiliar with the case, Rhys was an 11-year-old boy who was shot in the neck and killed in Liverpool, UK, in August 2007.

The case really affected me. I was horrified that someone so young could be killed in such a senseless way. Rhys reminded me of my nephew who was of a similar age at the time. With the number of young people recently killed by knife and gun crime, his name is the one that stuck in my mind the most. The capture and sentencing of Sean Mercer, Rhys’s murderer, is such a relief and has almost restored my faith in the police and legal system.

It’s the small things about Rhys that broke my heart: the fact that he was on his way home from football practice; that he was the star player of his under-12s football team; that he turned towards the gunman after being distracted by the sound of the first bullet. What did that second bullet feel like? Was he still conscious? Did he feel pain? Was he scared? He was just 11 years old.

Mercer has been sentenced to 22 years in prison, which is exactly where he belongs. He knew he had struck Rhys but then continued to aim and then fire a third shot towards his original target. I mean, how fucking callous can you get?

Stephen Jones, Rhys’s father, said "Finally justice has been done for Rhys". I felt relieved for them. They know a peace that many other parents, not least those of Stephen Lawrence, may never know.

People say that having a child is life changing; that nothing compares to it. I’ve heard parents say it’s like being in love but a type that never fades, that is always fresh and new. They say that this type of love is stronger and brighter than the love you feel for your parents or siblings or even your partner. If that is true, then I can’t imagine how painful it is to lose a child, especially in such a senseless way.

My heart goes out to Rhys’s family.

Under Pressure

2008-11-18T21:22:00.002+01:00

Firstly, why do I get lambasted any time I say I love Under Pressure by Bowie and Queen? I know it’s not their best work but it’s still a frickin’ good song. Yes, that beat is responsible for the travesty that is Ice Ice Baby* but it’s so infectious, it has to be genius.

Anyway, back on topic… Contrary to the post title, I’m not actually under pressure of any sort, which is kind of the problem. You see, I need pressure to get things done. I never used to be like this. I used to be the kind of person that did things that needed to be done as soon as humanly possible. I used to pay bills as soon as they came in or put in a load of washing as soon as I had a drum’s worth or submit my columns a week before they were due for print or buy a winter coat in the Autumn. Now I’ll almost freeze my arse off before draggiing it to the shops.

I think I know when this change came about. I spent 2007 at Asian Woman Magazine and the experience changed me. It was so intense, so full on, so 100% 24/7, so unbelievably demanding, I felt like I was spending every second of my life fire fighting while juggling a million different things. Now take that description and times it by ten and you’ll get a rough idea of what it was like. It was as traumatic as it was exciting, and it taught me the real meaning of working under pressure.

After leaving (as much for my health as for my sanity), everything calmed down to the point where I felt like I was living in slow motion. After that kind of existence, “normal” life seems stripped of adrenaline – bland and sort of tasteless. It took me a long time to come down from the highs of that type of life. One of the things I haven’t got back, however, is the ability to pace myself. Now I need pressure to be able to work so I leave everything until the last minute. I spend days procrastinating, knowing that deadlines are looming but I wait and do nothing until the axe begins swinging over my head. It’s a terrible way to work but I haven’t managed to snap out of it.

The reason why I bring this up is because I have six months to finally get the second book wrapped up. Six months isn’t actually a lot of time for most authors but to me, it seems like an eternity. And that worries me. I don’t want to suddenly snap into action in May 2009 and find that a month isn’t enough to perfect the book. I want to work on it today and tomorrow and every day, and polish it to the point of perfection. Instead, I find myself procrastinating.

I’m going to try and stop being this flake I don’t recognise. I’m going to try and go back to the person who was organised, stable and knew exactly where she was going and what time she was getting there (though I don’t know if I’ll recognise her since she never spoke in the twattish third person).

I’ll buy my winter coat and take it from there.

Kia

* I actually also think Ice Ice Baby is a good song but admitting that kinda dilutes my opinion about Under Pressure… and makes me look like a bit of a troglodyte.

Under a Woman's Skin

2008-11-17T16:42:00.001+01:00

I bought The Writing’s on the Wall, I went to see Destiny’s Child at Wembley in 2001 and I marvelled at Beyoncé’s talent and ability. But, as her fame and ubiquity grew, I went off her because I got a little sick of hearing her name. It was only recently when I watched the video to If I Were a Boy that I was reminded of just how talented she is.

She puts across a simple message in a striking way: If I were a boy, I would be a better man than you.

It struck a chord because I’ve been at the wrong end of that kind of relationship. Anyone who has dated a superflirt will know what I mean.

People have called me a flirt. Some say I‘m a little flirt, others say I’m an outrageous flirt. Some say I flirt insidiously, others say I flirt indiscriminately. One has even said that I flirt with girls as much as I flirt with guys. But, no matter how much of a flirt people think I am, I’m nothing compared to the superflirt.

Every woman reading this will know a man like this. He is the one that girls flock to at a party. He is the one that is charming and funny and disarming. He may not be the best looking guy at a party but he’ll be talking to the best looking girl while you look over, quietly gritting your teeth because he’s meant to be with YOU.

He will dance with a woman, compliment another on her hair or her eyes, tease another about how short her dress is, all the while tripping others up with his dimples or crooked smile or whatever secret weapon he was bestowed with. These men see nothing wrong with their behaviour. They think it’s harmless fun and label their women as insecure if they complain.

And that’s why Beyonce’s video works so well. It asks the simple question: how would you feel if I behaved the way you do? The video might make a few superflirts question their ways but I don’t think they can help themselves; I actually do think it is in their nature and I’m not exactly a great believer in The Changing of Ways.

To the women who are in this kind of relationship, I guess I’d say I feel sorry for you because I’m no longer stuck with a superflirt.

But I’m also a little jealous of you.

Just Say No

2008-11-12T13:43:00.009+01:00

Today I was sorting through some old files and came across a card that I sent into PostSecret two years ago, right after my first wedding. Since then, I’ve openly written about the mistake I made so I figure it’s okay to post the card here.

I know the whole Asian-girl-with-arranged-marriage-angst thing is rather tired, but even today, women (and men) who are assertive, intelligent and independent in most arenas of their lives are being coaxed into marrying a person they know isn’t right for them.

This is just a little reminder to say it's easy to make excuses and convince yourself like I did but don’t settle.

Now, the Backlash?

2008-11-10T00:27:00.004+01:00

It took me a while to warm to Barack Obama. I hadn’t read either of his books and didn’t know enough about him to hail him as the Saviour of America and All That Is Beyond like everyone else around me.

The turning point came when I heard him talk about Iraq and Pakistan – not because his foreign policy resonated with me, but because he pronounced ‘Iraq’ correctly instead of calling it ‘eye-rak’ like Bush et. al. I know the reasoning is silly, but I *have* previously admitted that my political opinions are based mostly (if not entirely) on strange reasoning and irrelevant factors – my mantra during the US election was ‘McCain isn’t a leader. He has no neck!’.

Obama’s win was definitely surprising and inspiring to many people, but he’ll have to be something between a saint and a superhero to live up to the hype. If we know anything about the media, it is that they build people up because they love tearing them down so much.

Can Obama survive the backlash? Yes (he can). Can he really soothe the world’s ills? I doubt it, but I hope he has the strength and mettle to be a principled president. I hope he is sympathetic towards Palestine and diplomatic with Iran. I hope he makes things better. There’s no reason why he can’t. He does, after all, have an ample neck.

Come one, come all!

2008-10-04T19:06:00.003+01:00

Ok, so the first step of the shameless self-promotion I discussed in The Second Coming has taken form in my all-singing, all-dancing public Author Page on Facebook (visit http://www.new.facebook.com/pages/Kia-Abdullah-Author/30078721193 or search for ‘Kia Abdullah Author’).

It contains some pictures, links to recent articles and an ultra-embarrassing mini-bio. It’s really just a way for me to keep in touch with readers and send occasional updates when some progress has been made with the second book.

So, lovely readers, if you do indeed visit the Book of Faces once in a while, please join the page and maybe even say hi. I promise you won’t just be a pawn in the murky world that is publishing :)

Kia

Blind Faith?

2008-09-28T16:33:00.008+01:00

A friend, writer Ariane Sherine, is launching the Atheist Bus Campaign on 21 October 2008.

The short explanation:
The campaign has the slogan 'There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life'. It is designed to reassure people that they won’t be consigned to eternal damnation should they renounce religion and God. The motivation behind the campaign is explained on the Facebook group page, and in Article 1 and Article 2, written by Ariane for the Guardian’s Comment is free section.

If you are an atheist, please join the group and support the campaign. If you are not an atheist but aren’t particularly bothered about the wrath of God, do also join. If you’re not a Facebooker, you can e-mail Ariane through the link on her site with “Atheist Bus” in the subject line to register your support or interest.

For the record, I haven’t joined the campaign because I do believe in God, but I think it’s a great idea purely because it provokes thought. It has reminded me of some of the questions I’ve asked in the past: do I believe in my religion because I’ve been conditioned to or because I truly believe it? Can the things I disagree with really be explained away with deeper knowledge and research? Can the fundamentals of my faith really be applied fully and properly in today’s world?

I definitely believe in God. I believe there is a balance in my life that I haven’t achieved alone. I believe that I have been both tested and guided. I believe that many of my prayers have been answered because someone was listening.

The thing is, God is different from religion, albeit not entirely separate. I have discussed some of my issues with Islam before – sometimes questioning it, sometimes defending it – but to question the entire religion is a different thing entirely. I will admit that in the past I have thought, ‘What if Islam isn’t real and true? What if we just believe it because we’re meant to?’. Of course I immediately feel guilty about these thoughts, but surely it’s healthy to question the things that govern our lives?

I’m interested in asking followers of religion, and particularly of Islam, how they maintain strength of belief. In an age where science screams so loudly and atheist proselytisers tell us we’re not really enlightened if we still believe in God, how do followers objectively and logically maintain belief? These are not rhetorical questions. I genuinely want to know if there are Muslims out there who have ever questioned the worth of their worship. And if not, how are they so sure?

We Ain’t Got No Alibi

2008-09-08T14:49:00.001+01:00

I wish John McCain’s Bangladeshi daughter was prettier. It may be an odd thing to lament but I have my reasons. You see, Indian women are renowned for their beauty; Italian, French, Spanish and Mediterranean women are exotic; Scandinavian women are leggy and blonde; Oriental women are mysterious and alluring; Latin Americans are seductive and sensual… the list goes on. But Bangladeshi women – well, no-one really knows or cares about us. And those who do, more often than not, think we’re all short, fat, ugly and downtrodden.

Take an episode of American sitcom How I Met Your Mother: A New York taxi driver tells Barney (one of the protagonists) ‘I’m from Bangladesh.’ Barney asks, ‘The women hot there?’ The driver takes out a picture of his wife. Barney recoils and whispers, ‘A simple no would’ve sufficed.’ I was amused but couldn’t help but grumble about our reputation for being a bunch of munters.

You see, your mates would never pat you on the back for scoring a Bangladeshi girl, a Google Image search for ‘Bangladeshi woman’ isn’t going to throw up a Miss World any time soon, and Lenny Kravitz would never tell a Bangladeshi woman to stay away from him because he’d never get close to one in the first place.

That’s why we really needed Bridget McCain – perhaps one of the most famous Bangladeshi females at this point in time – to fly the flag for us. Yes, I’m being superficial and vacuous but damnit, we need a boost! We really needed Bridget to stand up and say, ‘I’m not only helping dear daddy on his campaign trail but I am proving that Bangladeshi women are just as alluring and sexy as anyone else.’ Unfortunately, while Bridget is beautiful in her own way, she’s not going to win Miss World any time soon. Zut alors.

Good Catch

2008-07-27T21:38:00.003+01:00

Meeting a partner’s colleagues is rarely a great experience. Everyone knows each other and can share conversation, and you end up being the one stuck in the corner or having to have everything explained to them. Luckily, when I met my partner’s colleagues, they were all warm, friendly and interesting (despite being a bunch of accountants…).

A few of them joked and asked me what I was doing with my partner as I was “too good for him”. I don’t think I am, of course, but the compliment did give me an ego boost.

People often tell women that they are far too beautiful/smart/talented for the men that they are with. Sometimes this is okay – women do have a tendency to flock to bastards – but is it okay to say it to a normal couple who are with each other because they love each other?

Can men take this sort of comment simply because they’re men? I can’t imagine introducing my partner to my colleagues and being told that I’m not good enough for him and that he’s far too handsome/smart/talented for me. I would find it hurtful and it would probably make me feel a bit insecure.

Are men genuinely happy to receive this kind of comment? When we tell a man his woman is too good for him, does he feel proud that he’s managed to get her? Is there really no trace of insecurity?

Men and women may be equal but we’re certainly not the same…

In other news

Lost in suburbia: I had a conversation about whether it was less neighbourly to have a completely overgrown front garden or to use a (loud-ish) hedge trimmer on a Sunday. I decided it was the latter, after which I felt kind of depressed that life has come to this. All I need is a pair of kids and a four-wheel-drive and I will have become that woman.

Having kittens: A friend’s cat has had kittens. I briefly considered taking one but decided against it because a) I can get a bit Monica Gellar when it comes to cleanliness and b) I’d become the woman who lives alone with a cat and I’m not sure if that woman is better or worse than the suburban nightmare woman.

Sex Kitten: I’ve decided my eyes bags are sexy in a Marisa-Tomei-I-was-up-all-night-doing-never-you-mind-what kind of way instead of making me look like an exhausted heap. Woot woot.

Azzurri Blues

2008-06-09T22:15:00.006+01:00

I’m off to have some cake in a minute to console myself after Italy’s 3-0 loss to Holland. I can’t claim to be a football fan: I only ever watch it at international level and barely know my van de Sars from my van Nistelrooys (I guess you could call me a fair-weather football fan) but I have always supported Italy and do manage to get wrapped up in their matches. Hence, the cake. It’s okay though. Italy always start off slow. They *do* have a tough group but at least there’s no Zidane to contend with. So I’m hopeful...

On a completely different note, is it me or is there a sudden increase in really annoying kids in adverts? That kid in the Oreo advert that talks to the dog makes me see red; those kids in that count the Rice Krispies drive me up the wall; and even the new Petit Filous girl (with the thick eyebrows) annoys me. Am I alone in this? Am I the only person whose blood starts to boil when one of those adverts come on? I'm getting annoyed just thinking about them.

Ok, now I really do need some cake.

And then a hero comes along…

2008-06-03T01:35:00.003+01:00

I’ve spent so long in front of my computer today that I’m almost cross-eyed. I’ve given up trying to be productive and am writing here instead. Do forgive me if this entry is more disconnected than usual – it is almost 2am.

So anyway, I had a conversation with an ex-colleague today, in which she commented that she was extremely surprised at how friendly I was when we first met because she “doesn’t generally get on with girls”.

The reason behind this is quite obvious: she’s absolutely stunning, which can automatically make other females bristle in her presence. Luckily, there are a few things that make me jealous and another female’s level of attractiveness isn’t one of them. Beauty doesn’t threaten me since I grew up with five beautiful sisters and am used to being the ‘average’ one in the room.

Intelligence, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether. Put me in front of a Riazat Butt (the Guardian's religious affairs correspondent) or a Tahmima Anam (Harvard-educated, award-wnning Bangladeshi author) and I’ll grumble with envy. It’s a good envy though because I have a lot of respect for smart women. In fact, I think it’s a shame there aren’t more strong females in the public eye – Asian or not.

I can name fictitious kick-ass women that I love – the women in Law & Order (played by Stephanie March, Mariska Hargitay, Angie Harmon and Diane Neal) are absolutely fantastic and represent some of the best female characters on TV – but ask me about real-life heroes and I can name only men.

Who can blame me when Margaret Thatcher, the assassinated Benazir Bhutto, Condoleezza Rice and Hillary Clinton represent the strongest female figures of the past few decades? Yes, there are women like Mother Teresa who contributed a lot to the world and who were strong in their own way, but you can hardly describe them as ‘kick-ass’.

Suggestions, people! Bonnie can keep her hero, I need a heroine.

Silver Tongues

2008-06-01T22:00:00.002+01:00

I cringe as iPlayer runs through the opening credits of Women in Black: Episode 4 (originally aired Thursday on BBC2). Why? Because 10 minutes or so into the programme, I will appear in all my fatigued glory, full colour and extremely close up.

I don’t like doing TV. Don’t get me wrong – the process is fun but watching myself is always painful. In the past, I’ve prescribed to the idea that ‘Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard’ but as I said in ‘The Second Coming’, I think I need to engage in shameless self-promotion more often and TV does that if nothing else. Though, luckily, on this occasion, the programme in question was genuinely interesting and insightful.

I do a lot of public speaking so it’s not like I’m one of those sweaty, nervous wrecks in front of an audience (let’s face it, if I can lecture 170 14-year-old boys, I can talk to anyone!), it’s just that as a writer, you’re expected to be highly articulate and wonderfully eloquent, which doesn’t really makes sense: I’m a writer. I write… and delete, rewrite, restructure and so on and so forth. You can’t do that when speaking!

I’ve had friends push me in front of audiences at parties, saying, “You’re a writer. You can make the toast”. Yes, as a writer, words are my tool (as Raef would say) but it doesn’t necessarily make me a good speaker.

As I watch myself on screen, I cringe at the close-ups and can see that I’m talking too fast. It’s okay though. As Hattie will probably point out, at least my hair looks shiny :)

In other news, I’ve written a piece for InsideDesi, hopefully compensating for my short absence here.

Ok, Criminal Minds is on so I’m off.

Older? Yes. Better? Erm…

2008-05-13T15:25:00.004+01:00

I know I haven’t written for a while – I’m sorry. To get you started, I’ve written a piece for the comment section of the Guardian website. You can access that here: http://commentisfree.guardian.co.uk/kia_abdullah/2008/05/a_cause_for_shame.html.

Anyway, turning to my real point… I’m turning 26 on Saturday. This is kind of a big deal for me. I know that traditionally there’s no significance about age 26 (unlike 16, 21 30, 40 and so forth) but for me, it’s HUGE. You see, all through my adult life, I have been disgustingly unhealthy, but have always said that I’ll change my lifestyle at 26.

Friends will tell you that I eat like a pig. I admit that I can’t remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit and ‘Salad? I don’t do salad’ has turned into a bit of a catchphrase. I don’t do an ounce of exercise and am generally pretty damn unfit. The fact that I never put on any weight has only encouraged my terrible eating habits.

The thing is, I’ve been told many a time (by sisters, friends, colleagues) that I’m ‘fat on the inside’ and that ‘one day’ it will hit me; one day my metabolism will slow and I’ll wake up and suddenly find that I’m 16 stones. And I’ve never doubted that – in fact, I’ve always said, ’26 is when I’ll start being healthy. 26 is when it all starts to go south; 26 is the point of no return’. It is the age I said I’d get a pension, start exercising, start eating fruit, start recycling more and generally be more responsible.

And I’m really going to try and stick to it. I know I can’t cut back on the amount I eat – I love my food – so I will start exercising to balance out my slowing metabolism. I’m actually kind of looking forward to it. I’m generally quite good at sticking to things once I’ve made up my mind about them so we’ll see how it goes.

On top of all those changes, I have been in a contemplative mood, wondering what other things 26 will bring. You see, my debut novel was released on my 24^th birthday. At 25, I became one of the youngest writers to have published a comment piece in the Guardian newspaper (which was a pretty big deal for me) so the gauntlet has most certainly been set…

Here’s the year ahead; to getting older and getting better.

Kia

Pieces of Me

2008-04-19T03:40:00.004+01:00

Anniversaries. I’ve never really paid attention to anniversaries. Ask me when I got engaged and the only reason I’ll be able to tell you is because it was on Valentine’s Day (yes, I know it’s clichéd but that’s his doing). Ask me when our first date was and I’ll draw a blank. I’ve never organised a birthday party (for myself or anyone else) and don’t even bother asking me when any of my siblings or friends got married.

There is one anniversary, however, that I can’t forget – the first anniversary of my father’s death. My father passed away in the early hours of Sunday 29^th April 2007 and as the 29^th draws closer this year, I find myself affected by it more than I expected.

You see, I never got to really say goodbye. In some ways, I never even got to say hello; I had seen my father only once in the six months preceding his death. I remember my family prompting me to visit him in the week leading up to it and I put it off and put it off. I had seen him in a hospital bed many a time before and didn’t want to do it again. On Saturday 28^th April at exactly 7pm, my sister called me and told me I really should visit him as he was in a bad way. She told me that visiting hours ended at 8pm so I could see him the next day after 3pm, which I decided to do.

Having agreed to visit him the next day, I still called up one of my friends and asked if he could get me to the Royal London in an hour. I remember that conversation and I remember both of us deciding that we’d miss visiting hours and that we would go the next day.

At 1.30am on Sunday morning, I got the call telling me “he’s gone”. I rushed to the Royal London, not really knowing why I was rushing. My five sisters were in various stages of breakdown but the most unnerving of all was my mother. You see, my mother has always been the steely, dispassionate and formidable matriarch of the family, but in that hospital room, she broke down exposing a vulnerability I had wanted to see all my life but never want to see again.

As I look back, a part of me thinks I handled it ok – I went back to work after one day off and yes, I did break down in tears on one occasion when a colleague asked if I was ok but in general, I managed to hide my state of disarray.

Another part of me knows that I’ll never get over it. This part tears up every time I think about what my father did for us, how hard he worked and how little he got from us in return.

This 29^th April will be hard but hopefully it’ll be a little easier than the last one. And hopefully the next one will be a little easier than this one. And hopefully it’ll keep getting easier until, eventually, I can get to May without falling apart.

What doesn’t kill us is making us stronger

2008-04-14T19:05:00.000+01:00

There are people among us who had fantastic childhoods; belong to loving families; and who have a well-adjusted outlook on life. These people have fathers that support them, mothers that comfort them and bosses that respect them.

I used to envy these people, thinking that they were a lucky minority. I used to think that they led charmed lives, full of opportunities seldom afforded to people like me. I thought it would be great to have things so easy.

As I have grown older, however, I have completely changed my view. You see, those of us who have experienced serious problems – whether it be physical abuse, poverty, the loss of a parent or the loss of a child – know what the lows of life are like, and consequently are able to appreciate the highs that much more.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realised that the hardships we go through shape who we are and if we survive the trials we face, we come out the other end as a stronger, tougher and perhaps more interesting person.

I’ve met people who think they’re subversive because they turned down the offer of private schooling to mix with the masses – who wants to be that person? Who wants to be a part of the Waltons when the Simpsons are far more fun?

Yes, it screws you up and yes, you have to try harder in almost everything you do but like I’ve said before, pain just lets us know we’re alive and I’d rather that than live life on a happy but uneventful plateau.

# I’m Gonna Live Forever #

2008-04-12T19:39:00.001+01:00

So I was sitting on a Jubilee Line train on Thursday, travelling from Stratford to North Greenwich, when I noticed that the guy next to me was reading my column in The Docklands. I surreptitiously watched him and was pleased to see a smile spread on his lips. I was so tempted to take out my headphones, point to my picture and say, “That’s meeee,” but chances are, he would have looked at me and said, “Uh, oh-kay. So?” at which point I would have gone red with embarrassment and hung my head in shame.

The thing is, it gives me a strange sort of thrill when I see people reading my work or when I’m recognised. Is that sad? It is kind of pathetic in a fame hungry sort of way, right? This doesn’t sit very well with me – you see, I’m many things but I’m pretty sure I’m not fame hungry and yet I get this silly thrill when I’m recognised. Next thing you know, I’ll be listening to Bros and auditioning for Big Brother 37 or whatever series they’re on now...

Attention seeking aside, in a strange reversal of roles, I am 95% sure I sat opposite The Guardian’s Charlie Brooker yesterday on a train from Lewisham to Charing Cross. I was so tempted to ask but was far too embarrassed to. As soon as I got off the train, I dug out the G2 in my bag but unfortunately it was Alexander Chancellor who wrote Friday’s column. It is now my life’s mission to find out if Charlie Brooker owns a yellow and black striped scarf (since that was the only distinctive thing he was wearing). If it turns out that he doesn’t, then I most likely gave some random guy an ego boost since I spent the entire journey staring at him intently.

Anyway, that’s all for now. I’m off to find a Z-lister to go partying at Mo*vida with…

I Am Beautiful

2008-04-08T20:15:00.001+01:00

One of the nicest compliments I have ever been paid was during my second year at university. A friend of a friend told the friend that “95% of beautiful girls know that they’re beautiful – Kia’s in the 5% that don’t.”

I was genuinely flattered and accepted the compliment (albeit from the third person) in the self-deprecating way I do when I feel uncomfortable. You see, I’ve never really been comfortable with the word “beautiful”. “Pretty” I can deal with, “cute” is quite common but I’ve always felt that “beautiful” should be reserved for the Natalie Portmans and Jennifer Love Hewitts of the world – not normal girls like me walking the streets of London.

I mean, what is beautiful anyway? It is obviously subjective (for example, I know guys who fancy the pants off Amy Winehouse and others who think she looks like a moose) but it can also be distorted; there are stunning women out there who can’t see how beautiful they are. Conversely, there are women who think wearing clothes four sizes too small makes them attractive.

I bring this up only because I was watching I Am The Elephant Man yesterday – a Channel 4 documentary about Huang Chuncai; a man seriously malformed through a condition called neurofibromatosis – and it made me realise just how trivial some of my complaints are (e.g. flat hair, greasy skin, etc.). It made me appreciate what I have and I’m determined to start accepting compliments gracefully. So next time someone tells me I’m beautiful, I’m going to smile and say thank you because even though I may not look like Christy Turlington, I am beautiful, godamnit!

Having said that, I’m going out with three of the most beautiful women in London town tomorrow night so I’ll just have to accept being the short, ugly one. Ho hum.

// No Comment

2008-04-04T00:00:00.004+01:00

/*
Since starting this blog almost two years ago, I’ve been asked many a time to enable comments. I have chosen not to for a number of reasons:

1. My entries are generally random musings and not really intended to draw feedback or comment (i.e. criticism!).

2. I don’t really have time to reply to comments (i.e. criticism) but generally have to have the last word so I don’t think I could resist doing so (hence allowing precious time to be eaten up).

3. I’m a little scared that no-one will comment, exposing the fact that no-one reads the blog (even though I know it is read judging by the numbers recorded by statcounter).

Those reasons still stand but I think it’s finally time to bite the bullet. I hate enforcing the moderation facility – I know it can be frustrating when a comment you make isn’t posted immediately – but I’m afraid it’s a necessary evil. You see, I get hate mail from time to time and I don’t want to give these people a forum to propagate their vitriol.

In fact, I looked through some of my hate mail (call me a masochist but, yes, I keep it) and some of the choice words used to describe me are as follows: deceitful, artificial, bitch, stupid bitch, sick bitch, dirty bitch, dumb little spoilt bitch, lifeless bitch, little white wannabe, desperate, slag, whore, mentally ill, self-obsessed, dirty little maggieeeeeeeeeee (anyone want to educate me as to the definition of ‘maggieeeeeeeeeee’?). Yes, I can be a bit of a bitch but y’know, the rest is just unnecessary.

So, yes, comments have been enabled and will be moderated before being posted. Feel free to comment and/or criticise – as long as you refrain from using expletives and text speak, there will be no problem posting your comment. Plus commenting will make me feel better about point three mentioned above (and may prevent me from resorting to posting comments myself under ‘Anonymous’… though of course I wouldn’t stoop that low… *cough*).
*/

A Brick in the Wall?

2008-04-02T19:42:00.002+01:00

This week I was given the formidable task of convincing kids in Tower Hamlets that reading actually is quite important. Those of you have read my Great Expectations entry will know that I genuinely hold reading in quite high regard. Now I’m not saying that I’m some sort of great authority on the path to success but I’m convinced that the advice I have to give (stay in school, don’t do drugs and read godamnit!) really can make a difference.

Having run ten sessions across five schools in three days, I met a wide spectrum of kids. The pupils I worked with ranged from 12 to 18 in age. Some were a little cheeky, some were very vocal, others were quite shy but they were all responsive, which is what I was really hoping for. Even the group of 170 Year 9 boys I was worried about proved to be a fantastic audience (and not because they’re starved of female attention like a friend suggested).

It kinda made me realise just how much potential kids in Tower Hamlets have and how it is possible for them to succeed, if only they could find a way through all the barriers in their way. Perhaps I am another brick in the wall but that’s okay, it’s kinda the point I wanted to make; there is a wall – make sure you’re on the right side.

I will admit when I first stood in front of a class, a supposed paragon of all that is possible, I did feel a little fraudulent (they’re meant to look up to me?) but as I went on, I really felt appreciated because these kids related to me and were genuinely proud of me.

Yes, I am scaring myself a little since I usually find comfort in relentless cynicism, but I reckon these kids ended up inspiring me more than I hoped to inspire them.

Spoonful of sugar, anyone?

So how much do you earn?

2008-03-31T19:49:00.003+01:00

I mentioned in my last entry that I would be talking a little more about how it isn’t easy making a living as a writer. This ties in quite well with a question I was asked today during the short school tour I’m doing this week: so how much so you earn?

Kids (and adults) have this general view that published authors can immediately give up their day jobs and rest on their laurels. This is all well and good if you’re J.K. Rowling but the truth is, most authors don’t have bestsellers to their name and can’t afford to live off book sales alone. Some have day jobs, others work as journalists and many rely on income from readings, event appearances and tours.

When I first entered the wonderful world of publishing, I was very naïve and actually pretty clueless about the numbers that govern the definition of a successful book. I remember being told that the UK average of copies sold per book was around 4,000 – I thought it was more than triple that.

More illuminating was Sathnam Sanghera’s recent column in The Times. The column outlines some surprising figures: statistics from Nielsen Bookscan show that, of 200,000 books on sale last year, 190,000 titles sold fewer than 3,500 copies. More shocking is that of 85,933 new books, as many as 58,325 sold an average of just 18 copies. 18 copies!! Am I the only one that finds this unbelievable? It suddenly makes me feel very good about my own book sales, which thankfully run into four figures, not two.

These numbers are great for self-validation. After all, other than book sales, there is no real or objective way to quantify how good a writer is. So I guess the honest answer to the question posed at the top is, not a lot but I’m damn happy regardless.

The Second Coming

2008-03-23T18:16:00.003+01:00

Right. I have decided that my next big aim in life is to finish editing my second book. Having loosely finished writing it in January 2007 (yes, 2007 – a whole year ago!), I kind of let it lay there. This was mainly due to my job at Asian Woman Magazine which, as I outlined in my previous post, took over my life, leaving little room for much else. Having said that, I must admit that procrastination definitely played a part in the delay. You see, every writer I know loves writing but hates editing. I know exactly what needs to be done – in fact, I have useful little notes written in blue all over my manuscript telling me exactly what needs to be changed – but you know, after having written 82,000 words, the last thing you want to do is change them. But I know it has to be done so I’ve vowed to get on with it… starting tomorrow.

Anyway, the title of this post isn’t a reference to the fact that it’s Easter but a reminder to myself of how I must treat my second book. You see, I have been told time and time again that I should have pushed the first book more. I was slapped on the wrist for giving away free electronic copies of the book and for refusing to do photoshoots for promotion purposes. There was no mass mailshot to everyone in my address book persuading them to buy Life, Love and Assimilation; I refused to add randoms to my Facebook account just to publicise my book to them; there was never a big picture of the cover on my profile telling people to buy it; and I didn’t even really plug it to full potential on the various shows that I appeared on. Perhaps this was due to the fact that Life, Love and Assimilation was very raw, unpolished and in some ways, never really intended for mass public consumption or perhaps it was my English sensibilities that prevented me from being pushy – either way, I was told by all quarters that I should have pushed it more, with more than one person talking about a re-release.

I will not be re-releasing Life, Love and Assimilation as I believe in moving forward but with the second book, I will try to be a little pushier. As much as I hate to admit it, I think my attitude towards promotion is a little naive. I have this romantic view that art should be free (which I still believe) but I guess writers do need to eat, and without a full time job and a steady income, I guess I need to sharpen up. After all, it’s not easy making a living as a writer – more on that in my next entry.

For now, I just wanted to publicise the fact that I plan to finish my second book in the coming few months. This way, if I don’t, all my readers can point and laugh at my public failure. And anyone who knows me to any degree will know how much I hate to fail.

Guess Who’s Back?

2008-03-22T23:30:00.002+01:00

Ok, so you would be forgiven for thinking that I had all but abandoned this sorry stream of verbal diarrhoea (for some reason I’m surprised that I can actually spell diarrhoea without needing to spell check it. While I’m doing that annoying tangent thing I do, can I call it “verbal diarrhoea” since it’s not verbal per se? Ok, back to the main point). By some happy coincidence, it seems that it’s been exactly five months since I wrote here. Jakob Nielsen would be spinning in his grave… if he were dead that is (what is the live person’s equivalent of spinning in a grave?). Anyway…

I know I said I’d make an effort to write more frequently but work kind of took over my life… which is part of the reason why I left. Regular readers of my Docklands column will know that I left my position as Sub-Editor at Asian Woman Magazine at the end of January. It was a tough decision as I enjoyed the work but it really didn’t leave much time for anything else, up to and including sleeping, eating and writing. I’m not kidding – I’ve been without a washing machine since last August because I’ve been either too busy or too exhausted to buy one and wait for the installation people to come round. I’ve spent seven months hand-washing clothes on an ad-hoc triage kind of basis. Last weekend, I realised that everything was dirty, which really wasn’t healthy for my state of mind. I managed to persuade a friend to drive me to a local launderette – Hanif Kureishi may have had a beautiful one but jeesus, the rest of the world’s launderettes must be the most depressing places on Earth. I had kinda hoped the visit would bring back happy childhood memories offset by the smell of warm, fresh clothes but instead it reminded me of poverty offset by ammonia. Anyway, see what I mean about tangents?

My point is, I was stupidly busy so please forgive me for my lameness. To my credit, there is a new(ish) portfolio section which hopefully made a visit to the site worth your time. I will be writing here more often. And writing more in general but more about that in my next entry.

But, yes, I’m back and I promise it won’t take me another five months to write here again. Last tangent before I go (as a result of me using ‘won’t’ in the last sentence): if don’t is ‘do not’, shouldn’t ‘won’t’ be ‘willn’t’? And don’t get me started on ‘ain’t’, I mean what on Earth is ‘ai not’ anyway? Am I being weird? I’m being weird. Ok, I’m going.

Mother

2007-10-22T08:55:00.001+01:00

Growing up, we are fed many ideals. Films, books, music and society have us believe that we will find a person who loves us deeply; settle down; have kids and live happily ever after. Of course, most of these illusions are dispelled at some point during our adulthood. We realise that relationships are often marred by unreachable expectations or insecurities or infidelity or any number of faults that affect us as human beings.

There is one ideal, however, that endures well into adulthood and, if you’re lucky, all the way to the grave. This ideal is that of the unconditional love that exists between a mother and her child. It is an idea that is largely common between all races, religions and nations across the world; your mother should love you unconditionally. This idea exists for a reason; many (most?) mothers DO love their children in an all-encompassing, unrivalled way. Parents bang on about how having children changed their lives and how if you don’t have kids, you “just don’t understand”.

This is all well and good but experience (both personal and secondary) has taught me that motherly love is not always unconditional. In fact, in many cases, it does not exist either at all or as strongly as it should. This is evident in the thousands of children who are abandoned or abused by their mothers every year across the world.

This has led me to question whether the idea of unconditional motherly love is a fallacy. Maybe it isn’t inherent in every single woman. Maybe maternal instinct and that magical eternal bond doesn’t just happen. Maybe the overwhelming need to protect the child you first cradle in your arms isn’t felt by every woman and maybe, that’s okay. Perhaps it is society that has convinced women that it’s what they are meant to feel when they give birth to a child.

Maybe if we weren’t brought up with the notion that we will/should have everlasting, unconditional love from our mothers, there would be many more healthy adults walking around today. After all, as I say in Life, Love & Assimilation, don’t all our fears, insecurities, and fuckups stem from our parents; the fact that they just didn’t love us enough or smothered us too much? If we weren’t conditioned to believe that our parents should love us “just because” then we wouldn’t become screwed up when we find that they do not.

Makes perfect sense, right?

Well, actually, no - it doesn't. As much as I want to make a case against maternal instinct and say that it's a result of conditioning rather than nature, I am proved wrong by the mere fact that almost every species of living creature feels the need to protect its young.

I guess I’m just terrified of having children and not being there the way I know I should. I’m astounded that people can let down every single barrier they’ve built and give someone so much power to hurt them. Yes, terrified is the word.

Kia

PS. Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant. In fact, it’s El Tiempo de el Mes at the moment. I’m going to use that as an excuse for being all emotional.

The Race

2007-10-22T08:50:00.001+01:00

I am still here. I know I haven’t written here for months on end but I have been ridiculously busy (working, writing, healing a broken bone and moving home). I promise I will make more of an effort. I will also try to update the other parts of the site when I get a moment.

So anyway, how fantastic was the race on Sunday? It finally convinced me that there is life after Schumacher. The top four drivers were pretty predictable but what a season!

Despite being British, I was secretly (ok, not so secretly) hoping that Hamilton would lose. Despite his carefully-cultivated humility, I believe that losing will do him good in the long run. Too much, too young isn’t good for anybody and despite being relatively grounded, I think a taste of failure will build his character and make him a better driver in the long run.

As for Alonso, he put up a pretty good fight. For some reason, I don’t detest him as much as I usually do with those who have emerged victorious over Schumacher (i.e. Hill, Villeneuve and Hakkinen). I think the poor man suffered enough this season.

My man Massa did me proud despite coming fourth. He was a class act; a great sportsman who was consistent and proved his worth.

As for good old Raikkonen (I refuse to call him Iceman – as apt as it is, it’s just way too cool a nickname for him), what I said earlier this year about him being inanimate was proven yet again on Sunday. Barely cracking a smile, he celebrated his win with a painfully awkward hug with Jean Todt. It made me nostalgic about Schumacher’s heyday. He would have been grinning ear to ear, jumping on Todt’s back in delight. I guess a world championship win can’t magically conjure charisma in someone so devoid of emotion.

All in all, a great race.

Validation

2007-06-04T15:55:00.000+01:00

One song, at least two different versions, perhaps more than a hundred listens and finally the line hits me today; the line that explains my life, my personality, my mind, my thought process, my pessimism and my expectations, and shows that I’m not alone in my thinking, all in one go:

Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?

That’s going to save me years of therapy and self-validation.

Phew.

Time

2007-05-07T17:00:00.000+01:00

He had a hard life but he did the best that he could. He laughed seldom but when he did, it lit up the room. It was a sort of short burst of a laugh but a happy one. His eyes were rimmed with greyish circles. I often wondered if they came with old age. He sometimes wore these massive glasses that made me sad because they still couldn’t help him read. He carried an old 5146 because the keys on the newer phones were too small. He had a calculator with giant buttons which also made me sad when I looked at them. He was impatient but always with good reason. He wore the best of clothes; always pristine and pressed to perfection. His suits were always perfect and his shirts a blinding white. His shoes were polished within an inch of their lives. He always looked distinguished; a gentleman; a reasonable man. He knew the worth of money and drummed it in into me. He would spend extravagantly on something that was worth it but hold back paying a small sum for something that was not. He liked good food. He ate lots of fruit; something he didn’t pass down to me. He peeled an apple with a knife, no fancy peeler for him. He always ate breakfast and he laughed at old Indian films. He liked Amitabh Bachchan but I guess that’s no different to anyone else. He didn’t keep a beard for most of his life. I complained like hell when he started to but he grew into it. He used to use that old brush type thing to lather the white foam on his face when he shaved. He smoked for decades and every decade that I was alive I fought him about it. He eventually managed to stop and went a decade smoke-free. He loved me. I used to say I was his favourite and secretly (maybe not secretly) I still think I am. He wore false teeth but still had his hair. His skin was browner than mine and more worn of course. He used to play football as a youngster. He loved going back home to Bangladesh. He always returned with this healthy, glowing vitality about him; a vitality that the British weather always stripped him of. He took care of us when he could and as best as he could. I did rely on him. We all did. He wasn’t scared of hard work. He never learned to drive and sometimes came home with bags so heavy they seared marks onto his skin. He had a khaki coloured pair of trousers that he used to wear a lot. He loved my nieces and nephews like nothing else; they brought about his playful side. He was good with kids. I’m trying to remember more. I’m trying to remember everything because I never want to forget. I don’t want to forget that he was the only man I have ever relied on. He had my best interests at heart. He was my anchor, my hero, my saviour.

He was my father.

And I miss him.

I'm Still Here

2007-05-07T16:30:00.001+01:00

No, I haven’t been Killed In Action; I’ve been on hold with British Gas. No, seriously, I have been on hold with British Gas for over a month now. Ok, so not continuously but I have spent a good portion of that time tearing my hair out whilst listening to tinny version of Fur Elise and classical pieces that I don’t know the names of whilst waiting, praying, hoping, begging to speak to a British Gas member of staff. Of course, I still haven’t succeeded in this quest so I have fired off letters to various watchdogs and have vowed to publicise my maltreatment (too dramatic?) by their incompetent selves.

Ok, tirade over. It has been a messy month and I can’t really go into everything in detail right now so I will give you the Cliff Notes:

· Monday 16th April: I left my IT job to start another IT job but was then offered a role of Sub-Editor at Asian Woman Magazine, which, of course, I took at the drop of a hat. So far, things are going fantastically well. It is everything I expected it to be and I count myself really lucky for being one of those people who are paid to do what they love. Do grab a copy of Issue 28 (Aishwarya Rai on the cover in a red sari) as I have an article in it. I’ll be credited as Sub-Editor from Issue 29 so do grab a copy of that as well when it comes out in roughly a month’s time.
· Various dates: A spent a while trying to claw my way onto the property ladder which has proven quite slippery but hopefully soon…
· Sunday 29th April: The single worst day of my life.
· Saturday 5th May: I chopped my hair off (it was Lucy Liu in Ally McBeal but is now Lucy Liu in Ugly Betty… tho in much worse condition of course…) Apparently I look like the girl in the Petit Filous advert - the guys in the office keep sniggering and saying “make my bone stronger”. Luckily I studied a course at uni that was 80% male so I am used to that kind of humour.

Right, I think that gets us all caught up.

Kia

Pieces

2007-03-22T15:00:00.000+01:00

It’s official. I’m getting soppy in my old age. Usually I am able to walk past vagrants, vagabonds, Big Issue sellers, buskers, preachers and Eastern European women peddling their children, without batting an eyelid. Today, however, I walked past an old woman selling the Big Issue and was wracked with guilt for not buying a copy. She was dressed in a thin coat and a headscarf and was standing in the rain with this really wistful look on her face. Not so much, “Yes, I get benefits and live in a cosy council flat but am suckering you out of money anyway,” kind of look but more of a “How did I get here?” kind of look. As the traffic lights turned green I almost turned around and went back but of course I didn’t. Instead I walked on with tears pricking at my eyes. Can you imagine? Me.

On top of this, I’ve been listening to emo rock music (Famous Last Words by My Chemical Romance is currently on repeat). Perhaps I’m lucky that I’m in some sort of susceptible phase because I discovered what I’ve adopted as one of my favourite poems. “In Our Tenth Year” by Simon Armitage is one of the Love Poems on the Underground and as I read it, I was entranced. I say I’m lucky because it is not often I am touched, whether it’s by a stranger or by a piece of art. I can think of only two pieces of visual art that I have ever been affected by and it’s a good feeling. So, yes, perhaps I’m getting soft but it’s okay. Sadness just proves we’re alive, right?

*Shakes herself back together again*

I need a new man

2007-03-22T14:00:00.000+01:00

So. Post-Schumacher Formula 1. It’s just not happening for me. I told myself that I love the sport and it’ll do just fine without Schumacher and may even be more exciting since there’s more competition but I’m afraid it just wasn’t happening. Schumacher has been in the sport since I started to watch it roughly fifteen years ago and though his departure last year left me cold, I still had high hopes for the sport; hopes that were dashed on Sunday. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed the race but without a driver to champion, I couldn’t get into it (the first person to suggest Hamilton gets a swift slap simply coz I’m so damn bored of him).

Even as a Ferrari supporter, I cannot utter the name “Raikkonen” in a tone free of abhorrence. Raikkonen is so charmless he may as well be inanimate. Eventually I decided that Massa was the man but unfortunately I couldn’t really bring myself to give a damn about what happened to him during the course of the race. Supporting Alonso is like sleeping with the enemy... a very rich, young, talented and perhaps-attractive-in-a-craggy-sort-of-way enemy but an enemy nonetheless.

So yes, Massa is my new man. I’ll let you know if I manage to dredge up any sort of real passion for him in Malaysia.

Let them eat cake

2007-03-15T15:00:00.000+01:00

I get pissed off about a lot of things (as many of you know) but yesterday that went beyond the customary grumble and moan. Yesterday I found out that the BBC is axing BBC Jam; its online education service, pending a review. The closure of the £150 million learning project is due to complaints from commercial rivals that the BBC breached the launch conditions under which it was given consent by the government and the European Commission (i.e. that content would complement commercial material rather than replace it).

In other words, free resources are being ripped away from (at least) 170,000 users in order to make fat cats fatter.

I know there are a lot of things wrong with the world. I know that competition should be encouraged to ensure quality in products and I know that sometimes difficult decisions need to be made to strengthen economy but this really rattled my bones. I have a strong belief that access to education and learning materials should be free. Yes, this may cripple the education software industry but surely there is something morally wrong about taking resources away from children so that a bunch of bureaucrats can drive around in a Porsche instead of a Lexus?

Ok, ok, ok, I know it’s not as black and white as that. I know that BBC Jam may be a threat to those who earn a living in the education software industry but I still can’t get over it. Why should only those children whose parents can afford to pay for overpriced software benefit from digital learning? It is one thing to charge extortionate amounts for software but it is another thing entirely to try and quash the free alternatives.

It makes me really angry and I know there’s nothing I can do other than file it away in my “Life isn’t fair” box but... it’s just not fair.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/6449619.stm?ls

My life and art

2007-03-06T17:54:00.001+01:00

Almost a year after the release of Life, Love and Assimilation, I am still asked how much of the novel is based on my life. I always provide the same answer; it is fact-based fiction. When pressed, I tell people that 60% of it is based on my experiences whereas 40% of it is fiction. Even this fails to satisfy some readers. Some pick out specific scenes and question the amount of truth in them. Others want to know if my real-life relationships are as “warped” as they are in the book.

Earlier this year I gave a reading as part of an event at the Idea Store in Whitechapel. I thought it was pretty worthwhile but I did feel that I had dampened the mood a little since I chose a particularly scornful extract. The audience was partly made up of pre-GCSE students so perhaps I should have chosen something “softer” but as most of you know, I’m pretty damn irresponsible with things like that (i.e. I’ll say what I want regardless of anybody else).

After the reading, I received a few e-mails asking if my relationship with my parents was really that bad. I admit that that particular excerpt was loosely based on my personal life but I was taken aback by the way people immediately conjoined my two parents.

If Kieran’s life was truly parallel to mine, she would have made it explicit that she loves her father. She would have said how grateful she is to him; how much she respects him. She would have told us how sad she gets at the sight of old men struggling with heavy groceries because she knows that is what her father has done all his life. She would have recognised the suffering her father endured in the efforts to provide his children with a better life. She would have explained how she shunted her true desires to make her father proud and told us how heartbreaking it was to bring shame to him. She would have said sorry and she would have said I love you.

Kieran would have said all the things she couldn’t say to her father in real life.

Pictures

2007-03-02T09:00:00.002+01:00

Ok, I couldn’t help it. I tried to refrain, I really did but the second picture was too much to resist. Regular visitors will know what I think of Cameron and therefore understand how amusingI found these pictures.

I can think of my own one-fingered gesture I’d like to make at His Royal Toffness.

World Book Day

2007-03-01T09:00:00.000+01:00

I’m feeling kind of guilty since World Book Day should really be a bigger deal to me than it is this year. The truth is I don’t even read a lot any more. I have at least twenty books on my shelf that I haven’t read, which is pretty damn poor for someone who is always banging on about how the youth of today doesn’t read enough. It takes me far longer to finish a book than it used to. This is partly because I’ve been busy but also because I feel kinda guilty about reading when I could spend the time writing/rewriting my own book.

As a writer, I have been asked to join many a book club and though it would be one way to encourage me to read more, I have always declined. See, reading is a pleasure for me. When you set a time limit on a book, it almost becomes a task. This is not to say I would discourage people from joining a book club, I just don’t think it’s for me.

So anyway, there wasn’t much of a point to this entry. I just didn’t want the day to go by unmarked because I think it’s truly worthwhile.

Infidel

2007-02-23T17:00:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I bought Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s “Infidel” which I plan to read once I get through “The Caged Virgin” that has sat on my shelf for a month or two now. One may question why I am taking the time out to read the works of a woman that is so passionately hated within the Muslim world. I would answer their question the same way I answer questions about why I bought The Satanic Verses. I would answer the question with a question; how can you criticise a book you haven’t read?

I remember an argument I had with an acquaintance who insisted that she didn’t need to read The Satanic Verses in order to know that it contained negative things about Islam; that she didn’t need to form her own opinion; that she was perfectly comfortable adopting Islamic scholars’ views as her own. I, on the other hand, felt that I had to read the material for myself before I was authorised to criticise or dismiss it.

I’m pretty sure I will disagree with a lot of what Hirsi Ali has to say in her book. I recently read an interview with her and was left reeling by her strong views against Islam but that didn’t mean I wanted to immediately boycott anything she produces. In fact, I think Submission Part I is quite a beautiful film. It is bold, original and involving. See, that admission itself will anger some of the people that read it. What I ask is why can’t we engage in civilised discourse without resorting to violence? If I get vicious hate mail simply because I wrote a sexually overt book, Hirsi Ali must get it a hundred-fold because of her views. Any sort of criticism of Islam is likely to incite anger because Islam is so deeply ingrained into us but does that mean we have to respond with violence and threats, effigies at the ready? Surely we’re more intelligent than that?

Self-indulgent rambling at its best

2007-02-06T17:00:00.000+01:00

In between singing Lauryn Hill badly and listening to angsty music (currently Missy Higgins’ “All for believing” which is actually quite beautiful), I’ve been whining a lot today. The remnants of my cold mixed with the pressures of work and extortionate house prices have put me in a bad mood. Sometimes I wish there was a way to “semi-sleep”; a way to stop things buzzing around in your head; to achieve a calmness of mind but still be conscious and able to get things done. I guess this is achievable through drink and/or drugs but I would prefer to hold onto sobriety and sanity whilst achieving this calmness. I guess you would call it inner peace or contentment. As I have mentioned on previous occasions, I have always been afflicted with perpetual dissatisfaction and the desire for more. I want to achieve more, see more, know more. I’m forever setting standards and goals for myself and though my new year’s resolution was to be a little easier on myself, it’s just not happening.

Feeling better

2007-02-01T10:00:00.001+01:00

My cold miraculously abated for the few hours that I spent at the Outlandish gig last night. Of course it’s back with a vengeance this morning partly due to the fact that I skipped dinner last night and barely managed four hours' sleep.

On the plus side, the gig was fantastic. The guys did really well and despite leaving two of my favourite songs (Nothing Left To Do and Fatima’s Hand) out, the playlist was stellar.

A massive thank-you to the lovely and wonderful Nihal for introducing me to the guys and not piss-taking me (too much) while I did the groupie thing. On the whole, a great night and most certainly worth losing a few hours’ sleep over.

Apart from that, nothing new to report. Just a bit headachy and sore-throaty but I’m downing Lemsip capsules faster that you can say "druggie". *Sigh* Onwards and upwards.

Feeling sick

2007-01-31T11:00:00.000+01:00

I’m feeling totally crap this morning. I’ve caught a cold and as some of you know, I don’t do things by half and that includes getting ill. I’m at the beginning stages so I’m still coherent but what’s pissing me off is the fact that I’m going to an Outlandish gig tonight and have been looking forward to it for weeks and now that it rolls around, I’m feeling like a nauseous hippo being forced to sit in a clean white room when all it wants to do is go to sleep in the mud. The journey in was crap. I left my headphones at work so I couldn’t escape the drone of life around me with music. This is probably a good thing since the first song on shuffle would probably have been Tracy Chapman’s Fast Cars or something equally as depressing. As I alighted onto the platform at Liverpool Street Station, I found that my cover of graceful-but-ruthless-sophisticate-with-a-ready-scowl-for-anyone-that-gets-in-her-way had deserted me so I ended up stumbling my way in and out of people’s paths. I actually bought (and ate!) an apple this morning which should indicate just how ill I’m feeling. The construction work outside isn’t doing a lot for my headache and I can’t seem to funnel my thought stream into anything productive so that’s why I’m here having a moan. And, yeah, that’s it.

Cats in the cradle

2007-01-30T17:00:00.000+01:00

The day began with me recoiling in horror as I realised that the guy I was perving on was Daniel Radcliffe… yes… Daniel Radcliffe: otherwise known as Harry Potter. Granted, the paper that I spotted him in was upside down so he was out of focus and if it was the right way round, I wouldn’t have given it a second glance... honestly! Ok, ok, the truth is that I do think he was looking rather dishy (does anyone say “dishy” anymore?) in today’s Metro (view pic) and yes, admitting that does make me feel a bit paedophilic since he’s only 17 but what can I say? He’s legal, right?

I don’t usually go for younger guys so it was certainly an exception. I once had a conversation with a bunch of friends about this topic (i.e. how young is it okay to go?) All the females were adamant that they couldn’t/wouldn’t date a guy younger than them whereas the guys said they wouldn’t date a girl younger than 18 or 19. I scoffed at them since these were the same guys that were lusting after a barely-legal Sharapova a few years ago. I know it’s all to do with maturity etc but I still think I’d piss-take a 24-year-old for dating a 17-year-old. It would just feel a bit icky… so no more perving on Harry Potter…

*Goes off to perve on Jose Mourinho to ease conscience*

Thanks and apologies

2007-01-29T09:00:00.000+01:00

I’m posting a quick note about the Playing with Words event that I attended on Saturday morning. I just want to say a huge thanks to everyone who turned up to show their support. It was a really worthwhile event and went beyond my expectations.

A special thanks to Rabina Khan for organising the event and inviting me along. Thank you to the Idea Store for hosting the event. May it be the first of many to come. I’m sorry to those of you who didn’t get a chance to say hello before I rushed off. Also, I want to apologise to Channel S for rushing off before giving you an interview. Next time!

Great Expectations

2007-01-25T21:00:00.000+01:00

Anytime I’ve been asked to give advice to youngsters, I tell them to follow two simple rules and they’ll be okay:

1. Stay in school
2. Don’t do drugs

It doesn’t mean that those who don’t follow those rules won’t be okay in life (I’m pretty sure uneducated rock-star drug-addicts are pretty damn content) and it doesn’t necessarily mean that by following those rules, you will achieve all your dreams but it does mean that you’ll do okay.

A friend recently asked, “Surely that’s not all the advice you can give. There’s loads of other stuff kids should do to succeed.”
I shook my head, “Nope, that’s it.”
She frowned dubiously. “Are you telling me that that’s all you’re gonna tell your kids when you have them? ‘Stay in school. Don’t do drugs’?”
I nod. “Well of course there’ll be other stuff but that’s the barebones of it.”
She shook her head. “Just you wait. There’ll be no end to the stuff you want your kids to learn and do and say.”

That conversation got me thinking about children and wondering whether I would have sky-high expectations of them the way I do with myself. I recently commented to a friend that I could have done so much more with my life. I don’t know where this hunger for more turns into greed but it is certainly one of my malaises. I have decided that when I have kids (Insha’Allah) I will go easy on them and be satisfied as long as they do well in school and stay away from drugs. Oh, and one more thing. I hope that they will be readers. I seriously, honestly, genuinely think that reading in one’s youth gives a person a kind of deeper intelligence or knowledge (or maybe wisdom) that is missing from so many people. I can’t really explain this intangible quality but I hope that it settles in my children.

Always on time

2007-01-19T22:00:00.000+01:00

Hey kidses, just thought I’d say hi now that the new year resolutions have all been safely broken and filed away for next year. I’ve been quite busy running around… well, that is if you can define “running” as “stumbling around in a sleep-deprived stupor” but you get the idea. I’m on top of things though. I’m used to being 100% super-organised which is both a source of pride for me and a source of mockery for my friends. Yes, I’m one of those anal people that file away bills in a folder with coloured dividers, who can’t sit still if there’s something that needs straightening and who is ALWAYS on time. When meeting certain friends, I know that they will be late but I still turn up on time simply because I hate hate hate being late (hey, that rhymes, a writer and a poet… :) I also print out maps for everything. I’m not kidding. If I’m at the top end of Old Street and need to get to the bottom end, I print out a map. That’s how useless I am with directions and navigation but hey, everyone needs a vice.

Anyway, that’s enough rambling for one day. As an aside, there is now a gallery on the site but if you want to meet me in person, I’m doing a reading/signing at a local library. Email me for details if you want to come down and say hi. ‘Til then, comrades, good health, humour (and punctuality) to you all.

Email exchange

2007-01-08T13:20:00.000+01:00

Kia: And, forgot to say... asking a person with dyslexia to proofread by manuscript is just asking for trouble, isn't it? (Not terribly PC I know but there you go...)

Person-with-dyslexia: Did you mean "my manuscript" there? =P

Kia: Cheeky bugger

Person-with-dyslexia: You deserved it =)

I'm Back

2007-01-04T17:00:00.000+01:00

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for abandoning you all during the Christmas period. As you can imagine, I was really busy… watching Fifty Greatest Number Ones Ever and Fifty Greatest Rock Songs Ever and Fifty Greatest Videos Ever and so on and so forth. It’s the curse of Freeview; nothing good is on but you sit and watch it anyway. I’m pretty sure it made me shed more than a few brain cells. It has also forced me into developing a liking for Ashton Kutcher. I don’t know why or how his moronic ramblings on the endless repeats of Punk’d made me begin to find him attractive but there you have it. (Not quite as scary as me wondering if Gordon Ramsay is as passionate in the bedroom as he is in the kitchen but I was hormonal so we’ll discount that).

Overdosing on TV aside, I actually managed to do something good for a change; I went for a run, twice this week. I decided to start running partly because it’s a good way to let off steam but also for the obvious reason of getting fit. I have never exercised regularly up to this point because I’m lazy and slim so never had the motivation. My diet has consisted of chips, chocolate and Nandos for years but it was only after I consumed over three quarters of a strawberry gateau in one day over the holidays that I started to question myself. Colleagues at the medical research centre I work at tell me that I’m fat on the inside and that I will get diabetes and heart disease before my time. On the other end of the spectrum, if I dare to mention the C-word to friends, they all glare at me in disparage. The C-word being Cellulite of course. Some fail to understand that it’s a curse that doesn’t discriminate between overweight unhealthy women and slim unhealthy women. So, yes, getting fit is on the cards.

Other than that, I’m a few chapters away from completing the first draft of my second book (yay me). I’m also starting to house-hunt so I’m set for a busy few months. I guess if it all starts to get on top of me, there’s always Freeview :)

Oh, and Happy New Year.

Friends

2006-12-15T08:45:00.000+01:00

“I don’t use social networking sites,” I say, haughtily. My friend shakes her head vehemently. “Why are you so snobby about them anyway?” she asks. I try to explain that it’s not snobbery; it’s more like a neurosis. My friend has accounts on hi5 and myspace and regularly converses with people through MSN. Now there’s nothing wrong with this but she cannot understand why I cannot and do not regard people I ‘met’ over the internet as ‘friends’. I tell her that it’s about trust or lack thereof. I say internet contact is missing that trust you build with a person when you meet them face to face. She challenges me by asking, “What if you have spoken to them over a webcam? That’s face to face contact. Would that be good enough for you?” I shake my head, unconvinced. I’m not quite sure how to articulate my reservations about this.

I know it’s the 21^st century. People meet over the internet every day and establish lasting friendships and relationships but I can’t help but feel that making friends the traditional way is better and, well, real. Some argue that internet friendships are real; you exist and they exist and just because the space you meet in doesn’t really exist, it doesn’t nullify the relationship but it is this space that my neurosis stems from. After all, I didn’t have a problem with Meg Ryan falling in love with Tom Hanks without meeting him face-to-face in Sleepless in Seattle and yet, when the same thing happened in You’ve Got Mail, I rolled my eyes and stuck two fingers down my throat (metaphorically speaking of course). I do wonder how I came to this opinion. After all, I have grown up around computers and studied the field in-depth. I, of all people, should be comfortable with virtual activity but it leaves me feeling cold.

I asked a question to my friend who has always maintained that an internet friend can be just as real and good as a “real” friend. I asked her if she would trust an internet friend to look after her children at which point she stalled and instantly realised my point. See, if I had children, a friend would be someone that I would trust to look after them and I could never leave my children with someone I never met face-to-face no matter how many times I spoke to them online or over a webcam or in a chatroom because that personal touch is missing.

I guess it all boils down to what you call a friend. To some, a friend is someone they met a few days ago. To me, a friend is someone I truly trust. Everyone else is just secondary.

Either want to be with her or be her

2006-12-14T08:45:00.001+01:00

A friend of mine recently made a mildly-derogatory remark about Natalie Portman. He soon regretted this as I launched into a tirade about how she is far better than your average two-cent actress or singer. I don’t know why but I have always been a massive (massive) fan of Natalie Portman. People bang on about her style, grace and elegance (which she has in abundance) but I respect her for different reasons. Of course she is beautiful and talented but it’s her belief that intelligence is more important than any of those things that makes her stand out. She uses her smarts instead of her sexiness. She put studying ahead of acting, she speaks multiple languages and is more content expanding her mind than falling out of a club with Hilton & Co. In short, she’s the woman I want to be.

Yawn

2006-12-11T17:00:00.000+01:00

I think 70% of this weekend was spent underneath a duvet. As unglamorous as it may be to admit this, it’s true. I ate so much chocolate, I think I’ve got RSI from unwrapping the endless arrays of Blue Ribands. I ate, read and watched TV all from the comfort of my duvet and generally indulged in self-loathing for not having Saba Douglas-Hamilton’s life. I was even reduced to watching Deal or No Deal, which is kind of like watching a tooth get extracted but just drawn out over an hour.

And yet, when I told myself ‘You need a bigger bag’ as I stepped out this morning, I replied with:
No, I need a smaller life.

Why is it that even when I spent a weekend just resting, this sentiment rang true? Endless surveys tell us ‘young professionals’ that we work too hard, play too hard and that we will burn ourselves out before we reach 30. I’m beginning to wonder if what they say is true. Don’t get me wrong, I think of myself as a relatively well-balanced individual... Ok, scratch that. I don’t think I’m a whole lot more screwed up than the average person; I have plenty of drive, ambition, determination and all those wonderful and amazing things that make the iPod generation, the iPod generation but at times I wonder if we should just step on the brakes once in a while, just to stop ourselves from spinning.

Educated fleas

2006-12-06T17:00:00.000+01:00

A friend of mine is going through the arranged marriage process and experiencing all the trials and tribulations I went through when searching for a suitable boy. I empathised with her as I know how difficult it is. I also joked that hopefully she would be untouched by the bad luck that I and others I know have had with regards to arranged marriage. That’s when I realised that I don’t know one girl who went to university and is in a happy arranged marriage. Granted, I don’t know a great many that had an arranged marriage (most of them either had a love marriage or are going through the hunting process right now) but those who have are either unhappy, dissatisfied or (and) regretful. How this didn’t register with me before, I don’t know.

I am not a fan of arranged marriage per se but I have always respected it as one of our cultural traditions and believe that, done in the right way, it can be helpful to those who didn’t pair up at college/university. Despite my personal bad experience, I still believe that arranged marriage can work but why is it failing for so many of us?

There has been a long-held belief by the “elders” that sending your daughters to university turns them into heathens. Is this true? Is it our fault that we’re not satisfied? Is gaining an education propelling our expectations to unreachable heights, so far beyond anything realistic that we simply cannot find someone we’re happy with? Would cutting off our education at 16 or 18 been sufficient enough to match us up and facilitate happily-ever-after? Have I polluted my mind simply by expanding it?

iPod & Apple

2006-12-06T10:00:00.000+01:00

It’s official. My iPod is numbing my brain. I was fiddling with it, skipping over Missy’s ‘One Minute Man’ (too graphic first thing in the morning… yes, even for me) and I walked straight out of the house without my bag, which contains my phone, keys and purse. This meant that I couldn’t buy my usual chocolate brownie on the way to work, which means I’m in a bad mood and I’m starving (more than usual). I may even be forced to ingest the apple that’s been festering in a Tesco bag on my desk since Monday morning. Bah!

2006 will be a GOOD year

2006-12-01T16:00:00.001+01:00

That was my mantra at the beginning of this year. 2005 had been so inconsequential; it seemed that the whole year could be cut out of my life and still leave me in the same place and same position so I was determined to get things done in 2006. Turns out it became a crazy, messy year with sweeping highs and equal lows but here I am, intact and content.

The lows included stuff that most of you already know about.

The highs included holding my debut novel in my hands for the first time (which was amazing), travelling (which I love) and gaining my independence.

Overall, it has been a good year. Or, at the very least, a year for new things. Along with getting my novel published, I managed to avoid the dentist for another year (I do have pretty teeth though, honest), I learnt to cook (sort of) and one of my best friend’s got engaged. I discovered Outlandish, improved my navigation skills (but only marginally) and received hate mail for the first time (but some fan mail too :). I pierced my ears and let the holes close again as a small act of rebellion against the Asian Woman Extraordinaire that everyone was trying to mould me into. But most importantly, I questioned myself and my decisions. I asked myself how I could write a book judging a character too cowardly to stand up for herself and yet indulge in the same cowardice. I questioned how I could write about becoming a “tall woman” and yet bow to the expectations of everyone around me, spurning my own in the process. And finally, I decided to make myself happy. Yes, it was selfish and yes, it broke a few hearts but here I am: intact and content.

2007 will be a BETTER year.

Smile

2006-12-01T11:30:00.001+01:00

A few days ago, a young Asian girl smiled at me; just a passing smile that you may shoot at a stranger who you make eye contact with. I was so taken aback that I looked at her in a half smile, half stunned-duck kind of way. Why was I taken aback? Because I can truly say that no young Asian female stranger has ever, ever smiled at me. Conversely, I don’t think I have ever smiled at one either. Why am I highlighting this? To show that Asian girls are just so damned bitchy. I know that’s generalising but the vast majority of them (us) are.

Members of the poker-straight-hair, jeans-tucked-in-boots brigade are readily equipped with dirty looks that could floor each other if they had physical force. When I walk down the street with my 16-year-old sister, I can see her assessing every single Asian girl that walks by and they engage in some sort of evil stare-out. Why are we all such cows? It’s not like we’re out to steal each other’s boyfriends/jobs/friends/cred so what’s with all the mascara-caked evil eyes? Smile for Christ’s sake. I promise I’ll smile back without a trace of my stunned-duck expression. Now let’s all hold hands and sing.

Kumbaya, m’lord. Kumbaya.

N***s, P*s and C****s

2006-11-24T12:50:00.000+01:00

I was on the train listening to Nothing by N.O.R.E (yes, I listen to such classy music) and as you can see from the lyrics, the song is pretty saturated with the word “nigger” (or if I’m cool like Tim Westwood, “nigga”). Now I don’t usually listen to music cranked up to piss-off-my-fellow-passengers level but the song before it (Stand By Me by Ben E. King) was really quiet so I turned it up. Murphy’s Law will dictate that as I am listening to this song I will be surrounded by a host of black people and of course, because I am Kia, Murphy’s Law is pretty much a constant truth in my life. I was pretty sure that even if the other passengers could hear the song, it wasn’t really a big deal because it wasn’t like I was calling anyone anything offensive, it was just Pharrell Williams doing his thing but I did feel a little uncomfortable so I turned down the volume as subtlely as possible.

This of course led me to the age-old debate about who is ok to use certain words and who isn’t and when it’s ok to use them and to whom. I personally call some of my Pakistani friends “Pakis” (sometimes even “f***ing Paki”) and my Chinese friends “Chinks” but only because they’re my friends. I would never dream of saying those words to a stranger. My instinct is to say that this is ok because they’re my friends and yet I would never feel comfortable using the word “nigga” to a stranger or a friend, simply because there is such an intense level of negativity attached to it. I even debated whether or not to blank out the “igga” in “nigga” here but decided that we’re all adults so that it’s ok.

I remember how Jennifer Lopez was lambasted for saying “niggas” in a song (I’m Real) because she wasn’t black. P Diddy leapt to her defence and said that it was ok for her to use the word because she was Latino. Would it have been ok for her to use it if she had been white? Some will argue that it’s not ok to use (potentially) racist words against anyone any of the time but I think it’s to do with personal relationships. It’s up to the individual to glean who it’s ok to say certain words to and just practise a decent level of sensitivity. Having said that, Tim Westwood should never use the word “nigga”. But then again, I don’t think Tim Westwood should use any words at all. He should just sit in a corner and curl up in a foetal position, rock back and forth, suck his thumb and pray for forgiveness.

Wait, am I rambling again?

The good and bad

2006-11-22T15:45:00.000+01:00

Most of us have done things in life that are generally deemed as “bad”. Things like lying to our parents, cheating on a test and maybe even stealing a pack of chewing gum. Despite these minor misdemeanours, we are convinced that we are inherently good; that deep inside, when you cut past all the surface stuff, there is goodness. There are some of us that are inherently bad (hard-core criminals, etc) but what happens when as a good person, you do something really terrible and ugly? What if you are driven to do something you would never think possible, like murder or adultery or both? Does that immediately transform you from a good person into a bad one and is there ever a way back? Does any amount of repentance or guilt make up for it? Can we ever become good again?

A quick tribute

2006-11-20T17:00:00.000+01:00

Depressed about: Michael Schumacher losing out on his eighth world championship. Yes, he lost but he was certainly not the loser. His last grand prix proved him to be a driver that excels any other on the track. His determination and will to win is beyond anything else in the current sporting climate. He has won the championship in two different cars and outlasted at least four close challengers. Statistically (and generally, in my opinion) he is the best driver the sport has ever seen and I’m pretty sure we will never have another driver like him.

Complexes

2006-10-19T12:00:00.000+01:00

I wrote a post that was dripping with self-indulgent, philosophical, Dawson’s Creek type psycho-babble and I felt too embarrassed to put it up here baldly so if you want to descend into my ramblings, click here.

What happens when you cross an Islamist with a Mac?

2006-10-16T11:30:00.001+01:00

Firstly, what the hell kind of word is “Islamist” anyway? What does it mean? Is it a person that follows Islam? We are not “Islamists”, we are “Muslims”. If it is used as a reference to the crazies that like blowing people up, call them terrorists or extremists or even fundamentalists but don’t use the word “Islam” to define them because what they do and what they are goes against the very grain of Islam.

Ok, gripe about semantics over and done with.

The real reason why I’m writing this is the laughable reports about how Muslims are apparently up in arms over the Apple store on Fifth Avenue in New York because it is shaped like the Ka’ba. According to a report by the Middle East Media Research Institute, Apple's store has been slammed by "an Islamic website" as a "new insult to Islam".

What Islamic web site? Which Muslims are up in arms over it? Who is actually offended that Apple’s store is cube-shaped? Does Steve Jobs really have it in for us? The very concept is completely ridiculous. It seems that one person can make some kind of bizarre parallel between two things and just because that person happens to be Muslim, they suddenly represent the views of a wide cross-section of Muslims.

I don’t want to go on about how the media were inflammatory specifically in this case simply because the religion in question was Islam but it’s true. Would a Christian saying s/he was offended by a rectangular building because it resembles an altar have been given the same time, space and attention?

If I wrote on a web site that I am offended by a Dell computer because it is black and cube-shaped, would that view be reflected by a large number of Muslims? Of course not but it would sure as hell be projected that way. I guess I should slap myself on the wrist for getting caught up in this. I haven’t dignified Jack Straw’s comments and the veil debate by addressing them, I probably should have left this one alone too.

The Key to Perfection

2006-10-16T10:30:00.000+01:00

After spending almost two weeks’ wages in one day during yet another trip to Green Street this weekend, I think it’s safe to declare that my trousseau is officially complete. Along with gathering mounds of sarees, shalwar kameezes, bangles, sandals etc etc etc, I have also been trying to adjust my attitude. I was in the kitchen when my mother told my elder sister to take her husband some water/food/tea. I started to say, “Does he not have functioning arms and legs?” but stopped myself lest my mother starts lecturing me on the virtues of a good wife.

That unvoiced comment helped me figure it out though; the key to being the perfect wife. It’s simple: you just pretend that your husband doesn’t have any legs and do stuff the way you would if it were actually true; you would not only make his breakfast/lunch/dinner/tea but you would take it to him, you would constantly check if he was ok and ask if he needs anything, you would run his bath, bring him the remote, fetch the paper etc etc etc.

Ok so, yes, this post is meant to be tongue-in-cheek but I still reckon it’s a neat trick. This way you’re not succumbing to a life of subservience but one of benevolence and a quiet amusement. Of course, pretending he doesn’t have legs only works to a certain extent. We may have to rely on the good old headache for getting out of certain other wifely duties...

Defeat?

2006-10-09T15:30:00.000+01:00

My joy about Schumacher equalizing with Alonso came to a bitter end yesterday when he retired from the Japanese F1 race. Usually when I’m set to watch a second broadcast of a race (the first being before dawn) I avoid the news so I can watch the race without knowing its outcome. This time however I knew the outcome of the race so I didn’t watch it as I couldn’t bear to sit through the excruciating moments of Schumacher’s championship go up in smoke. He seems to have put aside his win-at-all-costs philosophy and accepted the fact that Alonso will win the championship. It is gutting because Schumacher is a sporting legend. Yes I know at times he has acted in an unsportsmanlike manner but no one can deny that he is a fantastic driver and truly great at what he does. He is a legend and this is no way for a legend to exit the game. It is unfair.

Ok, I’m done. For now.

PS. Fat lady. Not singing.

Leaving Tower Hamlets

2006-10-02T14:15:00.000+01:00

I’m leaving Tower Hamlets. After my wedding at the end of October I shall be moving to the borough of Redbridge. Many people I know would rejoice at the thought of leaving the “crime-infested, poverty-stricken cesspool” that is Tower Hamlets but for me, it is a reluctant move and a sad event. Tower Hamlets may be one of the poorest boroughs in Europe; it may be saturated by high unemployment rates and have an uncontrollable drugs problem but it has always been my home and I have grown to love it.

Living in Limehouse, I have experienced both the affluence of the Docklands and the poverty of the surrounding areas. This dichotomy has only helped create the unique identity sported by my borough. It has history, culture and an amazing mix of people. I know I sound like an over-passionate council brochure or a second-rate estate agent but I don’t care. From Limehouse Basin to Brick Lane and Billingsgate, the colour, charm, diversity, vibrancy and authenticity of Tower Hamlets is unmatched by any other borough in London. It is as much a part of me as the colour of my skin or the level of my education. I hate to leave it because it is a part of my identity as a bengali, as a woman, as a writer, and as a person.

Stragging and haggling

2006-10-02T10:30:00.001+01:00

A half-decent weekend overall. Sunday was spent exulting over Schumacher equalising with Alonso in the F1 Championship standings (so I’m a geek, shoot me). Saturday was spent traipsing up and down (and up… and down) Green Street buying some sarees for my "Asian Woman Extraordinaire" arsenal. I also have to stock up on jewellery and even thought about buying a jewellery box (Kia Abdullah, you have been assimilated). At some point during my (third? fourth?) shopping trip to Green Street this month I realised that I no longer feel awkward walking into Asian clothes and jewellery stores. I no longer feel like I’m going to act like a fool (Q: Would you like that in a kabuli or chudidar? A: Uh, What’s a kabuli?), feel inferior for my inability to match shades of baby pink just-so or feel like I’m going to get screwed out of money on 300% mark-ups.

In fact, I have proven to be quite the adept haggler. I managed to get my price in all stores but one. This one involved getting into a gladiator-type battle of prides with a silver-tongued salesman complete with spectators and hecklers. It came down to a twenty pound difference. I was not willing to go any higher and he was not willing to go any lower. Eventually we decided to meet in the middle. “There we go. Neither of us lost our pride,” I commented. “It wasn’t about pride,” he replied. “I want to sell it to you more than you want to buy it.” I could not help but narrow my eyes and say, “I still think you got the better of me.” “No,” he replied immediately. “You got the better of me. Buy another saree and we’ll have another round.” I left with my pride intact but was not entirely convinced (Asif, you and I have a score to settle).

I have also developed a set of “haggle” statements (“Let’s not waste time, give it to me for fifty and I will hand you the cash right now,” “My sister’s getting married in two months. Give it to me for sixty and I will send my family here for the wedding shop.”) I haven’t used the “I’m a writer, I’ll tell the world you do great discounts,” line yet but who knows what I’ll stoop to? After all, now that I have been assimilated I may just start to enjoy it! (eek)

He was as young as newly formed mud, and he talked to himself as if reciting poetry

2006-09-29T09:30:00.000+01:00

Written by Kiwi.
Published here with permission.

There's a kind of girl that's just about anything and everything and absolutely nothing all at once. A puzzle girl, a sort of Rubix Cube incarnate.

Everyone knows at least one. She's the type of girl where you could gather together all her friends and they could each probably tell you her favorite color, her favorite movie, her favorite moment from the summer before last. They could tell you all about her strings of boyfriends and various neurotic habits. They could probably capture a general descriptive image of her personality for you within 200 words and they'd definitely have a story or two to tell as well. But ask everyone to sit down and piece together her life's story from birth canal to last night's sushi boat dinner for you and they wouldn't even be able to agree on the most basic of chronological maps. They might not even be able to agree on the correct spelling of her real name. Does she even *have* a real name?

She's a subconscious magician with invisible arms that are always protecting her with tricks and sleight of hand. She's the kind of girl that never lets you notice how truly elusive she really is. Those physically around her will confidently tell you that yes, they know her, and that she's open with everything about her. Yet look closer and you'll find that she'll have many more friends that she's rarely around who somehow know far more about her intimacies. She's the girl that likes a sense of distance one way or another. She'll keep you physically close but emotionally distant, emotionally close but physically distant. And even in those rare instances when you think she's allowed you both, it only takes you a minute to realize that she's still far away enough to run at a moment's notice. She's the girl that never stops balancing her own need for security with everyone else's need for comfort.

A changeling, a chameleon, a mystery, a coward. Whatever the name, the species exists. Always available, but only on her terms, always loving, but only at her pace. Always the same prism but never the same face. She's the girl that everyone knows everything and nothing about.

A Life Less Ordinary

2006-09-27T11:00:00.000+01:00

Anyone who knows me to some degree of detail will tell you that I don’t do things by half but this past week, I’ve been spread so thinly I haven’t been able to give anything 100%. This grates on my nerves not only because it is against my nature to do things slowly, badly or incompletely but also because this month, being Ramadan, should be the one which brings the most focus and calm; elements that simply have not transpired over the past week. Perhaps it’s the lack of sugar that’s leaving me feeling low. Not to mention the lack of water that not only leaves me headachy towards the end of the day but has caused a continuous production of spots on my face. Yes, this should be least of my worries and usually I wouldn’t really give it too much thought but y’know, I’m getting married five days after Ramadan ends and no bride wants icky skin on her wedding day. Oh well, ho hum.

Other than generally feeling close to zero, I’ve been reading books and grinding my teeth over the season 2 finale of Lost. I have also (after almost ten years) discovered Outlandish who are sort of a weird combo of European hip-hop/Asian fusion/rap group based in Denmark and no, it’s really not as bad as it sounds. The three members hail from Morocco, Pakistan and Honduras respectively and write lyrics that are important and insightful and they are actually quite good.

Speaking of “good” leads me onto something else I have been considering this week. I am so glad that I started writing because whilst I’m not a Pulitzer prize winner or anything, it’s something that I really enjoy and something (I like to think) I’m relatively good at. And finding that one thing you love, enjoy and are good at is a rare gift. It makes me wonder how people who are truly great at something must feel. I am in awe of those people who are at the top of their game and who forge ahead with unwavering self-belief and commitment. From Mohammed Ali to Michael Schumacher, these men have done things that no-one else could achieve and that is both enviable and inspiring.

As I say in the “About” section of this site, I went through the fog that was Computer Science and whilst I still work full time in IT, I found my one thing. Everyone out there must be good at one thing. They must have one talent, one field that they love and are good at. I don’t want to go all John Keating on you but so many of us waste our lives on the 9 to 5 without ever discovering this one thing so I urge you to think about what you want to do and take it up. I’m not saying you should leave your job or spend your life savings but think about the one thing you might be good at and try it. Whether it’s something as simple as enrolling in an evening class to learn a language or taking piano lessons, do it. Attack life my friends because when all is said and done, it’s going to kill you anyway.

Kia & Killing

2006-09-20T18:30:00.000+01:00

I have been told on more than one occasion that I have a split personality. After the day I’ve had, it’s half this personality that wanted to go home, curl up in PJs and listen to some Mariah Carey. It’s the other half that refused to take such a defeatist attitude. So instead I put on the angriest music I have and ran til I bled. It’s because of that half that I’m sitting on my bed with muscles that have lain dormant for years incapacitated beyond movement. But I’m ok. Sort of. I think.

To blank out the residual mean reds, I picked up Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult in which a mother kills her son’s molestor. There is a part where she questions how she could have killed another person. This theme of “Am I capable of murder?” comes up in many books and films. There is often a moment where the good guy has the evil guy in a vulnerable position but just can’t bring himself to shoot/stab/strangle/etc because he is inherently good. I questioned myself on this issue once and I came to the definite conclusion that I could commit murder (under the right circumstances of course). Perhaps admitting this openly to the world isn’t the smartest thing I’ve done but we’ll ignore that for a second. I know murder is against my religion, against the law and pretty much against everything we have been taught but I still feel that I could do it.

Am I a minority? Do most people out there shake their heads and say, “There’s no way on Earth I could kill someone,” or do they have the same attitude as me? I guess it’s all to do with the situation. If someone posed a real threat to me or someone close to me, I know I could do it. Hell, after the day I had, maybe I’d have open fired on the Northern Line just to get some breathing space! Ok, now I sound like a sociopath so I’ll stop.

And, er, if someone pushes a person under a Northern line train sometime this week, it wasn’t me.

Smoking

2006-09-12T13:00:00.001+01:00

I’m often castigated for my zero-tolerance attitude towards smoking. People start quoting Niemöller at me (“First they came for the ‘smokers’ and I said nothing…”) and bandying about words such as tyrant and totalitarian but as many of you are aware, once I form an opinion, it takes about five solar eclipses to make me change it. Call it narrow-mindedness, I call it strength of belief.

Despite all the uproar over the various smoking bans, they were readily welcomed by me. I don’t spend my time in pubs but I still felt it to be a small victory in the battle of Kia v. World. I was especially pleased when Pizza Hut placed a ban on smoking in their chain of restaurants (pizza being one of the main staples of my diet). This strict anti-smoking attitude was instilled in me by my father at a young age. Not because he didn’t smoke but because he did. I saw him suffer a number of heart attacks and as we all know, smoking is a large factor in cardiovascular disease. But I don’t want to excuse my tyrannical stance by personalising the problem so we will move on.

I not only believe that smoking should be banned in public buildings and restaurants but that it should also be banned on the streets. If people want to smoke, they should do it in their homes and on their property. Why should I have to endure second-hand smoke being blown into my face by a pedestrian ambling along in front of me? Not only does the disgusting smell permeate every item of my clothing along with my skin and hair, it is damaging to my health. Why should another’s weak-will affect my health?

Lock them all up in a zoo I say! But seriously, whilst parts of this blog entry are tongue-in-cheek, the basic message is genuine. I honestly think that smoking should be banned in all public areas. If that sends out images of an Orwellian type autocratic state, then so be it. Smokers can either give up or shut up.

Faster London, faster

2006-09-05T17:00:00.000+01:00

Firstly, a quick apology. I know there is no excuse for abandoning the blog for three weeks so I won’t make any. I have kicked off the torture contraptions that are my sexy shoes and have nestled into the worryingly comforting chair on a Southwest Trains train. I’m on way back to London Waterloo from Chessington North, which for a born-and-bred Londoner is kind of like being in the middle of Deliverance; I kept expecting incestuous banjo players to come and grin at me wildly. So anyway, as I journey back to civilization, I silently thank God that I live in London. Yes, I have the typical Love-Hate relationship with London but I definitely love it more than I hate it. Quite recently, I was told that Londoners have a chip on their shoulders and that’s probably true but that’s only because we’re better than everybody else (kidding, just kidding…).

A friend from Birmingham complained that everything is so crowded and fast and people are so rude. Even my sister who lived in London for years found it difficult to deal with after a three-year-long stint up north (don’t ask me where, surely England ends on the borders of the M25?). But my complaint is that London isn’t fast enough. It takes just about all of my self-possession not to scream at women who plod their way up or down stairs in front of me simply because they can’t walk in heels. If you can’t walk in heels, don’t wear them. Even in my torture-contraptions, I don’t slow down to the pace of a stoned tortoise. People texting on their mobiles, fiddling with their iPods or reading their paper are also culprits. What ever happened to multitasking, people? Walk and talk, walk and read, walk and text. Is it really that hard? Faster, faster, faster.

But then again, I’ve been spinning so fast that these thirty minutes of sitting in one place undisturbed seem like a decadent luxury. Surely when you find a Southwest Train seat invitingly comfortable, you know you need to slow down?

A Gift

2006-08-15T16:30:00.004+01:00

I was given a book called A Gift For Women by my fiance on the day of our Islamic marriage. When thinking of gifts for me, a lot of people tend to opt for books so I thought, "Great. He’s on the right track.” The book is a sort of one-stop reference of what is Islamically right and wrong for a woman. The first thing I noticed was that it was a man who had written the book, which isn’t really here nor there but it was something that I mentally noted.

A week or so later, I decided to glance through it. The first page that I came across was the following one (click image to zoom in).

Needless to say I was far from impressed. I discussed the book with a friend who said that whilst the way in which these ideas are presented in the book are a bit consternating, the core ideas hold true in Islam. As the conversation progressed my friend stated that, “Islam is based on common sense. Is there any one part of it that doesn’t make sense or that you can disagree with?”

In reply to my friend’s question I said, “There is a part that doesn’t sit well with me; being able to marry off a 12-year-old girl to a grown man.” This was followed by a brief silence in which my friend was probably distancing himself from me since I was surely going to drag him into the hellfire along with me. “Is that something you are totally ok with?” I ask.
“I believe everything Islam says.”
“I understand that but do you think that is it ok for a grown man to marry and have sex with a 12-year-old girl?” I ask.
“It may not be acceptable in Western countries but it happens in places like Bangladesh and Pakistan,” he replies.
“Yes, but do you think it is ok for a grown man to marry and have sex with a 12-year-old girl?”
“I wouldn’t marry my daughter off that young,” he says.
“So you agree that is ok or you disagree?”
“Well, if you want to make it as black and white as that then yes, if that is what Islam says is right, then I agree.”
“So you agree that it is ok for a grown man to marry and have sex with a 12-year-old girl?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“Ok. That is all I wanted to know,” I say.

I’m not going to launch into a diatribe because obviously everyone has their own opinions but this just reminded me of what I said in a previous entry about drawing a line between believing stuff you believe and believing stuff only because you’re meant to believe it.

There are tons of stuff about the whole marriage-straight-after-puberty thing on the internet (bearing in mind that a lot of the stuff on the internet is unreliable) and there is stuff telling me I am an infidel and a hypocrite for not embracing this ruling. I understand that a girl who has started menstruating is old enough to bear a child and God made women this way for a reason but if someone was to press me on the subject as hard as I did with my friend, I would really have to say, No, I don’t think it’s right. If that makes me an infidel and a hypocrite, so be it.

Customs and Exercise

2006-08-14T10:00:00.000+01:00

It seems that unbeknownst to me, my personality has been surreptitiously removed and replaced with an entity called “Bride-to-be”. What bought on this sudden realisation? The fact that no-one in my family speaks to me about anything other than the wedding. Sure, it was a specifically wedding-focused weekend with Saturday containing a visit from the Groom and his family and Sunday spent picking up and trying on my freshly tailored wedding outfit but y’know, I can still talk about other stuff. I still have opinions about general life. I can still talk about the latest movie or the book I’m reading or how funky Jon Snow’s tie is tonight or how the new Pantene is a load of crap. But no, I’m forced to talk wedding rings and furniture buying and beautician finding and card choosing. I know that these are things that need to be talked about but for the sake of my sanity, surely these topics can be punctuated with the occasional, “Hey, did you watch Lost last night? What is Henry Gale up to?” or “What do you think about the Google-News Corp deal?” or even “Damn, hasn’t the weather been crazy lately?”

Every time I encounter one of my sisters, I make it a point to talk about topics ranging from the interesting to the inane; anything that is not wedding but inevitably, like it was ordained by Allah Himself, the conversation rolls around to wedding talk. So now I have withdrawn into a shell of reading, eating and scowling. If that is so, why am I here talking wedding? Because it’s under my skin, crawling around and I’m just about managing to contain Bridezilla (crazy, unhinged, control-freak type monster).

Two things are probably worth a mention:

Firstly: Bengali (or at least Sylheti) custom dictates that the Bride’s family must buy the Groom’s family a whole new set of furniture (generally speaking, the bare minimum would include a double bed, closet set, dining table and chairs, sofa set, showcase, fridge, washing machine, television, microwave). This would be a sensible practice if the couple was moving into a place of their own but this is not usually the case. Usually the new furniture is housed in the family home after which all original furniture is either thrown out or given away despite being in perfect working condition. How is this good sense? Surely the money spent on this largely unnecessary custom would be better put aside for the couple’s future together? But custom is custom and must be adhered to.

Secondly: My plan to get in shape. Thankfully I’m naturally slim (thanks dad) and can pretty much eat what I want without having to exercise but most girls over the age of 22 will tell you about the little bumps that appear just above their hips and it’s those that I want to get rid of. But I’m lazy. Damn lazy. I’m hardworking when it comes to mental activity but physical exercise? Bah, I say. Bah! Last year I went to Decathlon and bought myself sports gear. The running shoes have never seen the light of day. It’s something I really want to do, not only for the dreaded bumps but just to get fit. And those of you who say, “But you’re slim, you don’t need to get fit,” ought to walk up a set of escalators with me and soon you will be retracting that statement.

So yeah, those are my two little niggles but apart from that, I think I’m doing quite well to keep my cool amidst this storm. But who knows how long my grip will remain on the reigns of Bridezilla?

It's good to talk

2006-08-07T10:00:00.000+01:00

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to my sister.
“No, seriously. Ask dad. He’ll tell you,” she replies.
She has just told me a really interesting and scary story about my father and I’m sitting there, wondering how I never knew that about him. And then I realise that I don’t really talk to my parents. Of course we speak to each other but it’s usually regarding the day-to-day running of the house or general stuff rather than conversing about personal experiences or current issues. And I’m not quite sure whether that’s my fault or theirs or if that’s just the way it is. I know many kids that do have a bond with their parents that allows them to have long, interesting and comfortable conversations but the majority of Asian kids I know speak to their parents (and specifically their fathers) mainly in passing.

I recall the few times I had real, interesting conversations with my father. I recall how he told me that he used to play football in Bangladesh and wanted to go pro, about some of his first years in the UK, about how my eldest brother threw a fifty pound note in the fire back in the days when fifty pounds was a month’s rent. These small insights into my father’s history are stunning and special. So when my sister revealed this latest story about my father yesterday, I had to go and speak to him about it.

“Tell me the story you told Shiri,” I say to him. So we sit and he rewinds the years back to 1978. He tells me that he was walking through (what is now) Altab Ali Park after work one day. He tells me how the weather wasn’t great so he was carrying a long umbrella. He suddenly noticed three men get up from their lying-down positions in the foot-long grass and begin to walk towards him. “Each one was carefully placing his foot in the footprint of the one before him as if to show there was only one person there,” he recalls. He sensed danger and began to walk faster, making sure that the long umbrella with a pointed end was in full view. As he reached the street at the end of the park, he exited as fast as he could and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that the men had stopped advancing towards him. He walked home as fast as possible and told my mother about it. It was a few hours later that the news of Altab Ali’s death reached our house. Altab Ali, who walked through the same park was accosted by three racists, stabbed and murdered.

I am stunned that I never knew this about my father. How many other things are there in his life that I do not know about? Stuff like this makes me realise how hard our parents worked to set us up here and most of the time, we’re ungrateful and critical. I guess if parents took some time to talk to us instead of simply commanding us and if we took some time to listen, we would find out stuff that makes us feel bad but also, feel really really grateful.

Two Princes

2006-08-04T10:00:00.001+01:00

As I was getting ready for work this morning, I had a sudden urge to listen to Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson. I dug out the Bad album on cassette (remember those?) and put it on and you know, despite all the stuff that surrounds him, his music was always f***king good. Everything from Off The Wall to HIStory was fantastic and as a musician, he was simply genius. This got me thinking “Wasn’t music good back in the days?” I mean, I listen to Prince stuff and it is still fresh and better than half the stuff out there right now. Thieves in the Temple, Seven, Pop Life and dozens of others are such good songs on a basic and pure level, is there anything like that out there anymore?

I know there isn’t going be a second Michael Jackson or another Prince but there aren’t even close seconds. What do we have these days? Usher? Justin Timberlake? Yeah, these guys have good songs but compare them to the Greats and they’ll crash and burn. I try to tell myself that it’s just the times we live in now; music is so diverse with hundreds of sub-genres, people just don’t go crazy over one type of music BUT I just don’t believe it. Recently, I was excited over John Legend and Robin Thicke but again, whilst they are hugely and massively talented, they just don’t inspire that feeling. When was the last time you heard a soul-wrenching Under the Bridge or a life-affirming Living on a Prayer? And whilst I understand it’s hard enough for the original artists to match the former glory of their hit singles, you still expect the new artists to strike you with lightning once in a while. Maybe I’m just getting older and music doesn’t excite me the way it once did but good songs are good songs no matter what age you are, right?

I’m actually really interested in this. Contact me and tell me what the last song/artist that really excited you was. I want to see if it really is as doom and gloom as I think. Perhaps it’s not because if you asked me the same question, I could come up with a name. I would probably say Nerina Pallot with Fires and she is a relatively new artist. (If you haven’t heard her stuff, go here and listen to Sophia, Idaho and Damascus. I’m not usually into the whole Tori-Amos-Fiona-Apple-Female-Angst thing but Fires is good.) So, yeah, let me know if you think there will ever be two Princes. Unless of course, you don’t like Prince in which case, we don’t really need to know each other :P

All the fair men

2006-08-03T10:00:00.006+01:00

As many of you know, I'm getting married soon and am therefore officially “off the market". A friend recently commented: “It’s great you’ve got a ring on your finger. I bet there’s no better way of deterring the perverts, lechers and freaks than with a wedding ring.” I agreed with laughter but you know what? I think I owe something to the guys that have approached me in the past.

I want to divide this group of guys into two though. Group B contains the greased up, dumbed down, non-entities that yell from cars, gape lecherously in train carriages or make kissing sounds as you walk by. Group A contains the guys that glance at you shyly, smile at you honestly or approach you sometimes respectfully and sometimes cheekily. And no, Group B does not consist of only unattractive guys and Group A does not consist of only attractive guys.

To my Group A guys, I want to say thanks for flattering me. I don’t think I was ever rude or dismissive (if anything, my friends accuse me of being too soft hence getting repeat offenders) but if I was, then I’m very sorry.

To Group A guys in general, I want to say well done. Yeah, there you go. Girls without wedding rings will hate me for encouraging you but you know what? They are flattered and it is brave of you. If you see a girl you like, go on ahead and approach her. She may be rude and dismissive but at least you did something about it. Maybe some time down the line she’ll realise that you were brave for doing so and that you deserve some credit for it.

Just check for a ring first.

Being Talked About

2006-07-26T12:00:00.000+01:00

Life, Love and Assimilation received good feedback from many sources but it also provoked a number of negative reactions from both the public and people who I know personally. This week has been particularly interesting as East End Life (local newspaper distributed in Tower Hamlets) decided to run a review written in Bengali. Up to this point, I have been somewhat insulated from the “elder generation” as they haven’t read my book or read about it. This is mainly due to the fact that many of the elder generation cannot read English very well or at all. The East End Life review goes into some detail about the content and nature of the book (i.e. negative experiences with the community, drug addiction, inclusion of sex scenes) and thus reveals all to the elder Bengali community, exposing my heathen-ness.

My mother read the article. She knew I had written a book but not the specific nature of it and whilst she did not discuss the article with me, I was cringing and whingeing and generally dying. Having already alienated three of my siblings through the book, I wasn’t quite ready to be disowned by my parents too. Ok, that’s an exaggeration but you know what I mean. So anyway, I was planning damage control when the rebellious side of me said, “So what?”

And those two words calmed me down. Damn right! So what if it has sex scenes? Sex happens. So what if it discusses drug addiction? It’s rife in Tower Hamlets, no-one can deny that. So what if I’m meant to be a good little girl? I have a voice and I’ll say what I want with it. My sister told me that it’s probably best if I stopped doing promotion for a while or downplayed it a little but I said NO WAY. I am not backing down. I am not staging a retreat. Let people say what they want to say. After all as Mr. Wilde so astutely proclaimed, there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

What is it good for?

2006-07-21T16:30:00.000+01:00

I am dreading another picture of a war-torn land; the one picture that will make me stop and stare, transfixed, letting it darken something inside me. I know it sounds melodramatic but that is exactly what happens. There are countless of “good” pictures of war and famine; pictures that effectively portray the horror and pain. The most famous, of course, is the picture of a young, naked Vietnamese girl running from a napalm attack on her village. That picture has haunted millions over the years and rightly so. When I first saw it, I have to say, it wasn’t the girl in the picture that affected me as much as the boy on the left. His face is twisted in such terror and agony, it tore at me. The only way I got rid of the horror I felt was to find out about the subjects in the photograph and deconstruct and demystify it. In that way, it lost some of its power which is both a good and bad thing (http://digitaljournalist.org/issue0008/ng_intro.htm).

The napalm picture was the one picture that horrified me most but usually, it is the more poignant pictures that affect me. Below are two pictures that have done that in the past.

The cover of a copy of the Economist I bought a few years back. It is a simple but touching picture that I chose to keep.

A detained Iraqi man comforts his 4-year-old-son at a holding center for prisoners of war near An Najaf, Iraq. The picture was taken on 31 March 2003.
Photographer: Jean-Marc Bouju of The Associated Press.

These pictures are beautiful but saddening and kind of heartbreaking all at the same time. With George W. Bush decrying Kofi Annan’s plan of action with regards to the Israel-Lebanon conflict (“I don't like his ceasefire plan. His attitude is basically ceasefire and everything sorts out.”) and his power-hungry and jingoistic attitude, we can expect a multitude of pictures coming out of Lebanon showing blood and body parts and missing limbs. But, somehow, it’s these pictures of children with sadness in their eyes that make me feel worse.

Stem of my Belief

2006-07-20T14:15:00.001+01:00

On certain occasions, when discussing ethical or particularly controversial issues, I have occasionally thought, “I wonder what Islam says about this,” with the obvious intention of adopting Islam’s stance as my own. Whilst this is the correct thing to do from my religion’s point of view, it does disconcert me to some extent. Instead of forming my own opinions about an issue, am I really willing to blindly accept a specific view or its polar opposite depending on what Islamic scholars interpret from the Qur’an? Should I ditch my “original opinions” if they are deemed wrong from an Islamic point of view? Perhaps that is the right thing to do but it just doesn’t sit well with me. Surely it is better to believe something by questioning it and subsequently understanding it rather than blindly accepting it? So, what is the root of this train of thought?

Stem Cell Research.

Those three little words represent an issue that has bought about discord and dissent and has divided opinion like very few before it. It has certainly divided my opinions. On one hand, embryonic stem cell research destroys a human life and inherently, as humans, we believe that this is wrong. But it is not just the destruction of life that makes me uneasy, it’s also the creation of it; isn’t this almost like playing God?

On the other hand, stem cell research and therapeutic cloning could be the answer to serious illnesses and provide hope for people with degenerative diseases such as Alzheimer's and Parkinson's.

So what is right? I can understand and identify with both points of view but I don’t want to sit on the fence. If push came to shove, I would (reluctantly) say I am pro-stem cell research. I respect the sanctity of life but I think that the creation and destruction of a collection of cells without a nervous system may be worth it to save a “real” human being’s life and/or to cure them of a degenerative disease. Saying that is not easy for me but it is what I would lean towards if I was forced to. I believe that as long as there are strict rules guiding the research and that we don’t somehow branch off into liberal eugenics, stem cell research can be justified.

After I made my decision, I decided to find out what, specifically, was Islam’s stance. Naturally I assumed that Islam would be anti-stem cell research because of the strict ruling on abortion so I was extremely surprised to find from several sources that there was substantial support for it by Islamic scholars. Many say that the Shari’ah (Islamic Law), differentiates between actual life and potential life; that a young embryo outside the womb is not considered a person and the use of it for stem cell research does not violate Islamic law.* Ultimately, this tallies with my personal opinion. Whilst this puts me in the same boat as the person who would blindly accept Islam’s ruling, I am glad that I thought it through and came to a conclusion of my own accord. I actually have deep respect for the people who can accept, “Believe this because Islam tells you to” but I, personally, like to do a little more digging. That way, I will believe what I’m meant to because I believe it and not purely because I’m meant to.

* http://www.islam101.com/science/stemCells.htm has a good article on the matter by Dr. Muzammil Siddiqi, the Former president of the Islamic Society of North America.

Nonpolitical Animal

2006-07-19T13:45:00.000+01:00

I find myself clapping after a statement made by David Cameron MP. I stop mid-clap in shock and disgust. I look around to make sure that no one has witnessed this act, which of course will make it easier to pretend that it didn’t happen. There are many reasons why one would dislike Cameron; his tendency to change his views to suit his audience, the fact that he voted in favour of the

Iraq

war, disagreement with his political views and policies, etc etc so why do I personally dislike him? Alas, I cannot say it is because I have carried out a discerning analysis of his political views and concluded that they do not align with my own. I cannot say it is because of his chameleon-like habit of changing his colours and skipping from right to left and left back to right. The reason I dislike him is because he is smarmy. Yes, you heard me. Smarmy. He has this self-serving pompous look about him. No, I can’t back this up with specific observations; it’s just a vibe that I get from him. The way he speaks: smarmy, the way he smiles: smarmy, the way he gesticulates: smarmy.

Maybe it is some sort of inverse prejudice; Cameron is the son of a stockbroker and was educated at Eton and Oxford. He grew up in Oxfordshire, read Philosophy, Politics and Economics and dabbled with recreational drugs. If that doesn’t smack of toffness, I don’t know what does. Basically, he’s a million miles away from me and most “normal” people. How can he possibly relate to my experiences and my problems? The closest he has ever got to my community is indulging in a saccharine photo-opportunity at a local primary school.

I mean, could this picture get any less genuine? It’s like, “Let’s have girls in scarves behind me to say that ‘Yes, I like Muslims’ and why not have me sitting on the floor to show that they are equal or even above me? It will portray a strong sense of humility in me and I’ll sit here and make all these important looking gestures and..[etc etc etc]” *Smarmy smile*

I just really really dislike him.

But then again, most of my political leanings are based on equally irrelevant factors. I listen to the debates in the House of Commons not because I think they are insightful or interesting but because I love the banter, jesting and lighthearted derision that takes place. I like the tradition and the big, fancy terms and titles such as, “The Right Honorable Gentleman”, and “Serjeant at Arms” and even “The Leader of the Opposition”.

Equally lightweight is the reason why Teflon Tony held a special place in my heart for many years; in 1998 with the burgeoning growth of the internet, I read that using one finger, Tony typed in a message for Cherie with the flowers he was ordering for her online. Perhaps that too was a ploy to show his “human” side but it worked with me. It made me like him and surely, that is half the political battle won?

Perhaps I should examine political agendas in depth rather than making decisions on whether or not I like a politician. After all, surely it is an abhorrent crime to like any of them?

I [Heart] London

2006-07-18T17:00:00.000+01:00

I’m wilting. Wilting like a dead flower or a weeping willow or, erm, things that wilt. It is simply too hot. And I don’t want to be quintessentially British and complain about the hot weather (even though that’s exactly what I’m doing) so I will try and be positive. It’s great that we’re having nice weather. London in the summertime is beautiful and special and beautiful and special (it’s the heat). So special that Anthony Keidis even wrote a song about it. But it’s not hard for me to sing the praises of London in the summertime because I love London all year round.

I sold my car years ago so I don’t have to worry about the congestion charge. I don’t have my own place so I don’t have to think about council tax just yet (though house prices are darkening the horizon). I grew up in East London so lack of green spaces is something I’m used to and I can be just as rude and cold as the next person so that doesn’t usually affect me too much. The only thing I can complain about is the Northern Line but even that I can avoid if I need to. And whilst this weather is making me droop and wilt and create my own little hole in the ozone layer with the amount of Impulse Body Spray I’m using, I’m still not going to complain because London is great.

London is great because the view from St. Paul’s Cathedral is beautiful. London is great because you will find a Muslim person eating lunch next to a Jewish person on a park bench. London is great because of the Somerset House fountains at night and because of the Serpentine. London is great because you can be as pretentious as you want and shop on Carnaby Street or laugh at pretentious people shopping on Carnaby Street. London is great because of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey and Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. It’s great because of that dinosaur in the Natural History Museum. The gorgeous Jose Mourinho lives here. We have Hyde Park and Hampstead Heath and Richmond Park and the Queen’s Walk. You can find any type of cuisine you like. The restaurants are amazing. We don’t speak French. Abbey Road. The London Eye (don’t judge unless you’ve been on it). Brick Lane and Chinatown and Spitafields and Billingsgate and Shoreditch and damnit, even Hackney. 300 languages. Great universities. Wembley Stadium. The music and entertainment. Canary Wharf lit up at night. Maple Krispy Kreme donuts.

*Realises there’s gum stuck on her shoe*
*Sigh*

Life, Love and Assimilation

The Fourth Decade

Snippet

In Pursuit of Happiness

Nightcrawlers

Late Expectations

Snippet

Private Eye

Snippet

All Animals Are Equal

Snippet

A (Not So) Suitable Boy

Sisters in Arms

Fair Share

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Child's Play Extract

Unbroken

The Monstrosity

Five by Five

Scales of Indifference

The Small Things

Playing Favourite

BBC Gaza Appeal

Look at me – I’m sooo clever

Imperfect Love

Free (free) Palestine

The Plan

Rhys

Under Pressure

Under a Woman's Skin

Just Say No

Now, the Backlash?

Come one, come all!

Blind Faith?

We Ain’t Got No Alibi

Good Catch

Azzurri Blues

And then a hero comes along…

Silver Tongues

Older? Yes. Better? Erm…

Pieces of Me

What doesn’t kill us is making us stronger

# I’m Gonna Live Forever #

I Am Beautiful

// No Comment

A Brick in the Wall?

So how much do you earn?

The Second Coming

Guess Who’s Back?

Mother

The Race

Validation

Time

I'm Still Here

Pieces

I need a new man

Let them eat cake

My life and art

Pictures

World Book Day

Infidel

Self-indulgent rambling at its best

Feeling better

Feeling sick

Cats in the cradle

Thanks and apologies

Great Expectations

Always on time

Email exchange

I'm Back

Friends

Either want to be with her or be her

*Yawn*

Educated fleas

iPod & Apple

2006 will be a GOOD year

Smile

N*****s, P***s and C****s

The good and bad

A quick tribute

Yawn

N***s, P*s and C****s