little sister in Siberia land
wat exactly r u doing ther?
dont u miss teh sunny british isles?
dont teh snow get in ur hair?
little sister in Siberia land
i miss u so much here
even tho we saw each other
mayb once or twice a year
little sister in Siberia land
wen r u coming home?
pls hurry bk to see us
pls call me on ur phone
luv mxxx
Monday 28 March 2011
Wednesday 23 March 2011
The White Kitten that Harboured Death.
While growing up in Ecuador I remember being frightened about many, many things. I was afraid of the dark, I was afraid of the old lady accross the road, I was afraid of the big dog next door, I was afraid of the crickets that congregated in huge piles outside of my house. I was even a little bit afraid of dolls. But what I wasn't afraid of were cats.
Those fluffy, cute balls of fun were not dangerous to me at all. Why should they be? They looked so harmless! So when a neighbour came round with the cutest little white kitten myself, my siblings and cousin squeeled with delight and spent many lovely hours playing with the darling thing.
We saw the kitten a few more times in the weeks following. And towards the end, the little creature took great delight in licking and nipping our hands. Oh how we laughed!
Being children, the fact that we never saw that kitten again meant absolutely nothing to us. In-fact, I don't recall ever thinking about the fluff ball again until I stood behind my mother one day, saw her answer the door and overheard a conversation between her and the guest about a little white kitten that had died of rabies. And 'oh!' we'd all better go to the clinic and get ourselves checked out against the ravenous neural-viral disease that was incurable after a certain time spent in the host body.
My father was visiting us from England for two weeks. We'd not seen him for nearly two years and the last week of his visit was spent frantically running to the clinic every morning, lying on a bed while getting a set of vaccinations around the belly button for seven days running. My father left wondering if he'd ever see us again.
We're all still alive now, which means either we weren't ever infected. Or we were able to counter the disease before the point of no return.
So! A travel tip for all you adventurers out there: When in Ecuador, never ever pet white kittens!
Those fluffy, cute balls of fun were not dangerous to me at all. Why should they be? They looked so harmless! So when a neighbour came round with the cutest little white kitten myself, my siblings and cousin squeeled with delight and spent many lovely hours playing with the darling thing.
We saw the kitten a few more times in the weeks following. And towards the end, the little creature took great delight in licking and nipping our hands. Oh how we laughed!
Being children, the fact that we never saw that kitten again meant absolutely nothing to us. In-fact, I don't recall ever thinking about the fluff ball again until I stood behind my mother one day, saw her answer the door and overheard a conversation between her and the guest about a little white kitten that had died of rabies. And 'oh!' we'd all better go to the clinic and get ourselves checked out against the ravenous neural-viral disease that was incurable after a certain time spent in the host body.
My father was visiting us from England for two weeks. We'd not seen him for nearly two years and the last week of his visit was spent frantically running to the clinic every morning, lying on a bed while getting a set of vaccinations around the belly button for seven days running. My father left wondering if he'd ever see us again.
We're all still alive now, which means either we weren't ever infected. Or we were able to counter the disease before the point of no return.
So! A travel tip for all you adventurers out there: When in Ecuador, never ever pet white kittens!
Thursday 17 March 2011
Sketch: Seared Salmon.
I sat on the stool at a strange angle. Its edge dug into my thigh and left a sting after I hopped off. Another customer was next to me asking for his usual. What was his usual? The Sushi chef nodded and went to his small kitchen. I remember the noise, the heat of that busy indoor market. The sense of inprisonment by the walls and ceiling, making me wonder when I'd see the sun again.
The sun was an unusual concept here. Constantly it hid from our sight behind the great blankets of grey cloud that promised to wring out its cold, heartless rain. And the breeze. Always, always a breeze from the sea-front. Either blustering past us or caressing our faces, teasing us. At least on the few hot days we experienced per miserable year we could be assured our own city-wide cooling system.
Finally I saw the chef bring out four slim, perfectly pink fillets of salmon. He laid them on a stone plate, like an offering on an altar. He bought out a blow torch and I watched, fascinated as the heat of the flame he commanded distressed the perfect, pink flesh.The skin bubbled, fizzed. It cracked and popped open. The sound fed my ears with sizzles and hisses of agony. The vaporised, transendant remains of the whitening, browning sacrifice teased and flirted with my sense of smell.
The Chef laid his masterpiece on some fluffy white rice and drizzled a sticky sauce over it. He handed the food over to the customer without any more show and smiled.
And so the spell over me broke and I sat back on my stool in the same, uncomfortable angle.
The sun was an unusual concept here. Constantly it hid from our sight behind the great blankets of grey cloud that promised to wring out its cold, heartless rain. And the breeze. Always, always a breeze from the sea-front. Either blustering past us or caressing our faces, teasing us. At least on the few hot days we experienced per miserable year we could be assured our own city-wide cooling system.
Finally I saw the chef bring out four slim, perfectly pink fillets of salmon. He laid them on a stone plate, like an offering on an altar. He bought out a blow torch and I watched, fascinated as the heat of the flame he commanded distressed the perfect, pink flesh.The skin bubbled, fizzed. It cracked and popped open. The sound fed my ears with sizzles and hisses of agony. The vaporised, transendant remains of the whitening, browning sacrifice teased and flirted with my sense of smell.
The Chef laid his masterpiece on some fluffy white rice and drizzled a sticky sauce over it. He handed the food over to the customer without any more show and smiled.
And so the spell over me broke and I sat back on my stool in the same, uncomfortable angle.
Friday 11 March 2011
Milestone on an Abandoned Highway
sticky
damp grass pokes through the cracks and crannies of the broken road
droplets cling to the stalks
drenching a wild cat whose fur is mired by mud and blood
a dying breeze meets its end at the mossy milestone
the milestone
a marker long since abandoned
on a road no longer traipsed by living human feet
no longer graced by relieved sighs or cursed by disappointed groans
the forgotten mark yet stands
and will stand
until the mossy growth and crying breeze tear it piece by piece
and let the crumbled wastes lie among the sticky
damp grass
damp grass pokes through the cracks and crannies of the broken road
droplets cling to the stalks
drenching a wild cat whose fur is mired by mud and blood
a dying breeze meets its end at the mossy milestone
the milestone
a marker long since abandoned
on a road no longer traipsed by living human feet
no longer graced by relieved sighs or cursed by disappointed groans
the forgotten mark yet stands
and will stand
until the mossy growth and crying breeze tear it piece by piece
and let the crumbled wastes lie among the sticky
damp grass
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