Desicritics Author: ShoeFiend

The Cell Phone, Our Saviour

ShoeFiend — Fri, 8 Sep 2006 14:22:06 EDT

"What would our lives be like without mobile phones?" is a question we should all ask ourselves.

Now, now, ye naysayer in the back who thinks our lives would be better off; that we might spend more time talking deeply to loved ones and friends; that we might actually be able to hear bird song and not the Crazy Frog ring tone; that waiting time at doctor's clinics would be severely reduced; that the man over there with the singed phallus may still have a chance to bear children and sow wild oats, instead of being confined to a life of peeing through a tube just because some asshole banker with Blackberry Thumb had to see the doctor first: you are in a minority and if you continue you to speak I shall lock you in a room filled with cell phones constantly going off with Crazy Frog as their assigned ring tones.

Thought that would shut u up (did you all notice my clever use of txt spk? There! I did it agn )

Now back to the question "What would our lives be like without mobile phones?"

Think of the cottage industries it has helped birth and nourish - the animal ring tone industry, the amateur 10 second sex film to be sent out via MMS industry (a boon to men who are always in a hurry), the novelty dangly bits that hang off phones and get caught in awkward places industry (that boosted the flagging fortunes of Hello Kitty the mouthless feline (branded as Hello Kutty in Kerala and Tamil Nadu)). Millions of people and one very large, scary, mouthless cat (gives a new understanding of the term Vaayilladha Jeevan) have prayer alters to this man-made marvel which they pay obeisance to every day.

But forget others. Think of how this godsend has enriched your own individual life. Remember the time before cell phones? When you were twenty minutes late for Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke and your friends couldn't be bothered to wait for you and you had to go home and take off the brand new dress you'd bought just for the film? DO YOU? Well now no more of that. We can arrive as fashionably late as we please, once the commercials for Gangar Opticians and Poonamallee Pizza Palace are well over. We can call our friends who we know never switch their phones off and demand they come outside with your ticket. And then buy you an extra large bucket of butter popcorn. Not that they need a cell phone for that.

Think of the precious time you have saved thanks to your cell phone. No more wandering through the Nagpada looking for Agripada. No more standing in the rain looking for No 34, Harley Road. No more trying to ask the Marathi speaking man at Kolivada the way to Basilica. Now when we are lost we just call friends up and say 'I am here next to the Marathi speaking gentleman at Kolivada. Come pick me up.' And then you hand the phone over to the aforementioned gentleman and all is well.

Think of all those dates from hell. Blind dates, first dates and oh god this is so the last date. Not so long ago, we had to suffer till the very end because we couldn't think of a convincing excuse. Or because the dessert menu looked wonderful. We had to sit through nearly two hours of lettuce in teeth, body odour or, even worse, listening to the other person go on about their dream Mastermind subject - Cindy Lauper 1985-1986. Now, through the marvel of science we have a ready made escape route. A friend calls in the middle of your meal, you drop your fork, you shriek, it's an emergency you tell your date - my best friend's dog/cat/goldfish just died. Suzy was a wonderful pet. You are comforted. You call the waiter and ask him to pack some tiramisu in a doggy bag and you leave. (All this of course we only see in movies. I don't know if this works in real life, but hey it's worth a shot. Oh, and don't call the friend who missed the trailers at the movies because you were late. Chances are she ain't ever calling you back.)

But most of all, cell phones keep our hands busy. They make us look busy. See that suit over there on platform two, brow furrowed as he stares at the screen of his new Blackberry? That isn't some important e-mail from work. It's either porn, Bricks or he's trying to change the language setting from Mandarin back to English (another cell phone use - great way to annoy your colleagues.)

In my own life, there is the ultimate use for the cell phone - the pretend phone call.

A deep rooted paranoia forces me to reach any appointment a good half our early. So after one has window shopped (and torn themselves away from the temptation that is the Mango cashmere coat), had a cup of coffee and read some of the book that looked great in the library but that you now cannot understand a word of - what does one do? One pretends to make phone calls. Send random text messages to friends. Penny pinchers can pretend to send random text messages to friends. The truly sad and pathetic can send random text messages to themselves. The chances of anyone pitying you as they pass by is minimal. Unless it's me of course. I know what you're really up to.

So people. Embrace your cell phones. Put away those elephant headed gods and laughing Buddhas you pray to. The Cell Phone is our new Saviour. It entertains us, connects us, challenges us (Where can I learn Mandarin?). It is a mysterious, divine presence in our lives that -

No Network Coverage.

Kensington Gardens on a Friday Afternoon

ShoeFiend — Sun, 3 Sep 2006 07:17:03 EDT

"Would you like the scenic route?" replied the smiling ticket officer at South Ken station. I had asked for directions to Kensington Gardens.

The alternative was to take the subway, and though the buskers and bright pop art posters that dot these subterranean passages are always a pleasure to listen to and see, I decided to soak in the sunshine that London's skies are loathe to let through in September.

So walk I did, all the way down Exhibition Road. A stretch of asphalt that is home to some of the capital's most venerable buildings, starting off with The Natural History Museum and The Victoria & Albert - two plump, ancient aunts seated comfortably on opposite porches and watching the comings and goings of the rest of the world, no doubt passing judgement, sharing gossip and occasionally getting in to tiffs ("No, I got more visitors last year!"). The Science Museum, Imperial College London, whose new glass and chrome fa�ade doesn't look as incongruous as it sounds, the pristine white buildings that house aristocrats, i-bankers and offices are lined up one after the other and my eyes are almost relieved when it all comes to end.

Rem Koolhaas' futuristic pavilion can be seen from the end of Exhibition Road. Was the Dutch architect chewing on hubba bubbas when he thought - "There's an idea, the pavilion will be a big white bubble." By day, the pavilion is a chic patisserie while in the evenings it plays host to movies, lectures and soirees that only those with hyphenated, Roman-numeral-including names are invited to. I had no desire to eat over priced French sandwiches (also I'd just eaten a quiche at Paul's) so I moved on to the Serpentine Gallery - a modest, low lying brick building that sits in the shadow of the bubble. As my luck would have it, the gallery was closed for a re-hanging. I was kindly offered a diary and the chance to take a look at their book shop. Sighting an appointment with the area's local swan population I excused myself.

I've only been to London's Parks on weekends. Usually along with the rest of the city, it's toddlers, nannies and dogs. I wondered who else would be in the gardens on a Friday afternoon. Hyde Park is perhaps a more popular and well known destination, so I wasn't expecting to be in the midst of Nikon flashing tourists. And I wasn't wrong.

Office workers taking extended lunch breaks. Old age pensioners walking their even older dogs. Children being minded by Phillipino and Latvian nannies.

"Who is that?" demanded a cherub faced devil as he marched past a statue of Queen Victoria that sits outside Kensinton Palace.

"Princess. That is dead princess," replied his petite minder from Manila.

I wandered aimlessly. The sun had disappeared and a cool breeze hinted of the rain that was to come. An old woman sat on a bench. Face made, hair done and surrounded by a dozen bags. She clutches them as though they contained all her worldly possessions. Was that regret on her face as she saw the little girl going by on her tricycle? Or was that just my over-active imagination?

Along the edge of the lake, ducks, swans and other tiny winged creatures bathed, swam and fluttered. A white swan stood in the middle of the grassy lawns a good 15 yards from the lake. He seemed disoriented, lost and a little drunk from the look of his lurching gait. After a few wobbly steps he sat down. Reminded me of a certain Uncle who always overate at Saturday brunch.

The Kensington Palace was having an exhibition of photographs of the Late Princess of Wales by Mario Testino. Bronze plaques embedded in the foot path at regular intervals guided the faithful as they trudged along her Memorial Walk.

Lovers sat entwined in each others arms. Not at all like the furtive couples of Nageshwara Rao Park, who do their best to blend in with the foliage that shelter them from the gaze of Diabetic Mamas and the overweight Mamis who go round and round the park with a fervour that had till then been reserved for the local Anjaneyar temple.

It was almost 4:30 when I decided to turn around and walk back to the main entrance. A group of friends was chatting under a tree. In contrast, just two trees a way a lone Arab man was writing a letter. His denim jacket, jeans and sneakers were so new they looked almost unreal against the patch of brown grass and ageing bark. Perhaps another foreigner in a strange land telling those at home about Kensington Gardens on a Friday afternoon.

Kutcheri Musings

ShoeFiend — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 15:49:13 EDT

My earliest memory of a live performance is a kutcheri (concert) by the late Maharajapuram Santhanam. I was about nine years old and all I can remember is my mother's hushed excitement, the many overdressed women, waking up to thunderous applause (in appreciation of the man's virtuoso performance and not my ability to sleep through it; my somnolence was to become a regular feature in my Kutcheri listening career - and to think I've never been fired for sleeping on the job), and that the raw silk kurta I had been forced into itched.

Since then of course I've gone on to listen to (and appreciate) performances by both established and amateur artists. As a student of Carnatic music, it was decided that I would attend as many concerts as possible. Perhaps in the hope that some of the talent might rub off on me.

Old timers and connoisseurs may argue that it has turned into hunting ground for prospective sambandhis and that most rasikas turn up to sample the coffee and tiffin the canteens have to offer and not the artist's rendition of Karaharapriya. But one cannot dispute that the December Season is a high point in the cultural calendar of Madras. From the free mid-morning and afternoon slots to the highly sought after evening performances, it is where fresh talent is spotted and mature artists prove they still have it. Innovations in music, dance, Kanjeevaram silks and pathir peni are all on display here.

I once accompanied my cousin to a free afternoon Unni Krishnan kutcheri at The Music Academy. My cousin was a passionate fan, and the traffic jam and crowd (the likes of which I'd only seen at Thirupathi and Rajni first day first shows) did nothing to deter him. So we squeezed through the gaps on his white, rickety TVS Scooty, bribed the watchman to look after the illegally parked two wheeler and pushed our way through the Crowds (Mamis on a mission can be a vicious lot, mind you - you either have to have thick skin or be wearing a plate of armour. Not possessing the former I used my cousin as the latter).

We were directed to the upper circle of the Academy and realised that even though we were a good hour early, most of the seats were occupied. So we climbed higher and higher and finally found two seats at the very back. Those of you who have been to The Music Academy know how high up that is. Once the performance began, I found it impossible to keep looking down at the stage. So to prevent a nose bleed and upchucking the idlis I'd had for breakfast I settled back in my seat, tilted my head back and closed my eyes.

I felt a twinge of guilt when the old Mama whispered to his companion, "So young, but see how entranced she is by the performance."

As a Luz-vaasi, I also used to attend the concerts leading up to Pillayar Chaturthi at the Warren Road Pillayar Kovil. The temple is actually a part (for want of better word) of someone's home and every year in the courtyard a stage is erected and concerts are given by the likes of Sanjay Subramanian and other acclaimed artists. If I'm not mistaken, the concert on the very last day is reserved for KJ Yessudas.

It's been over four years since I've been in Madras, so I don't know how the performances are attended now. But I do remember the packed crowds that used to congregate there. Music lovers would sit, stand and lean against poster clad and paan-stained walls for a chance to listen to these concerts. Like many others who lived in close proximity to the temple, an aunt and uncle of mine would simply draw two chairs out on to their balcony, and enjoy the music and cool evening breeze.

Both my school and college were big on promoting 'Indian culture'. This meant having to sit through annual Thyagaraja Utsavams and listening to seniors and juniors sing (and sometimes screech) through a repertoire of songs that never changed during my time at these institutions. I, of course, was never considered good enough to go up on stage (could have something to do with the fact that I slapped our music teacher when I was in class 7. It was an accident. Honest), which is just as well since I knew the kind of catty comments that circulated through the audiences while these poor girls sang their hearts out.

I'd think I now know enough to be able to appreciate a concert more. I know that I should clap only when others clap, not to eat a heavy meal right before one, and that if I am going to fall asleep it should only be done when seated in the very last row. The last point was added to the list after attending a performance by Nityashree at the Asthika Samaj a few years ago. We knew the singers family and they had graciously invited us to sit in the front row with them.

In my defence it was getting pretty late, so there was very little I could do to stop myself from nodding off. My mother realised something was out of order when an irregular sound not in sync with the music was emanating from her left. If my sleeping wasn't bad enough, my snoring was the last straw. And no, she wasn't singing Neelambari.

On Independence Day

ShoeFiend — Tue, 15 Aug 2006 08:53:35 EDT

Early morning cool gives way to searing heat degree by degree. Attendance is taken, suitable punishment for the absentees are devised. Single file we march out in to the quadrangle. A sea of bluish-white uniforms, frayed collars and white tennis shoes. Hair oiled and braided, adorned only with tattered ribbons and lice. The scruffy ones are made to stand at the back.

One arm distance to the front and double arm distance to the sides. Ahalya Bai, Sarojini Naidu, Vijayalakshmi Pundit. We are divided along these names. But they mean nothing to us. Instead we worry that the green belt is not as nice as the bright, red one.

We whisper about what we will do when we get home, what movies are on television and speculate on the choice of sweet distributed this year - Lacto King again? Rottweiler Ruby tells us to keep quite. The chief guest will be here any moment now. Bets are placed on the length of his speech. Will he pronounce banyan like baniyan like the last one did?

The Chief Guest is late. He will no doubt stress the importance of punctuality in his speech later on without sensing the irony of it all. Irony. A word we did not know but sensed.

He tugs at the flag. It unfurls slowly, releasing rose petals, hanging limply in the still air. We salute.

Inside the cool, dusty auditorium we sit on the floor. Smug, prize receiving class mates in the VIP section. We sit patiently through the speeches - the chief guest, the trophy hoarding 12 year old who gesticulates wildly as she quotes Bhaarathi and the fawning Principal - her beehive bun threatening to fall over and crush the chief guest. Or so we imagine.

The national integration cultural show. Song, dance and skit. We clap - not because we enjoy it but because everyone else is. We shift restlessly, our behinds sore, our calves patterned with dust and the zig zag imprints of our rubber soles.

Finally it is over. We stand up, legs, feet and backside numb. We limp towards the exit taking the chocolate we should be so grateful to receive and walk home. Finally.

Freedom.

Trendy On The Tube. Not

ShoeFiend — Mon, 31 Jul 2006 11:27:00 EDT

I suppose it's possible to forget the presence of certain body parts. The appendix is not often thought of until it reminds us of its presence (and impending absence) with shooting pains. Nictitating membrane and eyelashes are two other things that come to mind. I mean who thinks about their eyelashes for God's sake? (except people who don't have them I guess).

Men and women all across the UK have made a startling discovery since the beginning of summer. Their chests. The realisation that 8 months of protecting themselves from the elements under layers of thermal vests, sweaters and last Winter's must have military jacket has not caused them to disappear in to another dimension has had startling consequences.

Now, I can understand their joy and elation. It must be like meeting a long lost friend. Make that two of them. Let's imagine an emotional reunion with two of your best friends after 8 lonely, cold months. How would you react? You would whoop for joy! You would hug them and never let them go (remember not to do this to other people's friends) and after that you would want to show them off to the world. You would say 'Look! I too have friends. Two of them!'.

For the last 6 weeks I have had the privilege of meeting many people's friends. Male and female. Young and old. Perky friends and down in the dumps friends. Friends basically in all shapes and sizes. (If you haven't gotten it yet I'm talking about breasts, people!)

Now I'm no prude. I think everyone should be allowed to express themselves in a way that well - expresses themselves. Whether it's through pickling giant sharks and passing it off as art (freak alert) or taking your puppies out for a walk in the sunshine. Who am I to pass judgement?

The Brits are a funny bunch (and not just because they call underwear 'pants'). After spending all winter whining about the cold and rain and waiting for a ray of sunshine all through the damp days of spring, they aren't very enthusiastic about summer once it actually gets here. Kind of like guests coming to stay with you - you think it's going to be so nice, and then on the second morning of having to listen to someone sing chamiya songs in the shower you can't wait for them to be gone. The Brits share a similar relationship to summer. A couple of days of 30 plus degree weather and they realise how ill-equipped they are to handle the heat. And then they head off to Malta or Rhodes where it's even hotter for a few weeks. If you can figure that one out, please mail me and let me know.

The ones that don't go anywhere for summer, decide to bring their vacation to them. (Similar to the mountain and Mohammed story.) This means Daisy Duke shorts, bikini tops masquerading as tops, see through skirts, Rastafarian braids and all out bare chestedness if you're a man. I don't know which is worse. Ageing breasts that look like weathered handbags, suffering from a memory lapse as they obviously can't remember how to get in to a bra. Or hairy, beer bellies hanging over denim waistbands covered in tattoos. Somebody stop the madness. Travelling by tube is bad enough in the summer without having to spend 2 hours with someone's butt crack staring at you.

If winter is the only way to get these people to cover up I'm all for it. I never thought I'd say it but I cannot wait for the temperatures to drop. The 60 year old bald man in satin shorts, sweat and nothing else striding down platform 7 at Kings Cross this morning was the last straw.

Sing Shoefiend! Sing!

ShoeFiend — Fri, 14 Jul 2006 11:14:34 EDT

We've all been through it - the compulsory education in a centuries old art form. Dance, an instrument or the (s)training of one's vocal cords with the noble aim of producing sweet music. In addition to this we are encouraged to take up a sport of some kind, so that we are capable of executing Bhairavi and a breast stroke with equal ease.

As a child I tried my hand at gymnastics - a failure because I was scared that headstands and cartwheels would leave me suspended upside down forever. Netball proved futile, as my immediate reaction to an approaching ball was to duck. I enjoyed swimming but only after I agreed not to press charges against the instructor for trying to kill me (he wanted me to keep my head under the water for a minute. Murderous surely?)

I wanted to learn to sing like my elder sister and proved my enthusiasm by keeping taalam with such vigour I had red welts on my thighs and singing so loudly, our teacher's neighbours complained. That was when I was about 6.

After moving about a great deal we finally settled down in Madras. The years in between had seen my try my hand at choir (I was relegated to the last row) and playing the flute (which I was surprisingly good at).

Back in Madras, my never-say-die Mother was sure her daughter had the voice of an angel and began to search in earnest for teacher who would draw out my (very) latent talents. The search ended when my former teacher's Mother agreed to take up where her daughter had left off. So thrice a week after school I would walk to her house with a frayed copy of A.S.Panchapakeshva Iyer's Ganamrutha Bodini that both my mother and sister had used.

Rukmini Paati lived in an old, crumbling house that stayed blissfully cool in the summer months. She taught about 6 of us at the same time, boys and girls, ages varying from 4 to 14. Her enormous body draped in a Rangachari sari would be perched precariously on the edge of a rusty, metal-framed bed, her harmonium box resting on her lap and keeping taalam with a broken, metre long ruler. She was mildly myopic, and would peer at us, trying to decipher who was singing off key and who was just going through the motions of singing - lip-synching in a time before Britney.

Her efforts were seriously hampered by the fact that she was pretty deaf. Which meant most of us were singing our own versions of Mayamalavagowlai and Mohanam. Adding plenty of Sondha sarakku as a favourite blogger of mine says.

After a few months of Rukmini Paati's unique teaching methods, my mother on hearing me sing realised that it would just not do. The Paati's services were terminated and the search continued for a guru.

This time two teachers were found - a carnatic vocalist and a flautist.
They were talented in their own right. Excellent teachers. And very strict. Countless tears stung my eyes from class 7 till class 10. But it was not in vain. For once I was decent at something - managing to claw my way up to keerthanams. But I was never that good, never practiced as much as I should have and frankly, never really my heart in it.

So when I finished my 10th board exams I stopped. Both teachers were saddened by my decision, because despite my shortcomings as a student, they had grown quite attached to me.

After that I lost touch with singing - apart from the occasional and humiliating 'group light music' events I was forced to participate in during inter-department culturals. (oh the horror of having to sing Words accompanied by a wan guitar that was held 'like you're used to playing the sitar' as the judge said.)

My last brush with singing (not including a few tipsy renditions of Dancing Queen and You're Still the One at Not Just Jazz by the Bay) was after I got married.

As is tradition, the newly weds must visit the homes of all the aging aunts and uncles of the family. Since the entire family, village and neighbouring village are no longer invited to 'see the girl', it is the first time a family gets to inspect the new daughter-in-law. Discreetly check if she has all fingers and toes. That she can hear (cunningly tested by speaking in very low voices). And of course how talented she is. As culinary skills can only be tested on visiting the bride at her own home, the obvious substitute is to ask her to sing.

Fortunate is the girl who skilled in dance - the more exotic the better - after all who keeps a stock of Kathakali make-up at home? Those who are amateur Veena artists are in no such luck. Most aging harridans often played the instrument themselves and will probably have one languishing in the corner of their bedroom. But woe betide she who has learnt to sing. She has no choice but to agree.

Unless she is willing to put up a spirited half hour argument on why she can not sing (a good idea - it will give way to gossip that you are strong willed and don't listen to elders.) My secret reasoning was that a squeaky rendition of Kanchi Kamakshi would not be a good first impression, so I firmly and repeatedly stated that I could not remember a single word of a single song. Which in retrospect was probably not wise, because now they all think that I have an undiagnosed memory problem.

My excuse that day was not entirely untrue. I have forgotten much of what I learnt as a child. The odd line here and there and some humming in between is all I can manage really. But I'll always remember Rukmani Paati's cool room and droning harmonium, my music Sir's woeful sigh as I hit those higher notes and my flute teacher's spirited renditions of movie songs when we took a short break for coffee.

Some memories just don't fade.

Second Hand Love

ShoeFiend — Sat, 1 Jul 2006 11:39:21 EDT

To Mummy,

Hope you enjoy it!

Love Andrew, Anne, Olivier

I have a friend who only buys first hand books. He loves that fresh, new smell and the feel of crisp pages between his fingers. My friend's obsession extends to newspapers as well, so much so two sets of papers are bought in his home - one for him and one for the rest of the family to crease, bend and scribble phone numbers on.

My own book buying habit began rather late in life. My family preferred library memberships. My father and I used to visit Easwari Lending Library in Royapettah and later on to Eloor in T- Nagar every Sunday afternoon. After a good hour's browsing we would head to Woodlands Drive In or Gangotri and study our selection in detail over hot coffee and bondas. I somehow never felt the need to buy books.

All this of course changed once I got married and moved to Bombay. In Madras poky, ramshackle rooms that masqueraded as libraries could be found on every street corner. Alas, Bombay was bereft of a motley crew of Shakti/Murugan/Swami lending libraries. So after my husband and I had exhausted the contents of each other's meagre collection, we proceeded to buy books. At first it was once every few weeks, when we went to town and were driving by Oxford. On moving to south Bombay, Crossword opened up down the road it was impossible not to pop in every other week and have a nose about.

By the time we moved to England our collection had grown modestly. We had 3 small cartons of books that thankfully fit in the oak bookshelf our landlord had provided us with.

In London, I once again found myself with a library membership. Our local council library was free and had a rather good collection. What's more, books can be quite exorbitant here and picking up even 3 can set you back quite a bit.

Until I discovered charity shops. While Madras has Azhwar on Luz Corner and Bombay has the pavement shops near VT, in London the charity shop rules. Not to be confused with city's excellent second hand bookshops that dot Charing Cross and the city's many markets, charity shops are a different breed altogether. From Oxfam to St. Isobel's Hospice, charities great and small in England have stores that allow patrons to contribute everything from their grandmother's doily collection to 1930's rocking horses. These are then resold at bargain prices, the proceeds going to fund the charity's noble cause.

Though I've picked up my fair share of Victorian beer bottles, cast iron Spanish horses and other tat, my favourite charity shop buys are always books. Starting from as little as 50p and going up to hundreds and sometimes even thousands if the book in question is a collectors item, charity shops stock an amazing variety of titles. From Penny Jordan to Proust and William Shakespeare to old editions of Women's Own they're a great place to buy books. And perish any thought of old books in tatters and with pages missing. Nothing could be further from the truth. A few months ago I bought a hardback copy of Vikram Seth's Two Lives that looked brand new for �2.At that price it seemed stupid not to buy it!

That's the thing with charity shop books, the price alone can convince you to reach for your wallet. Books that you wouldn't really want to pay full price for (Sex and the City) suddenly seem appealing at 49p. You can take risks at charity shops. Paying �12.99 for a book you're not sure about is hard. But when the same book costs �1.99 it makes life so much easier. I've made some good, indifferent and excellent purchases at charity shops. While Joanna Harris was a little too sweet for me, Penguin's Anthology of Women's Short Stories introduced me to Angela Carter and Banana Yoshimoto.

Sometimes I buy books for silly reasons. The 'To mummy...' at the beginning of this piece was in a book called Slow Boats to China by Gavin Young. When I saw the spine of the book today, I realised it was the name of a blog I read. Intrigued to see what had inspired the name, I picked up the book and saw the inscription inside. It somehow made me want to read the book.

I like the idea that a book I'm holding has been read, loved or hated by someone before me. I like to think that fingers over the grainy pages and tucked old bills or pressed flowers as bookmarks. I like to think that someone else was amazed by the writer's lyrical prose, incensed by a character's actions or horrified at the sudden turn of events on page 234.

***

I don't know if 'Mummy' enjoyed the book. I hope she did.

Don't Call Mommy a Bitch, and Eat That Fruit

ShoeFiend — Sat, 1 Apr 2006 00:14:09 EST

Switch on your television. Go on, I know you want to. If you have cable I'm sure a majority of the programs on your listings page are reality shows of some kind.

My first recollection of a reality show is MTV Road Rules and that other show about hot, 20 something guys and girls all living together in a cool condo - Big Brother in perhaps its earliest avatar (anyone remember the name of that show?). Survivor and its spin offs all figure much later in my time line of reality shows (but I could be wrong, so feel free to correct me).

We've had all kinds of reality shows - teams battling it out on exotic islands for money, people eating kangaroo testicles for money, people getting plastic surgery live without paying any money. But the ones that interest me the most are the new breed of shows (well, new to me). The 'let us help make your life better' shows. They're all over the place tackling every aspect of human life - financial, sexual, romantic and professional.

Got problems with the kids? Call Supernanny. �40,000 in debt? Watch Bank of Mum and Dad (poor unsuspecting parents who think Jr. is �300 in debt find out they need to add a few extra zeroes to the figure). Not able to prevent your children from growing up to be ASBO awarded, drug selling yobs? Tune in to Honey, We're Killing the Kids. Missed health ed classes and don't know that brushing your teeth twice a day is good for you? Don't worry you can always find out about the benefits of toothpaste by watching Too Posh to Wash.

The scary thing is that the above list is very real. And just skims the surface. Pay Off Your Mortgage in 2 Years, Look 10 Years Younger, You are What You Eat ... the list of shows is endless. Forget DIY programs, what you should be watching these days is hour long specials on how to fix your life, not bad plumbing.

So why are these programs so popular? Why do parents need to be told that it's not ok for their diabetic 6 year old to be eating Kit Kats every day and that it will kill them? Why do young people not know that it's a bad idea to be 50k in debt and that declaring bankruptcy is not a fun thing to do? It's appalling to see how inept some people are at - well running their lives. And that they need to be told s-l-o-w-l-y by a posh dietician and therapist to eat a bit more fruit and veg everyday and that their 4 year old should not call mummy a bitch.

So I'm wondering - what is it that's made people this way? Is it family background? A lack of basic education? Sheer stupidity?

These shows are on air because there's a need for them. And they're probably helping a lot of people out there. But if we think the government is getting too nanny-ish for our liking, what do we have to say about our television channels?

And I can't help but wonder where all this is leading. Learn to make your own bed shows? Don't forget to take out the trash specials? How to chew your food documentaries?

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and set some emotional boundaries with my husband. The television told me to.

Shakespeare: A Pervert?

ShoeFiend — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 08:29:36 EST

What can I say about William Shakespeare? Nothing I should think as I am no authority on The Bard. His complete works weighs down my book shelf and I have every intention of reading the entire thing. One day. Honest.

We've credited him with adding over 1,700 common words to our vocabulary, quoted him and made movies about him.

And now,

A new edition of Shakespeare's collected works reveals that smuttiness is at the very heart of the Bard's plays. Heloise Senechal, the textual editor of The RSC Shakespeare, joins Mark Lawson to explain why she thinks previous editions have been too prudish, and how computer techniques helped her uncover the fact that Shakespeare's work is absolutely 'packed with filth'.

Source: The BBC website.

To listen to an interview with Heloise Senechal go
here

And scroll down till you see Filthy Shakespeare.

It's a segment on a show called Front Row.

Very interesting, indeed.

Shoe Fetishist Seeks Shoe Fiend

ShoeFiend — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 08:01:59 EST

Note:

The title's the gist of what someone asked me recently in the comments section of Desicritics. What an excellent profile to put up in a lonely hearts column, I thought, thinking of all the wonderfully weird people it would attract.

Every Friday The Independent publishes its Arts & Books Review, a 40 page supplement bursting with well written reviews and profiles. The last page is always devoted to Great Works - an in depth analysis of a piece of art and its creator that I always mean to read but never get around to. Cultural Life takes a brief look in to what singers, actors and directors are reading, watching and listening to. On one page they rip a movie apart and in the next they are interviewing its director. It's a supplement that is entertaining, informative and above all well written.

Till recently however, there was always one part of the supplement that I blipped over. The Independent Personals. Why would I bother, I'm happily married after all. (that should put The Sherpa at ease... now time to delete my perfectmatch.com profile)

But a delay on the train home last week (a rather permanent fixture in my life these days) left me bored. So I thought 'let's see what the market is like!'

A quick skim through the columns revealed that most of the singletons writing in to this particular publication were above 40 (Though there were 20 and 30 somethings, they were outnumbered by their more mature comrades). There were even a few 60 plussers in there.

Each profile had a little caption in bold - a hook I guess to attract the attention of skimmers like me. I present to you here some of my favourites (edited).

Women seeking Men

AISLE BE THERE FOR YOU
Genuine, attractive, mixed race F in 40's seeks Arab, European, Indian M 35-60 looking for relationship and possible marriage.

GENTLEMEN REQUIRED
50+ to join five ladies for dinners in May.

NOT TOO MANY THORNS
Genuine F, 45, neglected rose, seeks loving M

I'M ONLY HUMAN
Down to earth, kind, witty ...

DELECTABLE SEEKS INTELLECTUAL
Russian/British Londoner 40 slim blonde, chic, integrity, eccentricity, Worshipper of intellect, I promise that a thinking, outstanding man would never get bored of me.

GET UP AND GO FOR IT
Genuine F, 60 with plenty of get up and go...

Men seeking Women

DO IT OURSELVES
Gentle, affectionate M 47, likes DIY...

GARTER GET YOU INTO MY LIFE
Attractive M seeks intelligent, attractive, stocking clad F

Men seeking Men

DAMSEL IN DIS-DRESS
Good looking 43 year old cross-dressing M seeks kind person to have fun with

Women Seeking Women

SO FERRARI SO GOODIE
Recycled Ferrari, 43 seeks TLC from a caring gay F for possible long-term ownership.

It's nice to see that in spite of all the divorce statistics being thrown at us and the constant reports of celebrity marriages falling apart people are still looking for friendship, love and the odd used car.

Here's to you singletons!