Where is George Bailey ? ©

Last night I observed one of my personal Christmas rituals and watched Jimmy Stewart save Bedford Falls from becoming Portersville in the character of angelic George Bailey for the hundredth time.
For those of you who haven’t seen the film “It’s a Wonderful Life” here is a short synopsis:

Every Christmas, George Bailey gives up on life, under the strain of financial pressure. He gets drunk, rowdy, crashes his car and tries to commit suicide thinking that his life in the little town of Bedford Falls has made no difference to anyone.
He is saved by Clarence Odbody (Angel 2nd Class – assigned to the issue in order to get his wings) who shows him how life would have been in Bedford Falls if he (George Bailey) hadn’t existed.

George Bailey runs an affordable housing project for the working poor of Bedford Falls. As it turns out, he has saved the town several times from the clutches of Henry F. Potter, a heartless capitalist slumlord whose intent is to stop providing home loans for the working poor thus creating a two-tier society and amassing the wealth of the town.

This year I felt uneasy whilst watching the film. As if somehow it echoed reality a little too much.
When it was over I fell asleep on the couch and dreamt in old Hollywood studio black and white.
Suddenly I was in London; in the House of Commons watching the vote to remove the cap from tuition fees (allowing them to reach heights of £6 to £9k per year) take place.

I ran on to the street alarmed. It was snowing heavily and I had to walk for miles before I found a cab. I asked the driver to take me to Number 10.
A newspaper on the seat next to me confirmed the vote had been passed. When I tried to talk about it to the driver he cut me short and told me:
“Life is not fair. There have always been rich and poor. People should stop looking for charity and work for the things they have.”

I told him that I wasn’t talking about charity but affordability. A society where no matter what your earning power is you can achieve the basics (Housing – Education – Employment) with relative ease. These are not privileges, they are rights.
A society where those of modest means can still make plans for a better life.
I asked the cab driver if he had children and if he, being a working class man, could afford £27k per child to go to University? He didn’t answer. We had arrived at our destination.

The door of Number 10 was ajar. I slipped in and walked towards a room where loud voices where coming from.
I opened the door to see Henry F. Potter, Nick Clegg and David Cameron sitting on enormous leather armchairs. A large crow walked up and down the table between them and tea had just been served. They didn’t seem surprised to see me.

Where is George Bailey? I asked

They laughed at me, which in my dream infuriated me and made me start shouting and asking them over and over: "Where is George Bailey?"
Henry F. Potter looked at me with that awful familiar smirk on his face and said:
“In a reality without angels no one is there to help the George Baileys of this world. Things can get done”.

Just at that moment a rock broke through the window and hit the crow that was walking up and down the table. The four of us rushed to see where it had come from. There they were, thousands of young George Baileys marching up the street in demonstration.
“Sorry Mr. Potter, I think I just found what I’m looking for”; I said as I opened the window and jumped out.
As always, George Bailey was there to catch me and save the day.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

How I came to know about Kettling.©

The experience of using London transport has significantly changed over the last few weeks. Apart from the long delays because of the workers being in semi-strike mode all the time, the stories you overhear from your fellow passengers are far more colourful and action packed.

Heading to a comedy gig in one of the student-frequented boroughs last week, I looked up from my free copy of the Evening Standard to see a boy who more closely resembled Harry Potter than a Revolutionary regale his fellow students with tales from the front line of the Tuition fee protests:
“We were kettled”, “They planted the van there on purpose”, “It was peaceful and the police got violent first”, “I’m going to the march on Tuesday”.

Fully aware that he was getting looks from the older folk he raised his voice to deliver the story. A lady who was following the “report” asked for the definition of kettling, which was delivered in very precise terms by a one of the girls in the group.
Kettling is: “A police tactic for the management of large crowds during demonstrations or protests. It involves the formation of large cordons of police officers who contain a crowd within a limited area. Protestors are left only with one choice of exit or are completely prevented from leaving.”

So it’s nothing to do with tea then? The lady said in response and the whole train carriage burst out in spontaneous laughter.

“If a police officer has two kids can he afford the £9.000 a year tuition fee proposed by the government? Why are they even standing against the students?” said a man with hands that looked like they were used to manual labour.
“It’s their job I suppose”, he said answering himself. “A man’s earning ability can motivate him but it can also be used to tame him”.

We all looked at each other and then back at the students. What were we doing about this re-structuring of society? Where was our voice?

"Well, I think you’re doing great", said the man with the rough hands getting up from his seat.
“Don’t worry about the police van. I’ve paid for it with my taxes. If my grandkids go to University, call it my gift to you”. He put his hands in his pockets to shield them from the cold and got off at the Kentish Town stop.

The Birth of Web Venus©

Walking through Venice I felt an irrational desire to touch the city. Feel the walls that surrounded me, as if my eye had spied a softness in them that I had never before experienced.

Once you come off the tourist track Venice becomes a sensualists dream and the idea that water passes through everything takes you with it.

Monica and I lay in our gondola, silent, taking in the surroundings. Suddenly I saw a familiar face staring at me from an overhead bridge, we glided beneath it and he was lost. As we came out on the other side I turned to look for him and saw that he had crossed the bridge to do the same.
His face looked exactly like it did so many hundred years ago, except for a boyishness that was of this century. We held each other’s gaze until the endless labyrinth of canals swallowed us up.

My breathing became so shallow that Monica turned to see if I was all right.
- Are you ok?
- I saw Botticelli*.
Monica was used to hearing things like that when she was in my company.
- And now?
- I don’t know.
I didn’t remember all of my past lives all of the time. Whenever someone surfaced, it all came back with incredible clarity.
We continued to explore Venice throughout the day and finally settled to have wine in a small piazza that was frequented by locals. As expected it didn’t take too long for him to find us.

The most welcome of images. His golden mane, full of ringlets, his blue eyes and that body I once knew so well. His smile warmed the piazza and pulled me in.
Our eyes were moist but we laughed and hugged and let our palms fill with each other’s hair and neck and face.
- You’re here again, he said.
- You called out to me and I came.
- The last time you left too early. You won’t leave?
- No, I won’t. I smiled and touched his face again, not being able to control my appetite for him.
- I painted you in everything for years. He said.
- Shhhhhhhh. I know. I know

A few hours later I was curled up, sitting on the white bed in the middle of his studio. Botticelli put his hands around my ankles and looked into my eyes.
- I asked to be buried at your feet**, he said dragging me down the bed towards him.
I felt so small and feminine, as though my entire body could fit into the space between his arms and torso. Then there were no words for hours. We breathed each other in and out until we emerged in the morning, our mouths dry, our bodies raw from pleasure.
I got up to fetch water for us.
- Open the window and let anyone that it lucky enough to be passing by see you. You are my masterpiece and the most beautiful sight to behold in all of Venice, he said, his body rising from our sheets, intoxicated by his own passionate rhetoric. Then a change of thought appeared across his face and he lay back on the bed to watch me.

I crossed the room and opened the window to stand on the balcony. The zephyrus wind blew in from the Adriatic waking my skin and brushing the hair off my shoulders.
My body adored being naked in the open air. I was suddenly bathed in an overflowing sense of freedom. Botticelli came out to wrap me in a silk robe embelished with spring flowers and take me back into the warmth we had spent the night creating.

I had just been born again.

*Sandro Botticelli 1445 – May 17, 1510 An Italian painter of the Florentine school during the Early Renaissance. Details of Botticelli's life are sparse, but we know that he became an apprentice when he was about fourteen years old, which would indicate that he received a fuller education than did other Renaissance artists. He was born in the city of Florence. Among his best known works is “The Birth of Venus”.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sandro_Botticelli_083.jpg

**Simonetta Cattaneo de Vespucci, nicknamed la bella Simonetta 1453 – 26 April 1476. Simonetta was discovered by Sandro Botticelli upon arriving in Florence. She died in April 1476, She was only twenty-two at the time of her death. Botticelli finished painting The Birth of Venus in 1485, nine years later. Some have claimed that Venus, in this painting, closely resembles Simonetta
It is suggested that Botticelli had fallen in love with her, a view supported by his request to be buried at her feet in the Church of Ognissanti - the parish church of the Vespucci - in Florence. His wish was in fact carried out when he died some 34 years later, in 1510.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sandro_Botticelli_066.jpg

Waking up at Midnight in Italy ©

I woke up as the plane touched down in Marco Polo airport and sleepwalked into Monica’s arms who was waiting for me at the arrivals hall. I hugged her until I realised that the people in the airport were giving us inquisitive looks.
Two double espressos and a car ride full of stories later we arrived in Udine*.

Even though it was past midnight the Italians stood outside the bars that populated the little winding streets; drinking, smoking and gesticulating.
- This street is so beautiful. Look at the rusty-coloured shutters. I looked it up while I was in the airport; This part of the city was built during the Renaissance. And the air, it’s so clean. I love it here.
Monica laughed.
- You’re weird. Udine could excite no one else. Wine?
- Si, Grazie Bella

She brought back wine and a small army of local men. Sergio, Gianni, Andrea, Tomasso and Lorenzo. In a small town like Udine people preserve the natural curiosity about newcomers that is extinct in London.

They spoke very little English and even though I have about five words of Italian we understood each other perfectly. They talked about vino (wine), grilliate (grilled meat) and Sergio’s pantalone. I asked it they meant Commedia dell'arte** and they fell about the place laughing.
They had been talking about Sergio’s new trousers but now I had apparently come up with a new nickname for him. I was very happy to have succeeded in making them laugh with one of my five Italian words but Sergio didn’t seem very happy to be called Pantalone*** from now on.

I was about to buy a round of drinks when Gianni excused himself. It was late you see and he had to go home and make love to his wife.
I looked at everyone’s faces. What a sweet, uncomplicated bunch of people and how easily they spoke about pleasure. When Gianni left, the conversation returned to grilliate and the problem we tried to solve was if they should have the meat before, after or with the pasta.
My sudden urge to come to Italy was becoming very clear to me. What a fool I was to think Dionysus was gone when clearly he was inspiring my every move.
I heard his voice say: "Etsi apla"/“It’s that simple”.

There were very few streetlights on the way home so the next morning I woke up to discover that we were in the middle of a beautiful green field. No wonder I slept like a baby.
Monica had coffee brewing and a feast of cured meats, cheese, fresh bread and eggs, all layed out for breakfast. Begin as you mean to continue, I thought to myself.


With cardigans and woolly socks it was just warm enough to sit outside. We planned our trips to Venice, the nearby villages and the best little eateries in the area.(Always plan the next meal before you finish the one you're eating. An Italian tradition that proved very easy for me to embrace)
We talked about the mysteries of life and how it is that people can live so far away from each other and yet feel a connection that has nothing to do with the amount of time they spend together on a daily basis.
And we hugged. We hugged like we were giving thanks for each other. It’s only when someone goes that we understand how precious every single person in our life truly is.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Udine
**http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commedia_dell%27arte
***http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantalone

DIONYSUS

Every summer when I return to Greece Dionysus serves me ouzo and fresh tomatoes with a spinkling of salt. He finds it hilarious that after being away all these years that's what I miss the most.

Then he offers me Karelia cigarettes and the two of us sit back and pretend we are really adults.

One night many years ago Dionysus and I sat opposite the Parthenon letting the Ouzo go to our head.
It was warm; a slight breeze came from Piraeus port and caressed our limbs with its feathery touch. It brought with it stories from the Aegean islands that excited the blood. Dionysus chanelled them and tempted me with tales from Mykonos. Suddenly he stopped, bit his lip and smiled.

- Pame?

(Will we go?)

We rushed home in taxis, packed lightly and met at Piraeus port at dawn. The next evening we were the toast of Pierros Bar*. People would approach me to ask about the beautiful boy I was with.

Do you remember that Dionysus? I was so proud. It was when I realised we were not children anymore. You had gone off and turned yourself into a swan when I wasn’t looking.

Your exit three weeks ago was just as hasty as the decision to go on that trip to Mykonos. I don’t know how to write or be about it.

I will try not gloss over your spicy, colourful life with the sadness that has come to sit on all of our shoulders like a heavy cloak we just can’t fucking get rid of. But we don’t want to get rid of it.

BECAUSE YOU MY LOVE, ARE WONDERFUL.

Nothing is more sensual than the way you walk.
Your vibrant full strides, your gorgeous stance, the way your turn to look at us.
You are always seducing us, always capturing our gaze, even when we don’t know it, we are breathless. Your perfect face, you say the harshest things but your eyes speak only of warmth.

Your voracious, healthy, unashamed appetite for sex. Where will I start with that?
Sex is always where you are.
It’s where the conversation begins and where it ends.

It’s the undercurrent, the meaning and the punch line.
It’s underneath every play we discuss, it’s in the food you prepare, it percolates in the coffee that is brewing as you drag on your cigarette, it’s in the water you offer me, it’s in your movements, it’s in attendance when you choose your clothes, it’s in the bottle of Jameson you keep for the night. It’s all around you. It's you.

And you ask me did I do it with that guy I’m seeing.
I say “No”,
You put your eyes up to heaven and say: “Aaaaaaa eise Ilithia”, which means “Oooooooooh you’re a moron”.
I laugh because we have a different code and you laugh because you know there is no code.

When we were kids I felt nervous around you. You were too quick witted for me. You became my training ground until one day I forgot I was a person without wit and could effortlessly banter with you. You did that, you trained me.

How can I explain what you are to me? Can you help?

Remember back when we were 15 and I came to your house upset?
You took me into the kitchen and handed me a glass.
- Break it, you ordered me.
- I can’t break it. That’s wrong. Said the timid little girl I used to be.
- Yes you can, now just do it.
I told you my Mum gave out to me when I broke things. You told me your Mum only gave out to you if you broke things by accident. If you broke them on purpose it was all right. I was in awe of this way of thinking
I threw the glass into the granite sink three times and three times it bounced back into my hand. We looked at each other as though we were witnessing some kind of miracle. Glass breaks when it's smashed onto granite, right?
Finally you broke it and I broke another one you gave me. Two glasses and a lot of Greek music** later you had released me.

When I think about you being gone it’s like someone is squeezing my heart.
You see, I thought you’d always be here.
Remember I told you that I would make lots of money and buy a massive villa on a Greek Island?
You would help me decorate and all of us that grew up together, as well as those we collected on the way, would gather in this exquisite house by the sea.
A beautiful home full of art, food and love. All the people I love under one roof.
That was our last conversation and you told me to wake up from my dream.

I keep waiting for you to come and meet me in that dream.
Tell me I’m eating too much and grope my breast to prove your point. Then worried that you might have hurt my feelings tell me I’m beautiful and ask me what I want to eat.
Get annoyed with me if I have moments of weakness and don’t recognise my own worth. Then switch places and look at me like you think the advice I give you is the wisest thing you’ve ever heard.

I remember sitting at the restaurant in Plaka three weeks ago. I felt you and turned around to watch you walk towards me. My nerve endings try to pierce my skin every time I think I won’t see you walk towards me again.

I LOVE YOU.
*http://www.pierrosbar.gr/ **http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PctAepLJolE

Open letter to Anne Boleyn

Dear Anne Boleyn,

Is it the August full moon and the retrograde Mercury?
Or is that you are having the same effect on me that you had on everyone that ever came close to you?
I can't get you out of my mind and today I don't feel like writing like I usually do.

I saw a play about you at the Globe. It’s an Elizabethan theatre built during your daughter's reign. You should be so proud, she was amazing. They named a whole age after her; it was a Golden Age for England.

I’m writing to let you know that very little has changed since you’ve been gone.

In this century women think they are liberated but they are not really. We wear trousers and have jobs and drink and fall about the place like lowly men but when it comes to sex, society is put off by women who have an appetite for it. They are still called whores. It is often more delicately put, I grant you.

You used it to advance. Your daughter Queen Elizabeth “withheld” it to be respected. Did you know that? They called her the Virgin Queen.
When King Henry VIII fell in love with you in 1526, you refused to sleep with him for nearly seven years while negotiations with the Pope went on to secure the annulment of his marriage to Queen Catherine.

How did you do it red-blooded Anne? You didn’t really fancy King Henry the oaf did you? Was it the throne you fancied?
I understand. A person must always make the best of life and advance accordingly if the opportunity arises. Love is not always found, it sometimes grows in the most unlikely places.

There are still many myths about female sexuality. I’ve often been informed by men that our kind don’t like sex that much.
And the age old tale about the male instinct to hunt is still around. What is left for them to hunt and conquer? Women apparently.

It’s not very sexy is it? It makes me feel like a stag that's about to get its head cut off and hung over a fireplace. I think you know better than anyone what I mean.
Where are all these unwilling women that give it up like damsels in distress to the hunter-gatherer male? I’ve never met any yet all the men I know insist they have.

Little Elizabeth was brought up to believe that she had something that everybody wanted, the disciplined withholding of which could bring her power and respect.
There was more at stake for little Elizabeth. She got to rule England. Maybe she was the exception as she literally sat on a fortune. What’s my prize for pretending to be someone’s trophy?
Is it “The fool” that will think me his conquest?

There is a woman in Iran called Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtianithat who has been sentenced to death by stoning and the charges are: Adultery (although the incident occurred after the death of her husband) and plotting her husband’s murder (she has retracted her confession to this crime, claiming it was made under duress).
Exactly the same as the charges that had you convicted and beheaded. 1536 is not that different to 2010 after all is it? Same scenario, different time and part of the globe.

Can you see beyond the ages Anne? Do we ever understand that we are born and shaped by the same society? Do we ever stop expecting to be different and accept each other as equals?

Can you break your silence and let me know?

I’m Willing to Lie about How We Met ©

Stage four of being single is when your nearest and dearest get fixated on you finding Mr. Right or at least Mr. Right Now.

It turns out that all my friends know someone that has met his significant other on the Internet. Are these people real or are they urban myths?

Fact! Six thirty on Friday evening, outside any major Tube station in London there are countless “couples” meeting for the first time with the assistance of this new baby Cupid.
Take a closer look. They shake hands; women do the bashful downward looking smile and men scan their date’s body when they think she’s not looking. The daring ones share a kiss on the cheek. They’re obviously not British. The British will attempt a kiss later with the courage “firewater” brings about.

Most of these encounters will go no further than a fist date. Some of them might become stories people share in the pub. Their friends will laugh and volunteer the obligatory: “Noooooooo??? Really? Who does that?”

If, however I was to consider this electronic Matchmaker there was only one question that concerned me: “Where did you two meet?”

I’ll never be able to say: “Deep Sea diving in the Caribbean.
I was coming out of the water holding some rare shells I just collected, singing “Mango tree”. There he stood, bronzed and gorgeous underneath a coconut tree at the water’s edge.
He sang it back, we locked eyes, felt a current of electricity run through our bodies and in that moment we knew it was meant to be”.

Don’t put your eyes up to heaven! Some little girls grew up reading about Prince Charming coming to rescue them on a white charger. I grew up watching James Bond. Far handier in a sticky situation. He packs lead (I couldn’t help myself), is athletic, well travelled, drinks Dom Perignon and looks like Sean Connery. He has a funny accent but I decided long ago that this is something I'm willing to overlook.

You have to admit its better then: “He “winked” at me on the dating site we were both members of and then he invited me to join him on a chat portal”

I finally had to cave in when Athena, Artemis and Ira all came to my house and tricked me into posting my profile on one of these sites with the power of Martini cocktails (shaken not stirred).
They argued that it’s not where you meet but who you meet. And hey, if I did find Mr. Right we could go to the Caribbean together. Right?
Hell, I could even buy Ursula Andress’s Dr. No bikini. Apparently it was on the news that she had just found it in her attic after all these years and would be auctioning it off.

I have to admit it was a very funny night and it helped to have semi-drunken people around while I wrote the little paragraphs about my ideal partner and me.
One thing they could not change my mind about was my user name.

I registered as: I’m willing to lie about how we met.

The Language of Pleasure ©

Spring, early morning.
You’re woken up by the scent of bread baking in the boulangerie below. Still half asleep you progress from the bed to release the double shutters.
You close your eyes momentarily until you feel confident they can adjust to the sun’s glare. You open them again to take in Le Marais.
The most beautiful neighbourhood in Paris.

It’s bursting with ateliers, museums, and petit decadent shops selling every imaginable form of luxury.
You start mapping out the day’s itinerary in the picturesque cafes and eateries that are full of delicate, colourful little treasures made of sugar, milk and flour.
Pleasure is everywhere because it comes from the language that created all this beauty you see around you.

There is an ongoing debate about which is the ultimate language of pleasure.
I don’t think it should ever be settled. When we speak of important issues such as pleasure each person should be allowed to feel and experience according to taste.
For me it is French.

In the film “Dead Poets Society”, Professor Keating reveals to his delighted students that language was developed for one endeavour only and that is............. to WOO women.
I take it one step further. If you can command language you can rule the world.
Humanity has often looked upon certain Leaders favourably because of their skill in rhetoric.
Do you think they might have wooed us?
Words expertly used are like magic.
You set them free to go forth and create life as you decree.

Language is born of the environment and conditions a tribe of people find themselves in during a specific time in history. Then the very words they have created begin to shape them.
Language determines our facial expressions and mannerisms. It even influences how we are perceived as a nation.

When I watch French women speak it fascinates me. They could be talking about the most mundane subject but if you block out the sound and watch their face, it speaks only of sensuality. Every few words the lips come to a suggestive pout and there is a lovely intensity in the eyes that is kept throughout the conversation.
Off course as you delve deeper into the language these beginner's observations are washed away and replaced by the righteous pursuits of syntax, grammar and meaning.

To me French will always be the language Valmont and Merteil used to seduce their “victims” in Dangerous Liaisons. Cyrano De Bergerac made Roxane fall in love with Christian through the power of little French words, perfectly composed.
Irish playwright Samuel Beckett chose to write his plays in French and spend his mornings with coffee and cigarettes, people watching, at the Deux Magots in St.Germain. Though it might not be so obvious on the page, Beckett’s life was full of the pursuit of pleasure. Look it up.

These are some of the reasons that as a newly single Venus in London I choose to spend my Saturday afternoons at the Alliance Francaise learning French.

Of course there are other more base motivations like meeting new people. By people I mean potential dates. There comes a time when a single person becomes obsessed about meeting someone. It’s a phase.

But let me tell you, it’s exactly the sort of energy that is going to bring no one toward you.
So if you ever get the feeling you’re in that place, find something you absolutely enjoy and devote yourself to it.

Just remember, the only thing that will be quick to bring forth pleasure is pleasure itself.

POWDER ©

My favourite seat in the theatre is in the centre of the front row. That way I feel I’m touching the world of the play and its moving sculptures.
I can look up at the actors and dream of entering their dimension through the invisible fourth wall. It’s like the fantasy of entering a painting.

On a very sunny afternoon on the 17th July at precisely 13.10, a little red flag popped up on Facebook chat.
My friend James wrote: “Fancy coming to a show tonight? I have a spare ticket.”
“Ok, what’s on?”
“James Thierree”.
“Who’s he when he’s at home?”
“He’s Charlie Chaplin’s grandson and we’ve got front row seats. » wrote one James about the other.
“Yeah but he’s not Chaplin. It’s so warm, why would we shut ourselves in a dark theatre for the evening?”
At exactly that moment Dionysus popped up on chat as well. He wrote one word: Go!
You’re the God of hackers now? I wrote back. I don’t think he found it particularly funny because he didn’t respond.

And thank God I listened!

James Thierree is a creature that gravity has decided to exempt from her pull.
For a while I couldn’t focus on the play because it felt strange. I wanted to go out and fetch the tramp costume and beg him to please put it on.
Charlie Chaplin’s movements were always full of energy. An energy that seemed to struggle against his skin to contain itself. His grandson, James Thierree, shares that quality.

What a world we saw. He turned chairs into giant walking insects, a silk sheet into a jellyfish that moved serenely as if it was at the bottom of the ocean. He weaved cotton into an elephant’s ghost and suddenly he flew across the stage and out into the audience, stopping just above me.

He touched my hair, smoothed it off my face and we looked into each other’s eyes.
The whole world stopped and the scent of powder filled the air.
I had always heard that Chaplin was quite a ladies man but I could never understand why. As Thierree hovered in the air above me and looked me in the eyes it became quite clear. This man who looks like he has been cloned from his grandfathers DNA is simply irresistible. My femininity woke up with a start from her deep slumber.

I recommended the show to countless friends and they all responded with similar enthusiasm. I got thank you texts and emails that said they’d never seen anything like it before. Some friends even admitted they cried in the theatre whilst watching him.

Why?

I thought of it for a very long while and finally it was Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of “Eat, Pray, Love” who gave me the answer when I watched a lecture she gave on You Tube.
She said: “Centuries ago in the deserts of North Africa people used to gather for moonlight dances of sacred dance and music.
They were always magnificent because the dancers were professionals. But every once in a while, very rarely, something would happen and one of the performers would actually become transcendent.
It was like time would stop, and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal. He wasn’t doing anything different than what he had done 1000 nights before but everything would align.
All of a sudden he would no longer appear to be merely human. He would be lit from within and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity.
When this happened, back then, people knew it for what it was and called it by its name: “Allah, Allah, Allah”, “God, God, God”.
When the Moors invaded Southern Spain they took this custom with them and the pronunciation changed over the centuries from Allah, Allah, Allah, to Ole, Ole, Ole which you still hear in Bullfights and Flamenco dances”.

After the show I walked into the night air feeling inspired and awake in every way. What a blessing to be able to do that for another human being.
That afternoon I was completely ignorant of his existence. I wondered how many more wonderful experiences and human beings are out there that I am completely ignoring because of the choice to be stuck in the past.

OLE to you James Thierree and may you continue waking people up everywhere you go.

The Cock and the Eagle ©

Apollo and I looked at each other through our screens.
We both had our earphones on and we were adjusting our webcams.

"It took very long for you to come to me this time", he said with a half smile.
"I was exploring some new ways of being. I want you to come to London", I answered and watched the half smile expand across his face.
"I thought you'd never ask. I’ll come and I’ll bring Dionysus".

Two days later my gorgeous cousins were in my London apartment with a million offerings from back home. Jars of honey, cheese, cured meats, lavender, chamomile, wine, dried figs and mountain tea.

“I wanted to bring Oregano but he wouldn’t let me. He said the people at customs might think it was something else. I told him I’m sure they smoke enough of that something else to know the difference”, said Dionysus.
“I pay no attention to him anymore. We’ve lived a hundred lifetimes and he’s still as petulant as he was in the first one”, said Apollo and went into the living room.
"We’re 30 you know; don’t forget that", Dionysus shouted after him.
"Yes but it’s the hundredth time you’ve been thirty, don’t you forget that old man", Apollo shouted back.
"All the more reason to enjoy it", said Dionysus, always having to have the last word.

We stayed in the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine. I was instructed to let its spirit breathe and fill the house before we poured it.
"This one is excellent. I planted the vines myself, with the help of some gorgeous boys from the nearby village", said Dionysus and punctuated the rest of the story with his wicked infectious laughter.
“Venus come in here”, called Apollo from the next room.
“Oh God, the Oracle has spoken”, said Dionysus sarcastically. “Go in, you don’t want to keep him waiting. You know how he gets”.
I went into the sitting room

" Pick two cards".
I picked two cards from the centre of the deck and handed them back to Apollo.
He looked at the cards and then into my eyes.

"Good times are coming, you picked the Cock and the Eagle".
"What does that mean?" I said taking the cards into my hands to inspect the pictures.
" If you have to ask what it means, it means it’s been too long", answered Dionysus and handed us each a glass of the red wine we had just opened.

Apollo and I looked at him, then back at each other and started to laugh.

"I assume it's a metaphor that points to abundance and I think it's reffering to the rooster", I said.
"The rooster? That is just sad. I don’t understand why you’re laughing. What has happened to the two of you in this life? You’ve become bourgeois. Let’s get you some cock for the weekend. I need to use the Internet".
"Apollo, say something to him. This is London not ancient Greece".
" I learned not to try and convince Dionysus of anything, a long time ago".
Dionysus poked his head through the sitting room door again.
"I’m booking it for all of us online. You’re going to love me for it".

The next afternoon Dionysus guided us to Sloane Square and there just above the entrance of the Royal Court Theatre in big red letters was the title of the play he was taking us to. “COCK”

"There you go. I’m breaking you in slowly. He predicts things and I make them happen", said Dionysus and winked at me.

We went to the top of the building and sat in the front row of the tiniest, most intimate amphitheatre. The play was about a gay man who cheats on his boyfriend with a woman he falls in love with.
Apollo was spellbound by the young actor who played the lead. We both cried at the end of the show and gave the actors a standing ovation whilst Dionysus threw his eyes up to heaven and muttered “ You can’t take them anywhere anymore”.

After the play was over I told the boys I wanted to take them to "Balans", a restaurant with great atmosphere in the centre of Soho.

“I’m going to go and have sex before dinner and I’ll meet you there”.
"Where are you going"? I said staring at Dionysus

"To a Sauna. I’ll go for a couple of hours. The two of you can have some cocktails while I occupy myself otherwise and we’ll have dinner when I catch up with you".

And off he went in search of carnal pleasure. It was liberating to watch him.
He always had a very clear view of pleasure. He sometimes fell in love but he never got confused about it. Dionysus didn’t have to be emotionally involved to enjoy himself. He also rarely had sex with women anymore.
According to him they had fallen for the biggest con of all times. Men had convinced them that pleasure and ethics are interlinked. He only ever wanted a woman when she was free of such burdens and whenever he met such a rare creature he’d always fall in love with her.

Apollo and I talked about all this in "Balans" with the assistance of some very well made cocktails.
"I agree with him but it’s not like that for everyone. I have to experience emotion to be with someone. It means nothing to me otherwise. I haven’t been with anyone in a year", said Apollo.
"I haven’t been with anyone since you know who either. From a certain point onwards it’s not about ethics. I just can’t feel anything".

And just at that moment Dionysus swept through the doors and approached our table with a skip in his step.
"You look radiant", we both said.
"I know. Carnal pleasure. You should try it. What are the cocktails like here"?
"No seriously Dionysus. You look at least 5 years younger. Your skin looks fresh", I continued.
"I know…. not 30 but 25 again. Isn’t pleasure great? Don’t forget, I invented it".

We laughed and watched Dionysus flirt with all the waiters and the men at the nearby tables. I had forgotten how intoxicating it was to have him around. Everyone fell under his spell.
Two college boys came and sat at the table next to us while we were having dessert. One of them was a music student and caught Apollo’s eye immediately. They fell into a deep conversation and were inseparable for the rest of the evening.
At the end of our very long meal a unanimous decision was made that our company of five would be proceeding to the Village.

"Are you having fun little Venus?" Asked Dionysus giving me a big hug.
"Off course I am. I love having you here".
"Hmmm, that’s lovely and it’s comforting but I want you to be having fun. Come, I’ll take you there".

The Village was a club filled with semi naked boys pole dancing. We quickly occupied the centre of the dance floor. Lady Gaga’s songs came blasting through the sound system and I lost myself in the ecstasy of the moment.
Suddenly I heard Dionysus saying to me. “There’s your eagle” and I turned to see what he was pointing at.

There he was, my eagle. The only eagle you could hope to see on a weekend in central London. The dancer on the main podium was doing a sort of handstand, upside down on the pole with his legs wide open.

"Get her up there", said Dionysus to two bouncers who for some reason obeyed him.
Seconds later I was on the podium dancing with my own private Go-Go boy whilst the crowd started chanting my name. I was flying instead of dancing. My limbs felt light, like I was one with the air.

It was one of those gorgeous nights that happen with no plan at all. Through the corner of my eye I could see Apollo and the music student locked in a long passionate kiss. When you focus on pleasure everything seems to fall into place.

Come to think of it maybe someone had devised a plan but you’d never get him to admit it.

Shut Up and Hug Me ©

I prayed…No…Not prayed… Chanted, as instructed, with my eyes focused on the wall and realised I was getting nauseous.
This was like a punishment not an act of connecting with infinite wisdom.
Maybe I was angry?
Was the method wrong or was I wrong? Well of course I was angry!
Why would I be sitting here chanting to forgive people if I wasn’t bloody angry!!!!!!!

This is what happens in your mind when you try to meditate for the first time.

So I went out and sat in the open air and Nam-myoho-renge-kyo’d there.
Hmmmm ……much better.
Ok Mr. Lark or whatever your name is, at least when you chirp I don’t have to listen to my inner monologue.

Was all this really for me? Maybe I needed to explore other belief systems before I landed on something.

Eve, my Facebook/ Dance-Crazy friend had asked me to go and support her. She was going to be dancing at an Alternative Fair. I went and even got pulled up from the audience to join in. This was good and didn’t make me feel angry.
Maybe I believed in Dancing?

When the dancing was over I left Eve and walked the booths in search of spirituality. It was a maze of crystals and purple-wearing people.
Oh Lord.......I was becoming cynical or maybe all this focusing on trying to release my anger …..was making me ….. well…. Angry.

A couple of older Men approached me. They tried to bamboozle me by guessing where I was from.
They had this “Come little girl and I will heal your life and show you the mysteries of the world” air.
They were quite offended when I told them to go take a hike.
- Why are you here? You’re not open, they said. In a last desperate effort to shake me.
- Are you referring to my mind or my legs?
Result! They ran a mile after that.

According to the mystic law you draw things to you.
Had I just drawn these two clowns to me?
I decided I had, in order to vent my anger. They were my cosmic punch bags.

Maybe I needed to go to a Fight Club instead of an Alternative Fair.

I turned the corner and walked into a lovely young girl who had been practising Reiki for 6 months. I did a session with her. She calmed me down made me see colours; blues and yellows, as she moved her hands up and down my body.
When I told her about the colours she got a tear in her eye. That's how much she loved connecting with people and understanding their feelings.

Then I ran into another woman who did Kundalini meditation with me and this time she made me cry. You’ll be glad to know that neither of these women wore purple.
They hadn’t healed me but they had comforted me.

Is that is what we mean when we say healing?
The comfort of interaction with other people? Genuine interaction. The kind that comes when you finally shut up and stop analysing. When you just hug someone with no expectation of anything beyond a little bit of comfort. Children look for it and demand it so easily. Why do we drop it as we get older?
We look for comfort in the bottom of biscuit tins or in bottles of wine.

Everywhere I went the “Believers” told me the same thing.
- This will change your life. This is the way to find happiness….
None of them were lying but I wondered if they knew that about each other.

I walked out of the exhibition centre asking myself what I was looking for and what I believed in.

Suddenly I remembered. As I brought the memory closer I started giggling.
Years of trying to be a serious and focused grown up had put this memory in the drawer of “Frivolities”. But now as I drew it closer to me and made it more vivid I realised it made my heart feel warm.

The memory is of the little girl I was. She wakes up excited on Christmas morning and runs into the kitchen to see if Santa Claus has eaten the milk and cookies she left out for him.
When she sees that nothing but crumbs are left on the plate she screams so loudly that her parents run into the kitchen alarmed (They pretend to be alarmed – but she didn’t know that at that the time).
She dashes into the sitting room in her bear feet and sees the presents laid out under the Christmas tree. She can’t believe it. Santa Claus was here and brought all these presents because she is a good girl.
The first gift is wrapped in shiny green wrapping paper decorated with little stars. It’s a box of chocolate ladybirds with fresh cream in them.
She looks up at her parents who are watching her and smiling.
- Can I have a chocolate before breakfast?
- Yes but only because Santa brought them, her Mum says.
She runs and hugs her Mum and Dad and she’s so happy. The rest of the gifts fade, they don’t matter. All the magic is in the set up

That’s what I believe in.
That little feeling that makes people do things for one another just to see a smile.

You know what it is and I'm sure you have a special little memory of your own locked up somewhere.
Go on, unlock it and warm up your heart or just Shut Up and Hug Me!

Lotus Flowers and Herbs ©

My cousin Dionysus would always encourage us to drink, dance and break things if we were ever upset or angry.

The spirit of the drink brings mirth; the dance releases all your inhibitions and you break things so the emotion has somewhere to go.
The following day we would cleanse ourselves in the river and everything would be magically forgotten.

In London it doesn’t work that way. Drink is used to drown sorrows. Dancing is too controlled and if you break anything you’ll probably be accumulating a massive bill on your credit card.

I was trying to explain this to Emily (James’s new girlfriend and my 3rd brand new London friend) via MSN one afternoon as we both tried to spend as little time as possible doing work.

- You should try to dissolve your anger with love, she said.
- What? Just be forgiving and it will go away?
- No. Send love to the person you have unresolved issues with through chanting for them. Come to a Buddhist meeting with me and see how it makes you feel.

I was simultaneously writing to my mother, Isolde, through another chat portal.
She thought it was an excellent idea to meet some enlightened Buddhist men. I told her that was not really the point of the exercise but she wouldn’t hear of it.

Two days later I found myself in the back streets of Dalston, searching for Buddhists and peace of mind.
The meeting was held in a young girl's house. There were eight Buddhists crammed into a very small front room and they were already chanting. All female; my mother would be very disappointed.

Without much ceremony we sat on the floor and Emily started chanting immediately. I was handed a “hymn book” but I declined.
I could pick up the women’s energy and that was far more soothing. It’s so rare that humans agree with their heart. Whenever I’m in the presence of harmony it overwhelms me.

They chanted NAM – MYOHO- RENGE- KYO rhythmically, which means:

NAM – To devote one’s life
MYOHO – to the Mystic Law. MYO is Mystic nature and HO is Manifestation
RENGE – literally Means Lotus Flower and symbolises Cause and Effect
KYO – Sutra the voice or teachings of the Buddha. The sound and vibration that connects everything in the Universe.

After chanting there was a discussion and tea was handed out. Of all the things mentioned that night I kept the words of the young girl who was hosting the meeting in my heart.

- You’re here to win. That’s all there is. People think that they have to go through hard times to achieve the things that make them happy but that only leads to confusion.
If something is a struggle it’s not worth holding on to, be it a job, a relationship or anything that you feel connected to. You can only be successful in things you love, with people you love.


I spoke to Zeus about it that night. He was quite welcoming of my soul search.
He made sure to ask me to please not go crazy and shave my head. I had to explain that he was thinking of a completely different belief system.
- Were there Men at the meeting? He asked
- No, not everything has to be about men. This is about letting someone go, not finding someone new.
- Hmmm. The only way to forget an old love is to find a new one Venus. Your new friends might know about Lotus flowers but I know about herbs.
- What’s that supposed to mean?
- Lotus flowers are beautiful and symbolic and evocative but herbs nourish you and are medicinal. Search your soul but then move on and truly heal your life by giving your heart what it needs.

When we finished talking I lit my lotus flower candle but just in case my father was right I went into the kitchen and got a little stick of oregano to chew on as I chanted.

It's the Time of the Season ©

Absent-minded and daydreaming at the office one random Thursday, my eye caught an email with an interesting title flashing screen right.

E-vite: Party for Londoners not attending Glastonbury.

I clicked on it. It was forwarded to me by my friend James (One of the original two people I knew when I first moved to London. We go all the way back to college).
It was quickly followed by an email explaining that a friend of his was having a party and told him he could bring people and by people he meant girls…. preferably single.

There was a catch. You had to bring: clothes for tennis if you wanted to play, sports shoes to use the basketball court, a swimming costume for the pool and sauna and at least two towels. One towel for lying on the grass and one for having a shower.

How demanding! Would I be able to carry all that stuff across London? I thought about it for a while and concluded that yes, I just might just be able to do that.

So on the weekend that everyone was at Glastonbury, forty self-proclaimed Londoners from all over the world gathered in a house in North London to frolic sans mud.
I got there at noontime and for a moment I thought I was on the set of Will Smiths’s video “Summertime”.
The barbecue was on, the girls were either in the pool or sun tanning whilst the boys were playing basketball or staging diving contests to attract female attention.

If they were deer they would lock horns and push each other about but in the world of fancy garden parties showing off all the tricks they learnt when they were teenagers would suffice to prove who was the most virile Alpha male.
It was a candy store of boys, all different nationalities, interests and sizes (and by sizes I off course mean height and weight).

Deep breath Venus. This was going to be easy, like riding a bicycle.
Flirting and exchanging meaningful looks was on the menu today. I used be really good at this, time to get back on the saddle.
At the end of the day I’m Venus, this is what I do.
I changed into my bikini and joined James at the pool who introduced me to his new girlfriend.

Moment……….when you are newly single and a very close friend of yours embarks on a new relationship it’s always a test.
James had a new girlfriend. How did I feel about that? I scanned for inner reactions.
No bitterness for other people’s joy came to the surface. This was good. I was obviously in better shape than I thought.
Her name was Emily and she was lovely.

A girl with a Jewish background who had turned Buddhist. It was obviously very important to her because she made a point of talking about it several times during the day.

I found it very interesting and was amazed by how people in London seemed to pay a lot of attention to beliefs and culture heritage.

She asked me what I believed in?

Well, Zeus but then again I speak to Dad every day. It would be hard to ignore his existence. I also believe in nature and trying things out the human way.
- I believe that Humans are more magical than Gods. Everything takes longer but it’s magical. You don’t think it some times but you are.
Emily looked at me puzzled…. I think I was sharing too much too soon.

Then James introduced me to the boys. They all belonged to different tribes: Cute & polite British boys that were still studying their PhD in Cambridge, esoteric theatre types who liked talking politics and seemed to live in a Leonard Cohen inspired world, sporty types who wanted to know if the girls had brought proper tennis kit and a few imports from Spain. The latter gave nothing away. They looked at you intensely with their dark eyes; smiled suggestively and simply stated: "It was lovely to meet you".

One of them looked like Javier Bardem….need I say more?

There was almost too much choice. Another dive in the pool and a tennis match after were the order of the day. James was very attentive to both Emily and I. He seemed to understand that I was still fragile. Well, that and also that when you’re in love you have love to spare for the whole world, it spills over and envelopes everyone that comes close to you.
I enjoyed it, it made feel at ease.

As we moved into the night the girls started talking about the sauna. Purely for health purposes and the flushing of toxins of course. Now it was our turn to go primal.
- Oh yes, I love sweating with next to nothing on in the deep heat of a tiny room…it’s soooooo good for you.
That’s what they would say if they were in a 50’s Marilyn Monroe movie and it would be quickly followed by some poor man biting his trilby hat and walking fully clothed straight into a cold shower.

Let the games begin!

I dove into the pool, got out and went straight into the sauna.
The Javier Bardem look alike was there with two of his friends.
But shock of shock and horror of horrors. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. He was wearing “Speedos”, orange ones, whilst his two friends had the red and black versions on.

Seriously they should be banned. It’s the equivalent of a girl wearing a dress that comes up to her crotch and has a cleavage that reaches her stomach. Even if she’s a member of Mensa you can’t take her seriously. Well you can’t look into her eyes to begin with; there is too much distraction.
My cousin Athena always says "It’s a case of trying to appeal to the cheap seats in the audience".
I didn’t feel challenged anymore. I knew everything there was to know about him anatomically. Nothing was left to the imagination. It looked clinical actually. There were three males in the sauna with their organs on display and trust me there wasn’t a sexy feeling to be found at a three-mile radius.
When they left, the rest of the girls in the Sauna burst into giggles.
- Were you measuring them in your mind? asked Olivia who looked like she was going to pass out from the laughter.
Yes, we all nodded in agreement.
- Oh good, cause I thought I was the only perverted one in the room.
- You are not alone. We all said
- Seriously though would you? After seeing them like that?
- I wouldn’t let him take me out for coffee, I said
- Which one? Did you have a preference Ms Venus?
- Oh you’re quick! The Javier Bardem look alike was not bad but the Speedos made my internal “Hard on” die a death.
We laughed so much that we had to leave the Sauna in search of oxygen

At two o’clock in the morning there was a snooker match going in the “Cigar room” downstairs and cocktails were being made in the kitchen.
I took a book I had with me and went into the sitting room, which was filled with eclectic art and sculptures. It was very quiet and after the days exertions I felt like I could hear myself think again.

Javier Bardem came in (his modesty well covered in a pair of jeans) with two glasses of red wine.
- It’s Rioja. It will relax you and make you sleep well.
- Relax me even more than the sauna?
- Yes
He lived in Barcelona. I told him I was half Olympian – half Gaelic in origin.
He was an architect and I a word sculptor. He liked Lorca, we had that in common.
He took a pack of cards out of his back pocket and started doing magic tricks. He found the missing cards in my sleeves and even discovered a coin in my ear.

I giggled and thanked him for the little show but told him I wanted to sleep.

He was gentlemanly and left me to it.

I lay there in the darkness thinking that he had really put all his art into it. Under different circumstances we may have shared a kiss.
I don’t know if it was the Speedos or if I just wasn’t ready to be flirting and sharing kisses yet but my libido had definitely left the building.

I slept under the sculpture of a naked goddess that night and in my dream she knelt down and smoothed my hair as I slept.
- You’re just hibernating Venus, enjoy it.
- It’s summer. I corrected her.
- It’s not summer all over the world. In some places it’s winter because it needs to be. Nature needs to sleep before she can be reborn.

She kissed me on the forehead and assumed her original position. I had no more dreams that night.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious ©

The one thing I have always been very lucky with in my life is friends and there is not a day that passes that I am not thankful for it.
So when I found myself in London knowing only two people I was unperturbed. Surely they were somewhere in the folds of time, I just hadn't met them yet.

And lo and behold, Chloe, one of my buddies in the old country came up with two friend suggestions and sent them via Facebook. Eve and Natalie.
Two girls that were already in London a few years, who she thought I’d really click with.
The girls and I started by exchanging polite emails and arranging to meet for a “coffee – date”. As planning progressed and the masks fell coffee was quickly substituted by drinks.

There is something very refreshing about talking to brand new people that have no idea about where your life is at that moment. I didn’t have to talk about any break up, meltdown, rubbish-baggage issue and they wouldn’t ask. I could present myself as I wanted to be.
Brand new, London Venus.

First I met Eve at a Street Party in Camden town.
There were stalls selling tasty treats and revellers as far as the eye could see. The bubbles from the machines set up on the sides of the street clashed with the guitar rifts that came from the local bands playing on stage.
Eve and I drank beer mixed with the salty sweat that gathered on our upper lip.
Who knew there was so much sun and fun in London? We talked about getting used to a new city, art, our dreams, what we thought about the countries we had left behind and found we agreed a lot.
I kept taking pictures of this very very happy day. Dancing children, teenagers with massive afros, men in carnival regalia and among them all, Eve, who was so happy to join in on any dancing going on. She lit up as she danced and I had a smile on my face just by looking at her.
When we left the street party at night, she told me she was very glad our friend had connected us through Facebook and that she’d love us to do something again soon.

- You’re such a positive person, she said to me. I smiled and hugged her.

On the way home I thought to myself that sometimes life tells us exactly what we need to know about ourselves. I AM POSITIVE. People enter and exit our life story all the time.
We are not defined by it. We are defined by that which is inside our hearts.
There was happiness in mine, there for all to see. Eve had given me the wonderful gift of holding up a mirror and letting me have a proper look at myself.

My second WebFriendDate was a picnic in St James’ Park. Natalie was turning 30 and she had invited us all out to St James to eat, drink wine and toast her amongst the squirrels.
She had set up her own Mad-Hatters party amid the trees. There were multicoloured cupcakes to catch the eye and wine to soothe the senses.

If you’ve ever read Enid Blyton, C.S. Lewis, Lewis Carroll or sang Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious along with Burt & Mary Poppins, walking among the willows and miniature lakes with the petite old fashioned bridges curving beautifully over them, your inner child suddenly wakes up.
The British have managed to craft a special kind of magic that appeals to children and the adults they become all around the world. In St James Park you can dive right into it.

I put some of the pink cupcake in my mouth and washed it down with white wine and just like Alice in Wonderland does I got smaller and smaller and everything got curioser and curioser …… or maybe I should say juvenile.

We laughed so much that Natalie got wine coming back up through her nose. I showed everyone my party piece, which is doing three cartwheels in a row (it takes great skill when you’ve consumed half a bottle of Pinot Grigio).
Natalie and I chatted all evening. We told each other things that you usually don’t say until you’ve met someone 4 or 5 times. Maybe it was the wine or the sugar rush or maybe it was that when two women feel they can trust each other there is no need for protocol. You just know.


I knew I had made two lovely new friends and through them I had also found a little new bit of myself. A new bit of strength I didn’t know I had.
I think it’s called Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

London Baptism ©

You’ve always got a choice between sadness and joy.

Joy is there; sometimes it feels like it’s at the back of the cupboard in a dusty corner that you haven’t checked in months, but its there.

The first weekend in July arrived to mark a month in London and a month being single. Now, if there is one place in the world that you would be lucky to be stranded alone in, it’s London.

My little changeling, the Internet would guide me to the best places. I decided to take myself on a weekend long date.
There was a Picasso exhibition on in the national gallery. The title was “Challenging the Past”, very appropriate, booked it for Saturday.
Coffee in Covent Garden before and a drink in Soho after. Nice one.
Then, Sunday would be spent exploring the South Bank.
To complete my internet planning, as every good newbie does, I logged on to “Transport for London”. I still hadn’t connected the city in my head. It consisted of fragmented little pieces. I just popped up in places from the subway like a mole poking its head out of the earth in the middle of a huge forest.

Picasso was amazing. He challenged all the masters that came before him by painting in their style and then brazenly wrote: Yo Van Gogh or Yo El Greco on the canvasses, which means I am Van Gogh, I am El Greco and why not? Don’t revere, challenge.

I thought I had relationship issues? Picasso was always just out of one and into another. I envied him for it. There is a sort of lightness about that.
I’d like to be like him. An artist immersed in what I’m doing, liking my partners but not taking them too seriously, never giving my heart away.
Yes, I think I can learn from Pablo. Yo Picasso.

The next day I started my walk in the evening at London Bridge and slowly explored the South Bank. The weather was glorious, the Thames sparkled as the sun went down and everyone was in a good mood.
And there in the middle of the hustle bustle was the Wooden O, the beautiful Globe, which He wrote for. All the wisdom of the world in one mind. I wonder what he’d think of Starbucks and the Real Greek right next to his lovely theatre. Would Shakespeare enjoy a Frapuccino or would he be an espresso man? I think the latter.

Then on to walk the Wobbly Bridge (this is what Londoners call the Millenium Bridge that connects the South Bank and Saint Pauls). It seems the architect wanted to share the picture of what he saw the first time he imagined it. St Pauls stands proud across the way beckoning you to come towards it. Postcard-perfect picture.
The bridge doesn’t wobble at all but it’s open on both sides giving you a feeling of walking on air and on the water at the same time. At night it’s majestic.

I stood there, on the air thinking: You know what Venus? Life is good. You’ve come here, you’re free, the world is your oyster. Just be and enjoy.

And suddenly my mobile rang. Who could it be? No one knew me.
The screen flashed "Mark", one of my work colleagues. Apparently he and his friends were in a private club in Shoreditch; having drinks by the outdoor pool and he wanted to know if I’d join them since I was new in London and didn’t know many people.

Yes please!

15 minutes and a black cab drive later I was at the top of Shoreditch House, with a unique view of the Gherkin, sipping Veuve Clicquot and making new friends.
The more champagne I had the more I lusted after the pool and told Mark I wished I could swim in the water that looked so calm and clean.
-Your wish is my command, he said and threw me in.
I had just received my London baptism.

Everyone clapped and cheered as I floated, fully clothed gazing at the urban skyline in the starlight.

What a lovely weekend to be newly single.

Facebook and the Male Gaze ©

When you’re used to existing under the gaze of an adoring male the absence of his eyes following you around the room can be the most painful part of a break up.

The ego takes a big hit.

If he’s not there to see me, who am I getting dressed up for? What's the point of getting my hair done ? Why am I not eating carbs?

And if you have a day when you feel really good about yourself somewhere in the back of your mind you’re wishing he could see you.

Enter Facebook. No one can ignore a shiny new photo album with detailed snaps of what you did last weekend. You can still have the feeling you’re being watched even if you can’t really confirm it.

So post brake up what else can an internet savvy girl do but put on her sexiest (yet demure and lady like) body con pink dress and get photographed, paparazzi style, all over London by a wonderful, compassionate friend who has come to the city for the weekend to provide much needed support.

Up the pictures went and they did not need photo shop, which surprised me to be honest.
I had dyed my hair blond, I hadn’t eaten in weeks and I was wearing pink.
I felt like death but I looked fabulous.

My kind-hearted friends quickly obliged with comments like:
“Oh my God, London suits you Girl!!!” or “You look like you’re having the time of your life” or “Wow!!!.... look at you all SEXY” or “Who is that Hot Mama?” Blah, blah, blah. All designed to capture his gaze.

He didn’t post a comment but he called to say it looked like I was having fun and ask how I was doing.
I cried the whole night after that call but no one was there to take a picture or post a comment, so technically it hadn’t happened.

And then my 30th birthday came. Something inside me snapped and made my Virtual self in the pink dress a distant memory. I enjoyed endless bars of Lindt chocolate, toast with lashings of butter and had cheese with my wine instead of olives.
For a while my body didn’t react and then suddenly it was as if I’d exploded.

I had found a way for both my ego and my need to fill the man shaped void to be satisfied.


Here it is in three easy steps:

1.Be strategic about when you take your pictures.
(First come the pictures then the cheese platter)
2.Make sure a really good friend is the photographer because sometimes the perfect picture takes an age to manifest.
3.If all else fails use Photoshop.

I think I speak on behalf of newly single people everywhere when I say:
God Bless Facebook

Virtual Breakup ©

Just like in the movies, every good story begins with a bad break up.

Cut to June 2009. I had just moved to London to save myself from the ugly recession cloud storming Europe.

I knew two people in the whole city and my boyfriend; the son of a politician in a corrupt land far-far away called me on Skype one night to let me know he had decided he’s was not going to be joining me in London as we had planned.

His parents had convinced him there were no opportunities for him in London. They had assured him that back in his own corrupt land of plenty a bright future was already mapped out for him. Maybe we could try and make it work long distance?

He also informed me that all his talk of having a little baby Venus so he could love two Venus’s not just one (his quote not mine) was a joke.
A joke, he always talked about it in the sweetest, most private moments a couple has. Like Sunday after sex and just before breakfast with the morning papers:
“Honey when will it be the three of us, so I can take care of two Venus’s? I might love her a little bit more though, will you mind that?”
My little mother-to-be heart would flutter all around the kitchen Disney style and I’d kiss him on the forehead because for the time being, he was my baby.

I put down the speakers attached to the computer and with hands that were shaking like a volcano was erupting inside me I typed “It’s over” into the chat option. Three very real years just ended with a virtual breakup, it hurt just as much as the face to face deal.

Skype kept buzzing in regular intervals for the next two hours. There was nothing more to say.