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.