I haven't written anything for a while and for this I am truly sorry. January ran away with me. Many an interesting thing happened in January, including me reaching the ripe old age of four and twenty.
This blog is not India related. I will be sure to write another India post this evening as I am at home. Probably along with the long awaited downstairs loo blog.
It is February and it is snowing. It is a good thing it is snowing because I only have heels or snow boots available. To say I look a tad bizarre would be an understatement. My snow boots are really fat and red and it looks like my sparrow legs are going to snap off at any minute. It also doesn't help my look that I have tin foil in my hair and a black see through lacey top on. Some people think having legs like mine is a blessing. But then they don't have the rigmarole of boot shopping and realising that every boot looks like a welly. And I thus look like I am about to go horse riding. Which doesn't help this whole false perception of me as a horse rider. Which I am not. And quite frankly, never will be.
It was my birthday on Friday and thirty five of us went to check out the restaurant underneath my flat. As there were so many of us, we ate a Levantine feast of humous, baba ganoush*, pitta, kebabs, falafels, cheese things, lamb things and baklava. I can now add baklava to the list of foods I could really do without. Somebody told me the other day that I was a fussy eater. I'm not. The thing is that I would just rather not bother with things that I don't love. I don't see the point - it is a waste of my time, my jaw muscles' time and there are others who could enjoy it more than me if I left it for them. It is also a waste of time for the farmers and manufacturers who have made said foods. In this case, the baklava farmers...
In conclusion, there are still only 3 things I can't eat and they still remain butter, beetroot and veal's head.
Once upon a time, my American friend Jessie cooked us a thanksgiving dinner. It was incredible. I was a thanksgiving virgin. To accompany the turkey, was a mushroom gravy. I am not a mushroom fan generally. I will take or leave. But as a gracious guest, I took. And I ate. And Jessie waited until I had eaten. And then she said, 'phil, they weren't mushrooms, they were giblets.' I can't describe the revulsion I felt. It rose like a wave and stuck in my throat. It stayed there for hours afterwards. I still haven't forgiven her. This has a point. I am just not sure what it is. I think this is just proof to all those doubters out there that I eat stuff I don't like.
Anyway, the birthday dinner was a triumph. Up to the point where they brought in a belly dancer. And they dragged me up to dance. Don't get me wrong, I like to be the centre of attention. But let us hark back to the post I wrote about dancing. And how I can't.
Three things were not in my favour
1. I don't possess a belly
2. Or sufficient bosom
3. Or the ability to dance
Furthermore I had been so busy trying to make sure everybody was happy, I hadn't really had a drink. One word sums up the entire event: mortifying.
34 pairs of eyes on me.
Friends from home - fine. They know I often make a fool of myself.
Friends from uni - alright. Although I hadn't seen them for a year.
Friends' partners and friends of friends - no doubt sitting there wondering why people associated with this loon.
Friends from work - dear lord, what would they say on Monday? At least I could blame the Christmas party on excessive alcohol consumption.
The next table of 15 who I didn't know from Adam but who I was paraded in front of. Well... by that point I had embraced the mortification and I was in my element. Shimmying like nobody has ever shimmied before. Granted, there wasn't much to work with on the jiggling front but I tried my best and got some laughs.
At me. Not with me.
*Oh. And I still don't know what baba ganoush is.
This blog is not India related. I will be sure to write another India post this evening as I am at home. Probably along with the long awaited downstairs loo blog.
It is February and it is snowing. It is a good thing it is snowing because I only have heels or snow boots available. To say I look a tad bizarre would be an understatement. My snow boots are really fat and red and it looks like my sparrow legs are going to snap off at any minute. It also doesn't help my look that I have tin foil in my hair and a black see through lacey top on. Some people think having legs like mine is a blessing. But then they don't have the rigmarole of boot shopping and realising that every boot looks like a welly. And I thus look like I am about to go horse riding. Which doesn't help this whole false perception of me as a horse rider. Which I am not. And quite frankly, never will be.
It was my birthday on Friday and thirty five of us went to check out the restaurant underneath my flat. As there were so many of us, we ate a Levantine feast of humous, baba ganoush*, pitta, kebabs, falafels, cheese things, lamb things and baklava. I can now add baklava to the list of foods I could really do without. Somebody told me the other day that I was a fussy eater. I'm not. The thing is that I would just rather not bother with things that I don't love. I don't see the point - it is a waste of my time, my jaw muscles' time and there are others who could enjoy it more than me if I left it for them. It is also a waste of time for the farmers and manufacturers who have made said foods. In this case, the baklava farmers...
In conclusion, there are still only 3 things I can't eat and they still remain butter, beetroot and veal's head.
Once upon a time, my American friend Jessie cooked us a thanksgiving dinner. It was incredible. I was a thanksgiving virgin. To accompany the turkey, was a mushroom gravy. I am not a mushroom fan generally. I will take or leave. But as a gracious guest, I took. And I ate. And Jessie waited until I had eaten. And then she said, 'phil, they weren't mushrooms, they were giblets.' I can't describe the revulsion I felt. It rose like a wave and stuck in my throat. It stayed there for hours afterwards. I still haven't forgiven her. This has a point. I am just not sure what it is. I think this is just proof to all those doubters out there that I eat stuff I don't like.
Anyway, the birthday dinner was a triumph. Up to the point where they brought in a belly dancer. And they dragged me up to dance. Don't get me wrong, I like to be the centre of attention. But let us hark back to the post I wrote about dancing. And how I can't.
Three things were not in my favour
1. I don't possess a belly
2. Or sufficient bosom
3. Or the ability to dance
Furthermore I had been so busy trying to make sure everybody was happy, I hadn't really had a drink. One word sums up the entire event: mortifying.
34 pairs of eyes on me.
Friends from home - fine. They know I often make a fool of myself.
Friends from uni - alright. Although I hadn't seen them for a year.
Friends' partners and friends of friends - no doubt sitting there wondering why people associated with this loon.
Friends from work - dear lord, what would they say on Monday? At least I could blame the Christmas party on excessive alcohol consumption.
The next table of 15 who I didn't know from Adam but who I was paraded in front of. Well... by that point I had embraced the mortification and I was in my element. Shimmying like nobody has ever shimmied before. Granted, there wasn't much to work with on the jiggling front but I tried my best and got some laughs.
At me. Not with me.
*Oh. And I still don't know what baba ganoush is.
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