One flew over the couture nest

I have come to the conclusion that my agency is not really an agency. That my job is not a job, but a form of therapy designed to exorcise me of my love for shopping. My shrink – my ‘creative director’, the chosen form of therapy – ‘100cc of shopping centre direct mailers – non diluted’ and the evil nurses that chain me to the bed and force the bitter medicine down my throat – ‘the account team’. All of them I’m sure in cahoots with my husband who figured that paying for such an elaborate set up would be far more cost effective than having to shell out for a life time of my extravagances.

Like all sods lured to the loony bin under the pretence of a visit to the Zoo or a day at the beach, I was promised the chance to do cutting edge work on high fashion brands and premium centres. I had visions (what they call hallucinations in here) of Alexander McQueen, Roland Mouret and Bill Blass.

I should have realised that things weren’t ok when I was given Primark instead of Prada. This isn’t want I’m meant to be doing I protested! I’m destined for bigger, better things I claimed. Of course you are the nurses cooed as they ruthlessly hosed me down. Soaked to the skin and trembling in fear I went to my boss. ‘What’s going on? This isn’t how it’s meant to be’ I said. He made me lie down on his couch (another clue) and asked me about my childhood. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ I said. ‘Oh everything’ was the reply.

‘Don’t worry’ my husband said when I complained ‘they know what’s best for you…just listen to what your Doct… er I mean boss says.’

In the last 6 months they’ve been working quietly on me. The brochures, the Sale ads, the radio commercials with the jingles that remind me of women with triangular haircuts, blue eye shadow and shoulder pads. A sample ‘It’s got the look, it’s got the hook, it’s got style, it’s got space. It’s got the look, it’s got the hook.’ Words that will make even the most intrepid shopper quake in her heels.

I try to protest. I try to write interesting, witty copy. But I look up on the screen and see ‘have a bright, glittering Christmas with Randy the Reindeer. Move over Rudolph’. I try to delete the words but the key seems jammed. The words cannot be taken back.

The Christmas rush is over. A quiet has descended over the agency. I try and drum up enthusiasm for the Boxing Day sales. 50% off Chloe blouses at Selfridges. Tweed jackets a steal at Monsoon. But my brain refuses to co-operate. The latest edition of Vogue sits unopened on my desk. ‘They’re winning’ the last, sane refuge of my brain whispers to me.

Snatches of conversation reach my ears. ‘Easter promotions …’ ‘… next Father’s Day’ ‘ Summer sales’. The words surround me like a designer straight jacket binding my arms to my sides. They’re mounting their next and final attack.

Dear Santa

Growing up, my sister and I were lucky enough to have a part of our education abroad. Lucky, because it gave us the chance to experience different cultures, cuisines and classroom politics.

One of the things we managed to bring from classroom to home was Christmas. Every year, we would dress the fake, silk palm tree that stood in the corner of the lounge with tinsel. An angel fashioned from aluminium foil would be perched precariously on the top of our make shift fir. My sister and I would be given a small allowance to buy gifts for each other with and there’d always be a gift for us from our parents too.

The years progressed. We returned to India. The silk palm tree was stowed away in the attic and long forgotten. Our Christmas tradition along with it.

In the last 6 months I have been reunited with this festival. And unlike in India, where Christmas is more about Midnight Mass and family lunches here all I see around me is mass consumerism. Gift guides, top 10 lists and must have presents. I should know – I’ve written enough of them myself. Since April, I’ve worked on brochures, radio spots, TV commercials and direct mailers for over 15 clients. I’ve encouraged people to buy Homer Simpson shower radios, cranberry scented candles and naughty, Santa’s little helper lingerie. While there’s nothing like receiving a well thought out gift, I’m sure people would rather get no gift at all than an electronic, singing trout.

This year, the average Briton will spend an average of £450 each on Christmas gifts.
That’s enough to feed a family of 6 in Sudan for a year. Now I’m not suggesting that
all of you return the gifts you’ve already bought or don’t buy the ones you’re planning
to. But I am suggesting this.

I’m sure the establishments many of you work for send out Christmas cards and gifts to
clients. Mine do. This year the agency had a budget of £2000 for corporate Christmas
gifts. A fine wine perhaps? Handmade chocolates flown in from Paris? Food hampers
from Fortnum and Mason? Donkeys? Donkeys!

A visit here gave us a wonderful list of unusual, Christmas
Gifts. Gifts that can be made on behalf of friends, family and business associates.
Donkeys, goats, school books, mango plantations – even a motorcycle. All of which go to
people who need
them the most in countries devastated by war or natural disaster. After much thought we
decided that the money would be used to build a classroom – replete with roof, toilets and
clean drinking water.

If your organisation is in the UK and hasn’t decided what to send clients yet give this a thought. Apart from Oxfam, The Independent has chosen 3 charities as part of its
Make a Difference initiative which are doing fantastic work across the globe. If you’re in India you can make a contribution to CRY, Project Why, ASha or any other charity that your organisation would like to support. Then send an e-mail out to your clients telling them what you’ve done in their name.

So maybe clients won’t get a chocolate walnut log this Christmas. But they’ll get to feel good knowing that they’ve made education a possibility for a child somewhere. And that’s something you can’t put a price on.

Paati

They used to fight over her. They would fight about who got to lie on her lap. Who got the first and last vaai (mouthful) of food when she fed them. About whom she would bathe that day. They even fought over who she loved the most. And which one of them loved her the most.

“My house is too small” says the eldest daughter-in-law

“My son needs the extra room to prepare for his board exams” says the youngest son.

Silence from her daughter.

“How was I to know that she slipped and fell in the bathroom?” says her other son.

They still fight over her. Who will keep her. Who will pay for her hospital bills. Who will clean up after she wets herself.

Her granddaughter looks at her. The wrinkled skin. The worn, gold bangles. The frilled nightgown from Pondy Bazaar that has replaced the regal, nine yard sarees she once wore.

“Amma, we will keep paati” she says.

They take her home. She sees her two grand daughters fight for their mother’s affection and attention. They fight over which one of them she loves more. Who gets the last vaai of food. Who gives her the last kiss goodnight.

And she hopes that history does not repeat itself.

People on the platform

He went round and round stamping his feet
Arms crossed over his chest
A clumsy, whirling dervish
Trying to dance away the cold

Blonde where there was once black where there was once brown
The pink velour tracksuit proclaimed that she was No Angel
Juggling cell phone and crisps
She pushed the pram with her free hand.
Child and mother at the same time

‘Hello! How are you? How’s Sue?
Has she had her baby yet? What are you doing for Christmas?’
The old lady chatters away
But only the cold December wind listens

It's a kind of magic

Magic. It’s about pulling rabbits out of a black top hat. Sawing people in half. It’s knowing that you picked the ace of hearts from the pack.

Or is it?

Ask most women (and please note that I say most and not all) what magic is to them and they’ll talk to you about violins playing in the background, frissons of excitement coursing down their backs, that ‘look’ from across a smoky bar. P.C Sorcar’s brand of abracadabra just doesn’t cut it anymore.

Apparently, love these days is all about magic. It’s about a je ne sais pas that’s harder to describe than the need for salmon flavoured ice lollies. (which do exist, I assure you). And it’s driving a lot of guys up the wall.

Male friends of mine in love, float along on cloud number 9 until they’re brought down to terra firma when told ‘I like you… but I just don’t feel it. You know, that feeling in your stomach?’ And there’s no point telling them that feeling in their stomach is the lunch they had at the dubious road side stall – they think it’s love.

‘What about commitment? What about friendship? A sense of humour?’ ask these men. Why do all these sterling qualities pale when compared to a light headed feeling that could have more to do with skipping breakfast than meeting Mr. Right?

Now there’s nothing wrong with wanting these things. I wouldn’t expect a woman to settle for Nine West when she could buy Manolos. But what if the Nine West shoes were great? What if they let you catch trains, run a marathon and looked great with trousers and skirts? I’d recommend giving the Nine West’s a shot.

I know girls who have said no to wonderful guys based purely on a fairytale notion of love. They hope that like Snow White, they won’t have to choose from Grumpy and Sneezy, and that Prince Charming will come one day. And who’s to say he won’t?
But remember girls, if Mr. Prince Charming is a no show – don’t go looking for Grumpy or Sneezy. They’ll be with a girl who knows that most magic tricks are illusions. And that real love can’t be pulled out of a hat.

To market, to market

Isn’t it funny how things you once abhorred become wonderful and romantic as your memories are tinged with sepia?

As a child, there was nothing worse than Maadavidhi market. I hated tagging along with my Mother as she bought Leo Coffee Powder, vegetables, sugar and the other sundries that a middle class family run on. If I whined too much and seemed to be on the verge of a temper tantrum she would leave me in the car and wind her way through the thronging mass of shoppers, cows and TVS Champs. I would look out the window and pass the time by counting the number of white 800s that drove by. It would amuse me for about 10 minutes and then I would get fidgety. I would keep a lookout for my mother among the sea of faces. Sometimes I would perk up at the sight of a woman in a similar sari, thinking it was her. But as the woman walked by the car, weighed down by her purchases and who knows what else, my heart would sink.

I would be angry with my mother when she finally turned up. But the anger would evapourate as soon as she produced the glass bottle from Ambika that held 5 minutes of pure pleasure. Flavoured milk. Badham. Pista. Rose. And I would greedily gulp it down – not a thank you or smile in return for her efforts. How rude children can be.

My antipathy towards Maadavidhi came down marginally as the years progressed. I was a regular at Vijaya Books stores as a student. And as a bride-to-be, I loved the silver shops and bangle stalls that dotted the cramped by-lanes. The withered faces of the old women selling fresh flowers. The magnificent Kapaleeshwarar Temple seeming that seemed to expand to accommodate the faithful.

Marriage was followed by Mumbai. And could markets be far behind? My first year in Bandra meant regular visits to the fruit and veg stalls at the base of Mount Mary. I never had a chance to flex my lean linguistic muscles there as all the stall owners spoke English. There was also a fruit seller who would come home every morning and try to sell over priced papaya and ‘import straaabeerries’.

Shifting to town meant goodbye to the sad bruised straaabeeries and hello to the shiny, sticker bearing apples that regally sat outside Premsons. Buying vegetables and fruits here seemed to be all right if we wanted to declare bankruptcy, but as that wasn’t the case I soon began to look for alternatives. And that’s how I found myself back in Maadavidhi. Well, almost.

Matunga. How can one visit Matunga and not fall in love with it? Ram Naiks. The Guruvayoorappan temple. Concerns. Manis. It even has a Giri traders.
Once a week, I would leave behind the cloak of my modern, Bombay lifestyle. Abstain from the alcohol and the swearing. Wear a crisp, starched saree, pick up my green plastic basket and head to this Mecca for displaced Mylapore Maamis. After asking God to forgive me for the sins of the past week and those that I was about to commit in the week to come, I would inexpertly haggle with the vendors and buy strands of fresh malli. I began to enjoy visiting the market. The vendors to whom my face had become familiar. The inexplicable satisfaction that lugging home fresh produce gave me.
So it was with much sadness that I read recently that Tesco would like India to open up it’s markets to the supermarket giant. I know very little of economics and I’m sure that the investment can only do good. But if the impact of supermarket chains on markets and home-grown produce in the UK is anything to go by, I fear for the future of the Mount Marys, Matungas and Maadavidhis that are such a wonderful, colourful and noisy part of India.

I look forward to my next visit to Maadavidhi. It won’t be such a tiresome thing. I am no longer the little girl in the blue uniform waiting impatiently for her mother. I won’t need to count red cars to pass the time. But I will drink the flavoured milk. And I will remember to say thank you this time.

Disappointing Dutch

How much can you tell about a country and it’s people by a trip to the Visa Section of the said nation’s Embassy? Quite a lot I like to think. I’ve had the (mis)fortune of having stood in line in a number of embassies and it’s always given me a rough idea of what to expect in the country I’m about to visit.

At the Italian Embassy one can hope to be greeted by some rather handsome, curly haired David-esque men. They will spend more time looking at you than at your documents, converse with you in a manner that can only be described as flirtatious and will largely ignore the man standing next to you, who you happen to you’re your husband. When we (my husband and I – David look-alike number 20,003 couldn’t make it) were actually in Rome I found that this was a trait quite rampant in the Italian gene pool. All men - from the stewards on the Alitalia flight to the Immigration officers to the cabbies and waiters – can spend a full half hour explaining how to get to the Via Sacra if you’re a woman. If you’re a man they’ll grunt and nod in roughly the opposite direction.

The French however are a completely different ball game. Until you dredge up long forgotten French phrases from the dark and dusty corners of your brain, the straight line that is a French Embassy employee’s mouth will not turn up in the corners in to what is French for smile. However, if you can answer ‘Parlez vouz Francaise?’ with a breathy ‘Un peu’ and not ‘You speak English?’ accompanied by a vapid look you have temporary access to the rather exclusive ‘People the French like’ club. Temporary because you must exhibit more knowledge of their beloved language – humming Edith Piaf song’s under your breath is recommended. Humming ‘frere jacques’ is not. Parisians are the same - as a rule they dislike foreigners – but if they think you aren’t making any effort to speak their beloved language – God help you. Or should I say ‘aide d'un dieu vous’?

And how can I leave out our very own country’s visa and passport office? Like India herself, our embassies are grossly overpopulated. There are people everywhere – most of them taking a tea break that started at 9:30am and that will end at 4:00pm. Ask anyone a question and they will scratch their head for a while and then hand you over to someone else. This will be repeated until you find yourself with the same man who set the ball rolling. Name dropping and conversing in a common tongue will get you far – but act too big and a lowly flunky will extract revenge by making you wait forever. They will be rude to the country’s subjects but fawningly attentive to those who not long ago lorded about us in crinoline skirts and tight breeches.

Today morning I found myself outside the Dutch Embassy shivering not only because of the cold but also with anticipation. Would there be seemingly innocent brownies on offer that left people with more than a chocolate high? Would the employees be sitting behind glass-fronted booths in their underwear? Would I get my first taste of a Dutch accent?

‘Morrrning!’ twanged the blonde as she took my papers. Not only was she disappointingly dressed in tweed but she also had – could it be – an American accent? I mumbled a ‘Good morning’ back and looked around her desk for brownies or at least some suspect looking powder in a plastic bag. But there were no recreational drugs to be found – NOTHING. I sighed in resignation and paid my fee – which I thought was steep considering that there were no drugs or dubious women.

So with no new Dutch insights I made my way back to the station. En route I treated myself to a brownie and paused at the lingerie display at M&S. Pretending the mannequin was called Gerta (sound’s Dutch doesn’t it?) and that my brownie induced euphoria was caused by something more interesting I convinced myself that I now knew what to look forward to in Amsterdam. So what if I was in the heart of Kensington.

seeing but not looking?

Has it ever happened to you - you're passing by the familiar landscape of your daily commute - houses, office complexes, football fields and then all of a sudden something you've never seen before pops up. A glass fronted homage to the modern, an art deco mansion, a gigantic, leafless tree - its bent limbs trying to protect itself from the elements. And you think to yourself - "When did that come up?" "How could I have missed that lovely red brick all these days?"

It's the same with people. Friends, siblings, lovers, parents, spouses. You can spend your entire life thinking you know everything about someone and then discover something startling and new in their personality. Prejudices, fetishes, kinks and quirks come creeping out of the woodwork.

Or were they always there like the redbrick? And we had just never noticed?

Ticking away

Apparently we’re all short on time. Our lives are so full, so busy and so wonderful that we no longer have time to – well do anything.

There was a time when our mothers and grandmothers would head out to the market, haggle with vendors and return bearing tiny mangos, lime and maahali. They would sit outside and make jar after jar of pickle. Once a year the children would stand guard on the terrace – mobile scarecrows that shooed away the crows brave enough to inch their way towards sheets of drying vadaam.

Good skin and hair were things that took a healthy diet, weekly oil baths and massages to achieve.

Love was the outcome of years spent peeking through the bedroom window at the boy or girl next door. Or waiting at the turn of your of the road watching the object of your affections head to tuition. It meant spending hours at Landmark finding the perfect card with just the right amount of hearts, puppies and synonyms for love on it.

But who has the time for all these things? Today it’s meal in minutes, better skin in 2 weeks, yoga in bed, speed dating, crash courses and quickies in the elevator. (And if you don’t have time for that there’s always the power shower.)

Now this isn’t some rant to get people back to making pickle at home. This isn’t a call to get back to the good ol’ days. That would mean tights and Doc Martens. And that wasn’t a great look on me - or anyone else for that matter. This isn’t even a call to people to slow down and sample life’s simple pleasures.

All I’m wondering is this. What is that we’re doing that’s taking up so much of our time?

We aren’t in deep Tibet finding ourselves. Reading Deepak Chopra over a latte is more popular than sitting in a commune somewhere eating bean sprouts and not taking any hot showers.

We aren’t spending years training our minds and bodies to be focused and flexible. There’s Meditation for Dummies and Speed Tai Chi for that.

We certainly aren’t sunning ourselves on the back porch and making pickles that are as hot as the neighbourhood gossip. The only ladies who do that are a certain Priya and Ruchi. (And I have a very sneaky feeling that they’re men in safari suits.)

So what’s taking up all our time? Work? Has the ladder of success turned in to one of those giant exercise wheels that hamsters and mice are forever running on? Are we spending so much time trying to get ahead that everything else in our lives has been relegated to the instant category?

So what you say. What’s the harm in jumping the line a bit? Why can’t we find love in a 60 seconds? What’s wrong with looking for beauty in a jar? Nothing really.

But then today morning I spotted a woman on the train reading "A crash course in Paediatrics".
And there’s something very unsettling about that.

Please mind the gap

I-pods. Cell phones. Burberry. Blackberry. PDA of the electronic and human kind.
Reports that were meant to be read last night, skimmed through while trying to peek the headlines on someone else’s Daily Mirror.

If you can overlook the unscheduled stopovers at Willesden Green. The signal failures at Farringdon. And line closures on weekends which can leave you marooned at home, travelling by tube can be rather wonderful. The people watching alone makes up for a 30 minute wait at Kennington.

There are the Japanese women. Poker straight black hair, perfectly tweezed eyebrows and smooth, poreless skin make these women a delight to watch. Whether they’re dressed in severe black suits or jujube coloured leggings and bizarre t-shirts you can be assured that the bag dangling oh-so-casually from their arm will either be an Louis Vuitton or Gucci.

The young couples surgically attached at the lips, hips and every other joint and crevice of their bodies. One such pair had me examining a wad of chewed gum on the floor from Finsbury Park to Heathrow. That’s more than 14 stations. It was either discover the myriad textures of used gum or discover the myriad kissing techniques of East European backpackers.

The City types in black, navy blue and charcoal grey. Pin striped perfection with suitable arm candy – sudoku, the FT/Economist, palm pilot or an Ice Blonde Consultant.

The second and third generation Asians with their mocha coloured skin, pierced noses, bleached hair and low rise jeans. Not all that different from their cousins back home till they open their mouths and out spills a torrent of in-nits, wassats and other words that have made half the alphabet redundant.

Ageing parents from the sub-continent out to see the sights of London. Men in heavy jackets borrowed from sons pouring over maps and trying to make sense of new fangled cameras. Women in bulky sweaters that clash with their silk saris, feet encased in woollen socks and brand new Clarkes sandals. They look out of the window on the overline. Gazing at the never-ending stretch of identical, grey, Dickensian suburbs. In the dark of the tube they try not to stare disapprovingly at the cleavage bearing, body pierced youths and draw them to their husband’s attention with an indiscreet foot nudge. Only to be snapped at and told to look out the window.

Sleek Somalis women in their fake Dior headscarves and bright skirts. Ruddy cheeked Germans. English roses. Asian lilies. The tube is perhaps the best representation of multi-cultural London.

But one person from all my train journeys stands out in my mind. It was on the way to a play after work one night. I was on the Circle line to Sloane Square. The train had been emptied of the rush hour madness and there were but a few of us in the compartment. An old Englishman stood by the door in a suit that looked as tired as he was, holding a Guinness in his hand. His cheeks were bright red and he had what seemed to be a bad cold. Till I noticed that he was crying. Every now and then he would take a swig of his Guinness and fresh tears would course down his cheeks. Everyone in the compartment would look at him and then look away lest he tried to off load his tale of woe on them. Everyone was thinking the same thing - Why was he crying? Remembering his dead wife? Thinking of the daughter that didn’t call anymore. Maybe he just had a few more months to live. Or maybe it wasn’t anything so dramatic at all. Perhaps his favourite team had lost another football match.

I always keep an eye out for the old man on the Circle line. Silly I know. I’m not sure why I do it. If my life was a movie I will see him again a few months from now. Laughing and talking with his young daughter. Holding hands with a his wife (how pessimistic of us to think that she was dead). Or maybe drinking another beer and celebrating his team’s 2-0 victory.

Careful what you ask for

Her ‘best friend’ from college was visiting (perhaps only women will understand how much meaning those single quotes contain). The house was cleaned. The 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets were brought out. The air was heavy with the fragrance of fresh lilies. The children looked their doll like best and her husband’s nose and ears were carefully pruned. “Remember to be very romantic when she’s around” she instructed her husband. Her friend came.
And left with her husband in tow. “You’re the one who told me to be romantic” he reminded her.

Happy Deepavali!

To all the NRI's, POIs and other strange abbreviation people out there who are wishing they were 12 years old and stuffing their face with jangri. And being cajoled by Amma to take sweets to the crotchety old widow next door and spend some time with her. Who wish they were watching inane petis of Ilaiya Dalapathi so and so. Who wish they weren't sitting in front of a computer in an office thousands of miles away from home. Happy Deepavali. I feel your pain. :(

Screw it

If God and my husband (the two being separate entities, in spite of what Indian culture would like me to believe) think that they can dampen my enthusiasm for furniture and novelty candlesticks by sending a wayward shoe rack my way – they can think again. Allow me to explain.

We shifted house over the weekend. While our previous semi detached had a wonderful garden, 2 spacious bedrooms and a cupboard that housed all my 51 pairs of shoes (yes 51 – that’s not much if you think of Imelda) it wasn’t all that well acquainted with 21st century heating technology. So while my ballet flats were nice and warm in their tissue lined box, my tootsies were freezing. So move we did to a brand new flat with heating, lovely beige carpets and absolutely no space for my 51 babies.

So after moving in all Friday and most of Saturday, I decided it was more important to have a shoe rack than a fully functioning kitchen. So off we went to the local catalogue store and bought ourselves 1 nos. shoe rack. Flat packed.

Now my experience with flat pack till now has been of the Ikea variety. Easy to read instructions. That funny key they give you to fit it all together. Apparently it’s not caught on in the flat pack world.

This flat pack had more instructions than an RSS manual and told me I’d need a screwdriver, hammer and something else that sounded like bidawal. I think. Of course we had none of the above. Since it was too late to go out and buy them I thought well this is a good time to get out that Swiss Army Knife. The only other outing it’s ever had from my bag is at airport security checks when it makes the alarms go off.

Now while it did have a screwdriver – albeit a tiny one it had neither a hammer nor the other whatchamacallit. So armed with a stainless steel karandi (ladle) from my kitchen and a pair of scissors I began to put the damn thing together.

It took me 4 hours. That’s 240 minutes of trying to get bits of wood pulp out of my hair. A sixth of a day spent telling a thingamajiggy apart from a you-know-what it’s called (By the way, I still don’t know what it’s called). Precious seconds spent swearing, frowning, looking at things upside down and swearing some more. And after all that what do I get?

A shoe rack that stores only 16 pairs of shoes.

Confessions

They're everywhere. Stacked under my bed. In the back of my cupboard. Lodged under History on my computer. (frequently cleared so my husband doesn't see) They send discreet mailers asking me to sign up - models revealing tantalising glimpses of what's on offer. When it's late at night and I can't sleep I sneak downstairs and watch it on TV. Sometimes for hours at a stretch. I know I can never have any of them – not even one. But I just can’t help myself.

It’s sad but it’s true as someone once sang, but I’m obsessed. (ok so someone didn’t sing the second bit – that’s my own addition.) There isn’t even a support group for people like me. And what would we say – ‘Hi! I’m so-and-so. And I’m a home décor addict?’ (This is probably where most of you lift your minds out of the gutter and realise that I’m watching Grand Designs and not Well Hung Downtown at 2:30 am)

But in a way – home décor is my porn. Till now, I’ve never really told anyone about it. I mean what would people think if I told them how my hand’s get sweaty at the sight of a Smeg Fridge. That my husband wants to commit me for getting so excited at the sight of an art deco mansion. And at the newsstand they get uneasy when I stand there, glassy eyed, gazing at row upon row of Home Décor Magazines (which might have something to do with the fact that all the lads magazines are stacked right above them)

So you’re thinking – how dangerous can an addiction to home décor be? Financially it can be crippling. I mean the number of must-have vases, tribal-chic place mats, enamel milk jugs and brass odds and ends I already have and continue to purchase every month is staggering. And men don’t like the idea of women getting excited in bed about some guy called Terence Conran. They also don’t understand what the fuss is about. To most of them (except the gay ones) there is no difference between Mies Van Der Rohe and Terence Conran. A coffee table is just a coffee table. It’s similar to women not being able differenciate between Jordan and Jodie Marsh.

It also breeds envy. When I go to someone’s house for the first time I no longer interrogate my husband about whether he thought the women their were prettier or smarter than me. The conversation usually goes something like this.

Me (trying to be nonchalant) So… what did you think?

Him Great food

Me And her…

Him It was really nice

Me Better than mine?

Him I’m not saying that

Me Don’t lie to me! I saw the way you were eyeing her… her side cabinets.

I then burst in to tears and refuse to talk to him for the rest of the night.

I sometimes try and go on cold turkey. I don’t take the magazines up to bed with me. I put all the channels on child lock. I give all the magazines for recycling. But I’m usually back to my old ways in days.

This time round, I decided to take up a hobby – you know find a passion that would divert my attention. So I thought exotic cooking! It’s therapeutic, I can eat the end result (leather sofas really don’t taste good) and it’s not as expensive as my other dirty little secret.

So I went to the John Lewis the other day to buy the basic things I would need for my new endevour. The range and variety I saw was staggering. The colanders. The frying pans. The cutting boards. The wine racks. And the books. Oh the books. Slender
Italians. Cheeky English Country. Sensuous French. Brassy Americans. Exotic Indian.

Who knew cooking could be so… exciting?

WEDNESDAY IS BLOGQUAKE DAY

October 26th, 2005 is Blog Quake Day. Desipundit is calling out to all bloggers 'to make a small post about the earthquake, and direct your readers to a suitable avenue for donating to the relief efforts. '

If you're in the UK head to www.independent.co.uk/donate to donate. £15 can buy 4 blankets that will keep someone warm in the winter months to come. If you're a blogger do put up a post and help spread the word.

Ah crap!

Anyone who allows themselves to be described as 'The best advertising copywriter that ever lived' really shouldn't be taken very seriously. And thank god no one in the advertising world does. Apart from a few starry eyed junior writers who have read only HIS ads in the copybook, Mr. Neil French is widely regarded as a bit of a moron.

Neil French - ad guru, 'copywriter par excellence' and ego maniac has come up with yet another immortal line -'They're crap' - i.e women in advertising are crap. This was in response to a question on why women were under-represented among the ranks of sr. creative directors at ad agencies.

A good question - WHERE ARE THE WOMEN? While the number of female junior writers and visualisers is rather high, advertising is predominantly male in the higher echelons. Of course there are highly regarded female creative directors but apart from Ambience Publicis head honcho Elsie Nanji, even I can't name famous female creatives. Something I'm a bit ashamed of as a woman and copywriter.

But is advertising female friendly enough? After a stage it is hard being in an industry that requires you to be at it's beck and call every waking and non waking moment. I imagine it's hard being a mother and having to sit at office till 3 am cracking campaigns. It's not impossible - my fist boss was a woman who had raised 2 boys while rising through the creative ranks. She retired as Creative Director after more than 2 decades of working. But it's not easy.

Among my own contemporaries there are women with a fire in their bellies to get ahead. To become creative directors. To correct the imbalance. And I know they will do it. Because they are immensely talented writers, visualisers - THINKERS. Because they've made a conscious choice to succeed. They are not crap Mr. French, and for you to suggest such a thing - even in jest - shows us exactly why you are not the world's best copywriter that ever lived.

UPDATE Found this great write up by Nancy Vonk, Co-Chief Creative Officer, Ogilvy Toronto via Charu's blog. It says what I would like to but in a far more eloquent manner. Do read it.

ho ho ho

It's that time of the year again! When you leave home for work in the dark and return in the dark. The nip in the air is more like a giant piranha bite and as usual the heating has conked out and the gas company is pretending not to understand what you are trying to tell them. But who cares about all of that when there's Christmas shopping to be done? Tis the season to be jolly and fill up that shopping trolley!

You better not leave your shopping to the last minute this year! Remember what happened last Christmas when you gave your wife that air purifier - we know it still hurts when you pee. Why not try and dull the pain by at our absolutely fantabulous shopping centre. It's just like all the other shopping centres in the country - but better. Why? Because we say so.

Ladies, if you're looking for the perfect party dress we recommend the latest look of the season inspired by Hitchcock heroines - like Tippy Hendren in Birds. Pencil skirts, sharp jackets and perfect coiffures are all the rage. And to be really authentic, douse a bit of rodent blood on yourself and stand in an aviary. You'll be the envy of all your friends.

Men, we know how you love gadgets. How about a new cell phone as a Christmas treat to yourself? You can listen to music, download films, take and store pictures, download crazy ring tones, check the weather and news and even have simulated sex. We're not entirely sure you can actually make phone calls with it though.

Your kids are probably already writing their wish lists to Santa! Don't dissappoint little Mary Sue. Buy her a crying, smiling, laughing, bed wetting, totally life like doll - Pammy. It'll be great training for when she gets pregnant and has a real baby at 13. And little Tommy... what an angel. We have the perfect stocking filler for him - The dummies guide to being a yob and getting an ASBO. There's everything he needs to know about kicking people's heads in, robbing the elderly and setting fire to the neighbours car in it. And it will encourage him to read.

There are loads of other great buys for the family. Adult diapers for your ol' Mum who's in a home because you can't be bothered to look after her. A silver frame for that fab picture of yourself after the face and boob lift to send to your slag of a sister. A learn English in 10 days to give to the secret lover you have in Turkey who's 10 years younger than you are and can't understand a word you say.

All this and much more awaits you at our truly wonderful mall. Plus there are lights and decorations up that are contributing to the green house effect and could cause another hurricane soon. But who cares?We would have made all our profits by then and will be living in hurricane proof houses while you drown and die with all the crap you bought at our centre.

So come soon and avoid the rush! Credit card debt is waiting to embrace you. You're already spoilt children are waiting to become even more insufferable. Another excuse to get drunk and vomit all over yourself is here. Not that you need one.

And after it's all over. and post holiday blues set in - THE JANUARY SALES will be here. But that's in another brochure.

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND DON'T FORGET YOUR CREDIT CARD.

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

There’s something about trial rooms that I just don’t understand. Why do they make people look so damn ugly?

I’m serious. As I get ready for a day out and about shopping, I always look wonderful (and that’s an unbiased opinion). My skin is glowing. My hair looks glossy. My clothes are the epitome of chic (ignoring very rare fashion faux pas). C’est magnifique!

As I glide through row upon row of shoes, bags and clothes I feel as though life could possibly not get better. With my keen eye I pick out clothes that can only make me better. I make my way towards the trial room, and try to make the always-surly attendant smile – a feat that I am yet to succeed at. (Though I’m sure if they got rid of those fake nails and thongs that escaped from the waistband of their jeans – they would be a whole lot happier. But then that’s just me)

As I try on the outfit, a tingle of excitement goes down my spine. Somewhere near my lumbar vertebrae the tingle of excitement turns into cold dread. Because this is usually when I’ve turned around and discovered what my formerly radiant self has turned in to. It’s like those makeovers where the before is so much better than the after (but everyone still hugs and kisses the victim telling her she looks great.)

So there I am. In a new outfit. Looking like something even the cat wouldn’t drag in. My hair looks like it could use botox. My pores look like they’re being viewed under an electron microscope. And everything else just sags.

Does the management not know this? Are they unaware that their mirrors should be in the house of illusions at the local circus? Do they not want people to buy their clothes?

The biggest offender here is M&S. It’s like they’ve lit their rooms to highlight your worst features. And your badly waxed upper lip. Hey people who own M&S – no amount of Erin O’Connor advertising is going to help. No one is going to buy your clothes if they think they look like Sandra Day O’ Connor in them.

Now not all stores have got it wrong. There’s Zara that makes you look great in everything. Even when you don’t. I tried on a lycra t-shirt once at Zara. In the room it seemed to hide all my unsightly bulges and curves. Apparently it didn’t. When I came out to show my better half, he turned around and pretended to talk to a bald mannequin so no one would think he was with me.

Then there are the stores that do it right. Selfridges and Top Shop have never lied to me. River Island is another friend. Fab India back home stays close to the truth too.
So the next time you think you look terrible in the trial room, hold your head high, give the clothes back to the surly, thong revealing assistant and buy a wonder bra instead.

things that shocked me

Here in no particular order are things that either shocked me, surprised me or made me go 'Oh!'

1. Islamic Law states that rape must have male witnesses who are willing to testify that it was rape and not consensual intercourse

2. Charlotte Church's new hair cut got on the front cover of the Daily Mail - deemed more important than the Asian Earthquake

3. The Turbine Hall at The Tate Modern has a new installation by Rachel Whiteread. Called EMBANKMENT, it consits of 14,000 casts of the inside of different boxes. And looks like this. I have decided to ask the Tate to commission an installation of my used tissues. I too believe it will invoke a sense of mystery as to what the balled up wads of tissue contain.

4. The girls in my office apologise for everything. 'Oh Sorry can I borrow your pencil?' 'Sorry but can I brief you about something?' 'Sorry but would you like some Tea?'. But they refuse to apologise for their incompetence and very existance.

5. Sometimes I spend an entire 1 hour train journey thinking about things, but when I try and remember what I was thinking about I can't.

6. Japanese women apparently spend 45 minutes twice a day, so that's 90 mintues ie an hour and a half on massaging cream in to their faces.

7. If you key in the words 'woman and guilty' on gettyone.com - a picture search engine - you'll find that most images are of women stuffing their face with cake, standing on a weighing scale or eyeing fried chicken. The runner up was of women in bed with men - implying that she was cheating on someone. There were hardly any images of women in jail or standing trial.

8. That many of you have actually continued reading this posting in the hope that I may actually have something intelligent to say at the end of it all. Which I don't.

Freedom

I wonder what's happening to our right to freedom of speech. Have we become so intolerant of other people's ideas and opinions that we have to resort to hooliganism to be heard?

Read this and the links it points to to find out what I'm talking about.