Wednesday 20 February
Skin 'n' Bone Woman and Eating Habits
I've no idea how much weight I've lost this past month. Hideous. Considering I'm not exactly on the fat side of things. Nervous energy seems to burn up food - no matter how much or little I eat. Bummer that. Hence, it's about finding inner peace, finding that balance, as best as I can.
Last night, out of necessity, I popped over to the The Windmill Pub on The Cut, to get some Thai food. I've recently dithered over several local places to go to in order to get fed. When life gets hectic, and at worse CHAOTIC, I tend to have potentially dangerous accidents in the kitchen. Nuking dry saucepans, nearly setting fire to things. Marvelling at coals of food fused to the bottom of pans. That kind of thing. It's ok, folks. I always buy the very best of stainless steel cookware that money can buy at the time - just so that they will last me till I die.
The restaurants, kebab joint, Chinese Culture Grub - are all pretty lousy - especially if you,re on a budget and trying to eat healthily. Wasabi in Waterloo Station is just about my favourite - but sometimes, even the 4 minute walk seems far too time-consuming or long - simply due to freezing cold weather, and me feeling under it (the weather) - and the hordes of stressed commuters/bewildered tourists. Fishcoteque on Waterloo Road is great. But, really, deep fried everything - as fresh and quality as it is - is that what my body needs?
Those who know me regard me as a good cook. Thanks guys. I can be when slotted into a jolly good routine. When routine goes out of the window - through no fault of mine. Doing the most basic essentials in life, like COOK, EAT, SLEEP & SHIT - go to pot. Simple as that.
Yes, Brigs, I know I have to save money. But you barely know me. Sometimes, I simply can't cook. I should know myself after 52 years of surviving. The last 20 of which have been entirely on my own. Living alone. Who else has done that, out of the people I know. I can think of Mr Wells ... a Stuckist painter in Brighton, poet and lino-cutter extraordinaire, and my wonderfully inspiring and steadfast friend Stan the Man. Having retired recently from decades of Science teaching in Manhattan, he can now paint to his heart content in the mountains of Idaho. If only he could get the hang of the farm machinery, the snow plough, and take photos of the Moose that recently threatened to eat all the good stuff in his snow-swamped garden.
Now I say 52 years, not because I'm getting that number confusion/dyslexia thing I can get under stressful conditions (it happened a lot during my BBC Production years way way back.) But because in Chinese birth years, one is already "one" year old on the day of arrival. That always used to confuse me. Well, I said to myself on arrival here in the UK - damn it - if my English friends, and if my parents and school say I'm 6 and three quarters - then so be it!
However, these days I love the idea of being 52. It makes an awful lot of sense. Like anyone else, I had to survive that gurgling blobby time in in the amniotic fluid. And more of that later ... Our gestation isn't 9 months, girls, is it? Come on all you old fashioned mothers. Own up. Isn't pregnancy more like 40 weeks or so? And how the week's run up to conception date, hmm? Answer me. I am no mother - as you all know. Though I did get called M.I.L.F. by a 25 year old boy called Tom at Waterloo Station recently. Cheeky booger. Bless him. What he had to say will be repeated at a later date - as urban dictionary is not his real strength, I gather ...
I even got a text from him a couple of days ago. (Crumbs, the foolishness of older age, and the audacity of youth.) I warned him, I did. So I hope he was put off by my reply.
Going back to Stan. Since 1982, you have been such a steadfast friend to me. I guess if you experienced so much crazy-death throughout the '60s and '70s, small wonder you were so hapless in the chaotic traffic of Taipei City back in the '80s. Some white, curly-haired Giant Lanky (are you 6'4"?) Dude, with the slowest ever Southern Drawl. Some funny-looking mo'fo' on a motorcycle or Honda scooter - hitting the back of buses and whatnot. What were you like? I used to rip your letters open, back in my Surrey Docks and Telegraph Hill days with Nick - to see what madness you'd dallied with of late. Hey, I guess I ought to send you a copy of this before anyone else gets to read it first ... though I remember, now, I already sent you a link.
Adios, amigos
Final look out the window at that thin"thing".
ps Postman just arrived at 13:15 and delivered one letter
and here it is Propped against the screen of macbook Pro.
pps messrs cameron, osborne -
pps C U N T S
All together now [Public Enemy] :
A TO THE MUTHERFUCKING CAKEHOLE YAAAA
A TO THE MUTHERFUCKIN AAAAAAAH
Gosh, it's enough to make a girl's blood boil.
Next: LUNCHEON.
Skin 'n' Bone Woman and Eating Habits
I've no idea how much weight I've lost this past month. Hideous. Considering I'm not exactly on the fat side of things. Nervous energy seems to burn up food - no matter how much or little I eat. Bummer that. Hence, it's about finding inner peace, finding that balance, as best as I can.
Last night, out of necessity, I popped over to the The Windmill Pub on The Cut, to get some Thai food. I've recently dithered over several local places to go to in order to get fed. When life gets hectic, and at worse CHAOTIC, I tend to have potentially dangerous accidents in the kitchen. Nuking dry saucepans, nearly setting fire to things. Marvelling at coals of food fused to the bottom of pans. That kind of thing. It's ok, folks. I always buy the very best of stainless steel cookware that money can buy at the time - just so that they will last me till I die.
The restaurants, kebab joint, Chinese Culture Grub - are all pretty lousy - especially if you,re on a budget and trying to eat healthily. Wasabi in Waterloo Station is just about my favourite - but sometimes, even the 4 minute walk seems far too time-consuming or long - simply due to freezing cold weather, and me feeling under it (the weather) - and the hordes of stressed commuters/bewildered tourists. Fishcoteque on Waterloo Road is great. But, really, deep fried everything - as fresh and quality as it is - is that what my body needs?
Those who know me regard me as a good cook. Thanks guys. I can be when slotted into a jolly good routine. When routine goes out of the window - through no fault of mine. Doing the most basic essentials in life, like COOK, EAT, SLEEP & SHIT - go to pot. Simple as that.
Yes, Brigs, I know I have to save money. But you barely know me. Sometimes, I simply can't cook. I should know myself after 52 years of surviving. The last 20 of which have been entirely on my own. Living alone. Who else has done that, out of the people I know. I can think of Mr Wells ... a Stuckist painter in Brighton, poet and lino-cutter extraordinaire, and my wonderfully inspiring and steadfast friend Stan the Man. Having retired recently from decades of Science teaching in Manhattan, he can now paint to his heart content in the mountains of Idaho. If only he could get the hang of the farm machinery, the snow plough, and take photos of the Moose that recently threatened to eat all the good stuff in his snow-swamped garden.
Now I say 52 years, not because I'm getting that number confusion/dyslexia thing I can get under stressful conditions (it happened a lot during my BBC Production years way way back.) But because in Chinese birth years, one is already "one" year old on the day of arrival. That always used to confuse me. Well, I said to myself on arrival here in the UK - damn it - if my English friends, and if my parents and school say I'm 6 and three quarters - then so be it!
However, these days I love the idea of being 52. It makes an awful lot of sense. Like anyone else, I had to survive that gurgling blobby time in in the amniotic fluid. And more of that later ... Our gestation isn't 9 months, girls, is it? Come on all you old fashioned mothers. Own up. Isn't pregnancy more like 40 weeks or so? And how the week's run up to conception date, hmm? Answer me. I am no mother - as you all know. Though I did get called M.I.L.F. by a 25 year old boy called Tom at Waterloo Station recently. Cheeky booger. Bless him. What he had to say will be repeated at a later date - as urban dictionary is not his real strength, I gather ...
I even got a text from him a couple of days ago. (Crumbs, the foolishness of older age, and the audacity of youth.) I warned him, I did. So I hope he was put off by my reply.
Going back to Stan. Since 1982, you have been such a steadfast friend to me. I guess if you experienced so much crazy-death throughout the '60s and '70s, small wonder you were so hapless in the chaotic traffic of Taipei City back in the '80s. Some white, curly-haired Giant Lanky (are you 6'4"?) Dude, with the slowest ever Southern Drawl. Some funny-looking mo'fo' on a motorcycle or Honda scooter - hitting the back of buses and whatnot. What were you like? I used to rip your letters open, back in my Surrey Docks and Telegraph Hill days with Nick - to see what madness you'd dallied with of late. Hey, I guess I ought to send you a copy of this before anyone else gets to read it first ... though I remember, now, I already sent you a link.
Adios, amigos
Final look out the window at that thin"thing".
ps Postman just arrived at 13:15 and delivered one letter
and here it is Propped against the screen of macbook Pro.
pps messrs cameron, osborne -
pps C U N T S
All together now [Public Enemy] :
A TO THE MUTHERFUCKING CAKEHOLE YAAAA
A TO THE MUTHERFUCKIN AAAAAAAH
Gosh, it's enough to make a girl's blood boil.
Next: LUNCHEON.
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