Sunday, June 20, 2004
Seventh Heaven
Oh. ohh. oh! ohh. ohhhhhgod.
yessss.
if there was a phrase for what I'm feeling right now, that would be it.
current activity : in my bed. savouring cup of Border's Chai tea.
Some people, it seems, get this from wasabi. Border's chai does it for me. If Claudia Schiffer were to drop out of the sky suddenly and strip off, well, sorry, tough luck Claudia but I'd still choose my cuppa.
When Border's cafe London closed it's doors, to be replaced by cheap and cheery Starbucks (shudder) I thought my life was over. I'd spent many an evening, alone at Borders contemplatively looking out through the long glass wall at the night sky (granted, this was shortly after Paddington. For the next couple of years.) nursing a stein of Borders Chai (tm) tea, and feeling that things were nearly right in the world again. There's something so therapeutic, so soothing about the smell of it. And it actually translates into a taste that does justice as well! Electric shivers down my spine. Okay, sue me. I'm weird. I get this with Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata sometimes too.
Encountering authentic Chai this summer hols in Borders Singapore (till this year the dunderheads couldn't seem to figure out how to get the hot water / milk mix right, serving up insipid cups of brown chai-flavoured water instead) was like rediscovering an old flame (and shagging her too! hehe. oop. sorry. bad boy. down boy down. woof.) Warm, gentle and all-enveloping like a summer's breeze. Heady and slightly intoxicating, like your first kiss. (only, rediscovered.) Familiar. Perfect.
I couldn't resist. I asked the waitress if they sold this stuff, y'know - under the table, like. Out the back. Whatever it takes, I gotta have a bag!!! She paused - it's quite expensive, Sir. Over $100 for a hundred pound bag.
Quick mental arithmetic time - how much does a pound weigh? Dunno. How much is $100? About £30. Sod it, I'll buy it even if it turns out to be the size of a coke can! gimme! Gimmmmeeee!
The manager appeared a short while later under the weight of what looked like a small sack of flour - oh wait! it's - gasp - Chai. Hushed, reverent silence.
Gee whiz, it's the weight and size of two newborn babies! I'll TAKE IT. NOW. GIMME. GIMME. LEGGO. MINE! MINE. MY PRECIOUSSSSSSSSSsss.
okay, so here I am, in bed hugging my cup of airflown Border's chai tea. Not even the wildest, wettest male fantasy made flesh compares to this. Honest. Move over Claudia, you're blocking my keyboard. And you leave my tea alone!!!
*****
All About Gentlemen
My best friend and I, over dinner. Discussing the finer points of life, encompassing and including :
1) soon-to-be patented Ultimate Buffet machine. (as an aside, what is it about parents, farewell dinners and expensive Buffets anyhow? not a good thing for a slightly queasy youngest son)
pause. Yeeees. I think he migh be onto something here. We laugh :)
2) Martial Arts 101, as described by the um. cough. Mildly unhinged nutter listed on the left as "national nutplane". Urgent Crane meets Sullied Tortoise, stance #546 has to be my personal favourite, by the way. (article reference : "For Men: Why we take so long in the loo, 12/06/04 02:49 since her doubtlessly highly paid coders haven't yet figured out how to give her html reference markups. I note with amusement the uncanny resemblance between the mydreamd8 and the national day moblog templates. Meeroow.)
A few terse sentences from the best buddy about smells, and floors... and ah yes. The perfect comeback. Since he's too shy to write about it, I'll do the dirty.
Mens lavatories the world over invariably have these slightly damp blackish, brackish shoeprints on the floor, which smear as you step through them. They're always slightly more densely distributed about urinals and toilet bowls as well for some reason.
There's always this reassuringly familiar sensation that a foot placed even slightly awry will result in one being in a position to make a very sudden, close and above all personal acquaintence with the millions of friendly bacteria living in the sea of life spreading thinly but insistently across the floor (and occasionally, up the wall). And take them home too, on your shirt sleeves, back, and trousers.
Toilet seats. Need I even write about the cheerfully-coloured water streaks that slide enthusiastically off (white! why white!!) plastic seats as you lift them up - because some friendly bastard before you with the aim and continence of Schwarzennegar after thirty pints of strongbow has decided that the seat is obviously too heavy for his muscley arms to move, and in addition has gotten in into his mind to decorate the floor, rather than the inside of the toiletbowl with the aforementioned thirty pints? Interestingly though, Arnie's aim is often unerringly accurate when it comes to cigarette stubs and spent ciggy packs, which always bob merrily on the surface of their own personal red sea no matter how insistently one tries to flush them away.
And the odour. Pheeewwwwee. Lemon-y fresh scented napkins? Welcome to the Real Man's world. Eu de Caveman-piss. Unga bunga. (ougha even.)
So no, we don't have any sympathy for you women, with your probable deli-compli-cated lineup and landing sanitary manoevres, and your faintly inconvenient ringing mobiles interrupting a leisurely moment of effluence. Us men have a 100% probability of stepping into precisely the same hostile environment the second we open that door with cutout-ken on it, anywhere in the world.
Aren't you glad you ladies don't use urinals? What's a little wait, with a hop, skip and twiddle, in the grand scheme of the sanitary piddle? :)
yessss.
if there was a phrase for what I'm feeling right now, that would be it.
current activity : in my bed. savouring cup of Border's Chai tea.
Some people, it seems, get this from wasabi. Border's chai does it for me. If Claudia Schiffer were to drop out of the sky suddenly and strip off, well, sorry, tough luck Claudia but I'd still choose my cuppa.
When Border's cafe London closed it's doors, to be replaced by cheap and cheery Starbucks (shudder) I thought my life was over. I'd spent many an evening, alone at Borders contemplatively looking out through the long glass wall at the night sky (granted, this was shortly after Paddington. For the next couple of years.) nursing a stein of Borders Chai (tm) tea, and feeling that things were nearly right in the world again. There's something so therapeutic, so soothing about the smell of it. And it actually translates into a taste that does justice as well! Electric shivers down my spine. Okay, sue me. I'm weird. I get this with Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata sometimes too.
Encountering authentic Chai this summer hols in Borders Singapore (till this year the dunderheads couldn't seem to figure out how to get the hot water / milk mix right, serving up insipid cups of brown chai-flavoured water instead) was like rediscovering an old flame (and shagging her too! hehe. oop. sorry. bad boy. down boy down. woof.) Warm, gentle and all-enveloping like a summer's breeze. Heady and slightly intoxicating, like your first kiss. (only, rediscovered.) Familiar. Perfect.
I couldn't resist. I asked the waitress if they sold this stuff, y'know - under the table, like. Out the back. Whatever it takes, I gotta have a bag!!! She paused - it's quite expensive, Sir. Over $100 for a hundred pound bag.
Quick mental arithmetic time - how much does a pound weigh? Dunno. How much is $100? About £30. Sod it, I'll buy it even if it turns out to be the size of a coke can! gimme! Gimmmmeeee!
The manager appeared a short while later under the weight of what looked like a small sack of flour - oh wait! it's - gasp - Chai. Hushed, reverent silence.
Gee whiz, it's the weight and size of two newborn babies! I'll TAKE IT. NOW. GIMME. GIMME. LEGGO. MINE! MINE. MY PRECIOUSSSSSSSSSsss.
okay, so here I am, in bed hugging my cup of airflown Border's chai tea. Not even the wildest, wettest male fantasy made flesh compares to this. Honest. Move over Claudia, you're blocking my keyboard. And you leave my tea alone!!!
*****
All About Gentlemen
My best friend and I, over dinner. Discussing the finer points of life, encompassing and including :
1) soon-to-be patented Ultimate Buffet machine. (as an aside, what is it about parents, farewell dinners and expensive Buffets anyhow? not a good thing for a slightly queasy youngest son)
pause. Yeeees. I think he migh be onto something here. We laugh :)
2) Martial Arts 101, as described by the um. cough. Mildly unhinged nutter listed on the left as "national nutplane". Urgent Crane meets Sullied Tortoise, stance #546 has to be my personal favourite, by the way. (article reference : "For Men: Why we take so long in the loo, 12/06/04 02:49 since her doubtlessly highly paid coders haven't yet figured out how to give her html reference markups. I note with amusement the uncanny resemblance between the mydreamd8 and the national day moblog templates. Meeroow.)
A few terse sentences from the best buddy about smells, and floors... and ah yes. The perfect comeback. Since he's too shy to write about it, I'll do the dirty.
Mens lavatories the world over invariably have these slightly damp blackish, brackish shoeprints on the floor, which smear as you step through them. They're always slightly more densely distributed about urinals and toilet bowls as well for some reason.
There's always this reassuringly familiar sensation that a foot placed even slightly awry will result in one being in a position to make a very sudden, close and above all personal acquaintence with the millions of friendly bacteria living in the sea of life spreading thinly but insistently across the floor (and occasionally, up the wall). And take them home too, on your shirt sleeves, back, and trousers.
Toilet seats. Need I even write about the cheerfully-coloured water streaks that slide enthusiastically off (white! why white!!) plastic seats as you lift them up - because some friendly bastard before you with the aim and continence of Schwarzennegar after thirty pints of strongbow has decided that the seat is obviously too heavy for his muscley arms to move, and in addition has gotten in into his mind to decorate the floor, rather than the inside of the toiletbowl with the aforementioned thirty pints? Interestingly though, Arnie's aim is often unerringly accurate when it comes to cigarette stubs and spent ciggy packs, which always bob merrily on the surface of their own personal red sea no matter how insistently one tries to flush them away.
And the odour. Pheeewwwwee. Lemon-y fresh scented napkins? Welcome to the Real Man's world. Eu de Caveman-piss. Unga bunga. (ougha even.)
So no, we don't have any sympathy for you women, with your probable deli-compli-cated lineup and landing sanitary manoevres, and your faintly inconvenient ringing mobiles interrupting a leisurely moment of effluence. Us men have a 100% probability of stepping into precisely the same hostile environment the second we open that door with cutout-ken on it, anywhere in the world.
Aren't you glad you ladies don't use urinals? What's a little wait, with a hop, skip and twiddle, in the grand scheme of the sanitary piddle? :)
