So to kick off my new blog, I thought I would pimp myself out for your reading pleasure. That’s right, folks – though I forever vowed to NEVER EVER do the internet dating thing again, I am getting a little restless in Edinburgh and could think of no better, more masochistic way to entertain myself (and you).
I admit I have dabbled with internet dating before and it was a fairly painful, agonising and rsi-inducing experience. But it was so much fun writing the dating profiles that I kind of developed an addiction … which, of course, made for a great theme to write my final dating profile (‘Hi, my name is pseudonymf and I am a dating website junkie’)…
I’ve stayed away from the scene for several years now but what can I say? Loneliness and isolation often lures one back to bad habits. Anyway, like all reformers who relapse, I am telling myself that, this time, it’ll be different.
And maybe it will – I have approached it slightly differently this time. First, brutal honesty! I made sure when posting my profile that all the cyber bachelors know that food will ALWAYS be my number one priority and that being attractive, thin and not talking with my mouth full are much, much further down that list.
Second, even if nothing pans out, at least I’ll have something to write about, right? Or perhaps to cry about, over a good bottle of wine and a block of chocolate.
So, enjoy your first nikksnacks – I’ve cut and pasted my dating profile for you below – and I’ll keep you posted as to whether I get any bites.
x
Life – it’s there for the tasting and I’m determined to leave a trail of breadcrumbs and tannin-stained glasses in my wake…
So, let me put the knifey spoonies down for just a sec in an attempt to write this profile…
What can I eat…I mean…What can I say? No doubt I’ve given up a life of supermodel rakishness–a diet of air, adoration and tight-fitting clothes–to instead slowly eat my way around the world. Sfogliatelle in Naples, Koshari in Luxor, Mochi and Fugu in Osaka, Sabich in Tel Aviv and–oh me, oh my–Pasteis de Nata in Belem….the list goes on and on, as does the waistline.
Any half-baked regrets, though, about a few extra inches in no way measures up to this (g)astronomical trip I’m having. And there are so many more foodie fantasies to satisfy….
BUT–I like big buts and I cannot lie–I have to sometimes wonder whether my foodie love affair is becoming an obsession. The other day I took a pizza to bed with me (and you gotta wonder, was it as good for the pizza as it was for me?) In the morning, with those tell-tale crumbs in my sheets, did I feel dirty? Did I have any regrets?
The short answer is: no. I felt great! It completely encapsulates who I am. Food will always be number one in my life. But sometimes, y’know, I feel a bit greedy eating a sharing platter all by myself. So if you’re hungry, if you’ve got an appetite for life in all its glorious, edible forms, if you’re happy for life to be all about putting food on the table, then drop me a line.
Or cook me a meal.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
To push or pull? The door dilemma
Let me set the scene: you’re in a shopping centre and you notice a tall, confident woman striding towards the exit. Her gait speaks to you: ‘I am intelligent, successful, funny, charming – nothing in the world can break my stride’.
But then, suddenly, as she gets closer to the exit, something does; her stride seems to slow, to falter, to seem…less sure.
Her brows furrow in concentration, her eyes flit nervously from side to side and she bites her lip as if she’s performing a complex set of algorithms in her head.
As she reaches the exit, panic races across her face. She hesitantly raises her hand and pushes her palm flat against the door and….nothing. The door doesn’t budge.
Her self-confidence melts and puddles around her feet; her cheeks flush with embarrassment as if she’s peed herself in public. She reads the large letters P…U…L…L…plastered across the door as she fumbles for the handle, prises the door open and runs. But it’s too late, it’s over. Her life is over.
Does the above scenario ring any (door) bells for you? Do you ever get that sense of dread—that feeling of impending doom—as you approach a door in a public place and you cannot ascertain whether, to open the door, you need to push or pull?
For me, the fear of choosing the wrong option engulfs me. As I approach the door, as it casts its ominous, rectangular pall upon me, I slow my step (but my heart rate quickens!) and I furtively glance around to try and work out how to get the door to open.
Often, the door itself provides tell-tale signs. A rectangular chrome square on the edge of the door implies ‘push’; an elongated handle on the door usually suggests ‘pull’. But what if there are both? Who are these door architects that are screwing with me? Are they sitting in their offices giggling at my expense? Or maybe they themselves are banging their heads against a wall, becoming unhinged, trying to work out how to design a less terrifying door.
When I can’t work out how to open the door before I get there, my stomach knots in fear that I will get it wrong. I will push when I should pull. Or I will pull when I should push. Sometimes I even do the right thing – I push. Or I pull. But still nothing. Why? Because that’s when there are two doors to an opening and I choose the one that happens to be locked or bolted into the ground.
When I can’t open a door, I might as well have walked into a pole (I have done it) or fallen down a flight of stairs (many times). I feel like a complete oaf, incapable of navigating the most simple, everyday activities. If I can’t even open a door literally, how will doors ever open for me in the metaphorical sense?
And this is precisely what I thought when I failed to correctly determine the ‘push or pull’ mechanics of an interview room door recently. As I stood there, puzzled and embarrassed, having both pushed and pulled unsuccessfully, the guy who interviewed me finally piped up, ‘aye, it’s locked, you have to use the door next to it.’
Even worse, because he had a thick Scottish accent, I didn’t understand what he said and so, naturally, I nodded, ‘oh, uh-huh,’ and pushed the same door again. He finally got up and opened the door for me and all I could think as I left was, ‘well, that door has definitely closed; I might as well have let it hit me on the way out.’
And my ego is still smarting from the bruise.
But then, suddenly, as she gets closer to the exit, something does; her stride seems to slow, to falter, to seem…less sure.
Her brows furrow in concentration, her eyes flit nervously from side to side and she bites her lip as if she’s performing a complex set of algorithms in her head.
As she reaches the exit, panic races across her face. She hesitantly raises her hand and pushes her palm flat against the door and….nothing. The door doesn’t budge.
Her self-confidence melts and puddles around her feet; her cheeks flush with embarrassment as if she’s peed herself in public. She reads the large letters P…U…L…L…plastered across the door as she fumbles for the handle, prises the door open and runs. But it’s too late, it’s over. Her life is over.
Does the above scenario ring any (door) bells for you? Do you ever get that sense of dread—that feeling of impending doom—as you approach a door in a public place and you cannot ascertain whether, to open the door, you need to push or pull?
For me, the fear of choosing the wrong option engulfs me. As I approach the door, as it casts its ominous, rectangular pall upon me, I slow my step (but my heart rate quickens!) and I furtively glance around to try and work out how to get the door to open.
Often, the door itself provides tell-tale signs. A rectangular chrome square on the edge of the door implies ‘push’; an elongated handle on the door usually suggests ‘pull’. But what if there are both? Who are these door architects that are screwing with me? Are they sitting in their offices giggling at my expense? Or maybe they themselves are banging their heads against a wall, becoming unhinged, trying to work out how to design a less terrifying door.
When I can’t work out how to open the door before I get there, my stomach knots in fear that I will get it wrong. I will push when I should pull. Or I will pull when I should push. Sometimes I even do the right thing – I push. Or I pull. But still nothing. Why? Because that’s when there are two doors to an opening and I choose the one that happens to be locked or bolted into the ground.
When I can’t open a door, I might as well have walked into a pole (I have done it) or fallen down a flight of stairs (many times). I feel like a complete oaf, incapable of navigating the most simple, everyday activities. If I can’t even open a door literally, how will doors ever open for me in the metaphorical sense?
And this is precisely what I thought when I failed to correctly determine the ‘push or pull’ mechanics of an interview room door recently. As I stood there, puzzled and embarrassed, having both pushed and pulled unsuccessfully, the guy who interviewed me finally piped up, ‘aye, it’s locked, you have to use the door next to it.’
Even worse, because he had a thick Scottish accent, I didn’t understand what he said and so, naturally, I nodded, ‘oh, uh-huh,’ and pushed the same door again. He finally got up and opened the door for me and all I could think as I left was, ‘well, that door has definitely closed; I might as well have let it hit me on the way out.’
And my ego is still smarting from the bruise.
The Buffet
It’s not fair, is it? Just a few short months ago, I was offering a sampler of tasty writing treats to follow, a delicious promise of dating debacles – me chewing up guys and spitting them out as I verbally masturbated & masticated my way through the veritable smorgasbord of eligible Edinburgh bachelors.
…and then for over 4 months, not a morsel of scandal did I share! I was expecting paltry scraps and out-of-date leftovers based on some rather unsavoury dating experiences back home in Oz. And, in some ways, I was banking on said disaster to give me a wealth of material to humorously regurgitate for my blog. So, I guess you could say I got my just des(s)erts when, instead, I was presented with an overwhelming selection of dishy dudes…however was I supposed to choose?
I was thinking similar thoughts when I went to the Taste Festival in Edinburgh a couple of weeks ago. With so many delicious, quality treats on offer from the best and brightest restaurants in Edinburgh & Glasgow–pork belly, seared scallops, braised ox cheeks – so much alluring, abundant flesh in every corner–all I could think was, ‘how do I have it all?!!’
Alas, the answer is, for both the men and the food, that I can’t. I have neither the time, money nor the stomach to be that kid in the candy store, sampling every bit of suga’ on offer. Age has brought the wisdom—or pessimism, perhaps—that that kind of indulgence only leads to heartburn in the end.
But it is comforting to know that whether you’re online to date or in line to eat, the strategy to get the best bang for your buck is pretty much the same. Here are my tips to ensure you’re one satisfied customer:
Feast your eyes first: Don’t get impatient and go for the first dish you see… have a proper look at what’s on offer before deciding what you might sample.
Think outside the (lunch)box: While a simple meat and two veg affair may be your standard plat du jour, be daring and try something new – who knows what concoctions might just whet your appetite.
Fill your plate: Sure, there may be one amazing, yummy dish out there that’s perfect for you – your soul food – but how will you know it’s the best if you don’t at least try a couple of others? So fill your plate with lots of options….you can narrow it down later when you go back for seconds (and thirds and fourths…)
The pie’s the limit: When you reach the point where you’re unfastening your pants, let’s face it, the dish in front of you is probably going to be your last (for awhile anyway); that’s why yo’ Mama always said ‘leave the best ‘til last’. Make it sweet.
Bon appétit.
…and then for over 4 months, not a morsel of scandal did I share! I was expecting paltry scraps and out-of-date leftovers based on some rather unsavoury dating experiences back home in Oz. And, in some ways, I was banking on said disaster to give me a wealth of material to humorously regurgitate for my blog. So, I guess you could say I got my just des(s)erts when, instead, I was presented with an overwhelming selection of dishy dudes…however was I supposed to choose?
I was thinking similar thoughts when I went to the Taste Festival in Edinburgh a couple of weeks ago. With so many delicious, quality treats on offer from the best and brightest restaurants in Edinburgh & Glasgow–pork belly, seared scallops, braised ox cheeks – so much alluring, abundant flesh in every corner–all I could think was, ‘how do I have it all?!!’
Alas, the answer is, for both the men and the food, that I can’t. I have neither the time, money nor the stomach to be that kid in the candy store, sampling every bit of suga’ on offer. Age has brought the wisdom—or pessimism, perhaps—that that kind of indulgence only leads to heartburn in the end.
But it is comforting to know that whether you’re online to date or in line to eat, the strategy to get the best bang for your buck is pretty much the same. Here are my tips to ensure you’re one satisfied customer:
Feast your eyes first: Don’t get impatient and go for the first dish you see… have a proper look at what’s on offer before deciding what you might sample.
Think outside the (lunch)box: While a simple meat and two veg affair may be your standard plat du jour, be daring and try something new – who knows what concoctions might just whet your appetite.
Fill your plate: Sure, there may be one amazing, yummy dish out there that’s perfect for you – your soul food – but how will you know it’s the best if you don’t at least try a couple of others? So fill your plate with lots of options….you can narrow it down later when you go back for seconds (and thirds and fourths…)
The pie’s the limit: When you reach the point where you’re unfastening your pants, let’s face it, the dish in front of you is probably going to be your last (for awhile anyway); that’s why yo’ Mama always said ‘leave the best ‘til last’. Make it sweet.
Bon appétit.
No effin way!
After travelling for over 18 months, I finally realised the other day that my cup had well and truly runneth over. Well, cups–plural–to be more precise. The one shabby, stretched, ill-fitting bra I had been wearing for over a year wasn’t going to keep it up much longer. Gravity was bringing me, and my girls, down. As embarrassed as I was, I had to get them off my chest and so, off I went, to flash my stash to the fitting lady at the local department store.
The fitting lady, of course, was very discreet and didn’t bat an eye when I shyly bared my wares with a full crimson blush. She put the tape around my back, nodded, ‘mm-hmmm, thirty-four’; then, with a brief glance at my breasts, said, ‘yes, about an E cup.’
My mouth fell open. ‘An E?! Noooo…’ But my horror was short-lived, for when she came back with a selection of bras for me to try on, they were sized 32F!!! Even worse, they fit!
F was all that was going through my head. ‘Eff eff, effin eff EFF EFFFFFFFFFF?!!!!’ How could I go from a D-cup to an F-cup?! Sure, I knew that I, along with my baps, had gotten a bit bigger but it seemed unbelievable! My mamma and her mamma both carry around far more titillating bosoms than me in the grand scheme of things and I’m not even sure they have made it to the F range of the bra-lphabet. I had obviously put on far more weight than I was willing to admit.
I came home that night feeling rather heavy-chested. I still couldn’t quite believe it. Only pornstars and grandmothers had F-cups, not me, not even with all the nikksnacking I have done of late. I didn’t know how to come to terms with it. So I did what any depressed person needing a lift would do – I got on the net and (go)ogled breasts. And imagine my delight, after surfing around the virtual world of boobies for awhile, that a size 32F in the UK is pretty much equivalent to a 12DD back home in Australia. Rejoice!! I had really only gone up one size! Confidence regained, I could stand tall with my not so enormous chest out in pride.
The moral of the story, though, for any ladies living in Oz and feeling a little down under in the chest department, is that, if you’re looking for a breast enhancement, spend the cash instead on a European holiday. Not only do the beer cups go up in size over here, but it appears that bra cups do, too.
The fitting lady, of course, was very discreet and didn’t bat an eye when I shyly bared my wares with a full crimson blush. She put the tape around my back, nodded, ‘mm-hmmm, thirty-four’; then, with a brief glance at my breasts, said, ‘yes, about an E cup.’
My mouth fell open. ‘An E?! Noooo…’ But my horror was short-lived, for when she came back with a selection of bras for me to try on, they were sized 32F!!! Even worse, they fit!
F was all that was going through my head. ‘Eff eff, effin eff EFF EFFFFFFFFFF?!!!!’ How could I go from a D-cup to an F-cup?! Sure, I knew that I, along with my baps, had gotten a bit bigger but it seemed unbelievable! My mamma and her mamma both carry around far more titillating bosoms than me in the grand scheme of things and I’m not even sure they have made it to the F range of the bra-lphabet. I had obviously put on far more weight than I was willing to admit.
I came home that night feeling rather heavy-chested. I still couldn’t quite believe it. Only pornstars and grandmothers had F-cups, not me, not even with all the nikksnacking I have done of late. I didn’t know how to come to terms with it. So I did what any depressed person needing a lift would do – I got on the net and (go)ogled breasts. And imagine my delight, after surfing around the virtual world of boobies for awhile, that a size 32F in the UK is pretty much equivalent to a 12DD back home in Australia. Rejoice!! I had really only gone up one size! Confidence regained, I could stand tall with my not so enormous chest out in pride.
The moral of the story, though, for any ladies living in Oz and feeling a little down under in the chest department, is that, if you’re looking for a breast enhancement, spend the cash instead on a European holiday. Not only do the beer cups go up in size over here, but it appears that bra cups do, too.
Browsing the funnies
[Note: I have written my bibliography to suit publication in a youth-oriented magazine, such as Rave Magazine, Time Off or Scene. The document uses colloquial language and jargon to suit my primary audience and the publications’ style, as well as to complement the topic of my article.]
These days the funny pages are online rather than in your local paper. A far greater audience reach, fewer space and censorship restrictions – these are just some of the reasons why an increasing number of comics are published on the web. Even iconic newspaper strips, such as Dilbert, can now be found online.
With over 18,000 web comics, it can be hard to know where to start looking for your daily laugh. Nikki Hightower helps out with her top ten web comics and some web resources to get you started.
1. Sinfest, www.sinfest.net (updated daily)
Sinfest is a Manga-styled comic that tackles adult topics such as love, religion and sexuality with humorous aplomb. The main characters Slick, Criminy and Monique look about twelve years old but have funny and frank discussions about sexuality, porn and religion. God and the Devil also regularly appear in the comic to antagonise each other, with God frequently getting the last laugh, using a Devil hand-puppet to mimic the Devil and his coveting of God’s popularity.
The juxtaposition of Sinfest’s cutesy graphics with the comic’s scripts works on two levels for writer Tatsuya Ishida. The cutesy style adds a level of playfulness to Ishida’s sometimes deadpan social commentary, while the contrast with the storylines enhances the caustic quality of the strip.
2. Sluggy Freelance, www.sluggy.com (updated daily)
Like any good sci-fi, pop culture parody-infused adventure, describing the storyline of Sluggy Freelance is a journey in itself! Torg and his misfit acquaintances (which includes a killer rabbit, Bun Bun, and a man-eating alien, Aaylee) regularly travel between dimensions to fight demons, pick up hot alien chicks, host interplanetary keg parties and hang out with alternate versions of themselves.
One of the oldest online comics, writer Pete Abrams rewards faithful fans with long story arcs and holiday traditions, such as Bun Bun’s annual Christmas grudge match with Santa. But new visitors to the site shouldn’t be put off – Abrams has created a new viewer’s guide to help Sluggy virgins get intimately acquainted with the story and characters.
3. Dilbert, www.dilbert.com (updated daily)
Our favourite two-dimensional nerd in the cubicle world, Dilbert needs little introduction. While continuing to be syndicated in hundreds of newspapers across the globe, Scott Adams now also publishes Dilbert strips—in both English and Spanish—online.
Having written Dilbert for almost twenty years, Adams’s punchlines seem effortlessly effective. It’s also a great comic to browse on work time as the office content of the strip makes it seem entirely work-related. Even better, Dilbert makes for a great research resource, helping you to flesh out your ‘HR Collaborative Design’ report that was due on your boss’s desk an hour ago.
4. Little Dee, www.littledee.net (updated daily Monday to Saturday)
Little Dee is a light-hearted, happy web comic suitable for all ages. A little girl gets lost in the forest and is found by a bear called Ted. After discussing it over with his dog friend, Blake, and Vachel, his vulture friend, Ted decides to adopt the little girl, whom he calls Dee.
Christopher Baldwin skillfully inverts the human-pet relationship in Little Dee. While the animals all speak, Dee only uses sounds and movement to display her emotions. Dee also happily dishes out affection and loves to play, bringing out a child-like innocence and joy in the animal characters and in the Little Dee reader as well.
5. Dinosaur Comics, www.qwantz.com (updated daily Monday to Friday)
If Jurassic Park gave you the idea that Dinosaurs behave liked tarted-up British backpackers, running amok on tropical islands and eating B-grade celebrities, Ryan North’s Dinosaur Comics will set you straight. T-Rex, the sexy new age dinosaur, proselytises to his buddies, Dromiceiomimus and Utahraptor, about everything from science to literature to the perils of unrealisable sexual fetishes (such as being turned on by an egg descrambling itself).
A ‘cut and paste' comic, Dinosaur Comics contains the same visual panels for every strip with only the text changing. Despite this, T-Rex and each storyline roar with personality, demonstrating how the quality of a script alone can create a very clever, popular comic.
6. Questionable Content, www.questionablecontent.net (updated daily Monday to Friday)
Jeph Jacques is somewhat of a web comic writer hero, having managed to quit his ‘real’ job due to the success of Questionable Content. And if you read the comic strip, it’s easy to see why. Jacques has a great graphic style, but it is his characterisations that make this comic so addictive.
The core QC cast—Marten, Faye, Dora & Sven—are young, hip, intelligent ‘thangs’ that make wry comments about life and demonstrate affection with sarcastic barbs. The individual quirks of each QC character quickly enamour the reader and the witty banter between the group keeps you hanging for the next strip. Faye, however, is the drawcard of QC, simultaneously enticing and destroying amorous young men with her flirtatious wisecracks and putdowns.
7. Indie Tits, www.indietits.com (updated daily Monday to Friday)
Another Jeph Jacques comic, Jacques describes Indie Tits as ‘a bunch of birds making obscure band references and stupid jokes’. And, yep, that’s pretty much what the comic is. But, hey, the comic has a great title and is full of laughs, even if you’re not a music aficionado.
As in Questionable Content, Jacques has a knack for dialogue and brutally funny one-liners, which he uses to great effect in Indie Tits. The comic makes me want to develop an unhealthy fixation with music, birds, and with Jacques.
8. Ctrl + Alt + Del, www.cad-comic.com (updated 4 times a week)
While not actually a favourite web comic of mine, Ctrl+Alt+Del deserves mention as the most popular web comic online, receiving up to 10,000 visits to the website each month. CAD is a gaming comic, a popular sub-genre of web comic that focuses on the world of video game players. CAD revolves around the life of two young guys, Ethan and Lucas, and their video game fetishes.
In its infancy, CAD’s humour was narrowly aimed at the gaming community – if you weren’t familiar with Xbox, Playstation and PC-gaming conventions, the comic gags were unlikely to make much sense. However, as the comic has established itself, its storylines and jokes have become more general in nature, making the comic an easy and enjoyable read for gamers and non-gamers alike.
9. A Softer World, www.asofterworld.com (updated weekly)
A Softer World is like a Christmas present from your crazy Aunt Bessie – a package wrapped up in pretty pastel tissue paper, with something slightly distasteful inside. Photographer Emily Horne collaborates with writer Joey Corneau to present three panels of sliced photographs overlaid with simple, reflective text. While not always black, Corneau definitely has a dark side and his sparse, humorous reflections beautifully contrast the soft-focused simplicity of Horne’s imagery.
With no consistent cast or storyline, A Softer World is like a weekly calendar quote for the slightly cynical at heart.
10. Alien loves Predator, www.alienlovespredator.com (updated irregularly)
Everyone loves a good showdown between Alien and Predator, but Bernie Hou makes it even better by spawning some New York humour in the mix. Instead of the usual bloody intergalactic battle, Alien and Predator, aka Abe and Preston, are bickering New York roomies with the usual cosmopolitan gripes. Subway commuter depression, New York Yankee fanaticism and finding love – these are just some of the issues facing these aliens in the big city.
ALP is very funny stuff, poking fun at contemporary culture as well as the comic's own written style (making reference to its Sex and the City and Woody Allen similarities). The only downside is that the comic isn’t updated more frequently. Hou sometimes lets months slip by before posting a new comic, potentially ‘alienating’ new fans. The website does contain a subscriber list, however, which lets fans know when the comic is updated.
11. The Web Comic List, www.thewebcomiclist.com
If the above list of comics doesn’t take your fancy, The Web Comics List can help you find web comics suited to your taste. WCL tracks approximately 10,000 online comics, ranking and categorising the comics according to their popularity and genre. The website informs readers when comics are updated as well as when new comics are added to the list. A host of other features, such as interviews and fan forums, makes the site a very valuable and interactive online community.
12. The Webcomics Examiner, www.webcomicsreview.com
Unfortunately, The Webcomics Examiner hasn’t been updated since November 2006. However, the site still serves as a fantastic archive for those curious to learn more about web comics and discover brilliant comics hidden in the million of website pages online.
The Examiner describes itself as a ‘forum of frank, sophisticated discussions of webcomics as a fine art’ and contains a mix of monthly articles, interviews, reviews and roundtable discussions on all things ‘webcomic’. While some in the web comic community have poked fun at The Examiner’s lofty aspirations, the website has generally been well regarded by the rest of the comic community.
These days the funny pages are online rather than in your local paper. A far greater audience reach, fewer space and censorship restrictions – these are just some of the reasons why an increasing number of comics are published on the web. Even iconic newspaper strips, such as Dilbert, can now be found online.
With over 18,000 web comics, it can be hard to know where to start looking for your daily laugh. Nikki Hightower helps out with her top ten web comics and some web resources to get you started.
1. Sinfest, www.sinfest.net (updated daily)
Sinfest is a Manga-styled comic that tackles adult topics such as love, religion and sexuality with humorous aplomb. The main characters Slick, Criminy and Monique look about twelve years old but have funny and frank discussions about sexuality, porn and religion. God and the Devil also regularly appear in the comic to antagonise each other, with God frequently getting the last laugh, using a Devil hand-puppet to mimic the Devil and his coveting of God’s popularity.
The juxtaposition of Sinfest’s cutesy graphics with the comic’s scripts works on two levels for writer Tatsuya Ishida. The cutesy style adds a level of playfulness to Ishida’s sometimes deadpan social commentary, while the contrast with the storylines enhances the caustic quality of the strip.
2. Sluggy Freelance, www.sluggy.com (updated daily)
Like any good sci-fi, pop culture parody-infused adventure, describing the storyline of Sluggy Freelance is a journey in itself! Torg and his misfit acquaintances (which includes a killer rabbit, Bun Bun, and a man-eating alien, Aaylee) regularly travel between dimensions to fight demons, pick up hot alien chicks, host interplanetary keg parties and hang out with alternate versions of themselves.
One of the oldest online comics, writer Pete Abrams rewards faithful fans with long story arcs and holiday traditions, such as Bun Bun’s annual Christmas grudge match with Santa. But new visitors to the site shouldn’t be put off – Abrams has created a new viewer’s guide to help Sluggy virgins get intimately acquainted with the story and characters.
3. Dilbert, www.dilbert.com (updated daily)
Our favourite two-dimensional nerd in the cubicle world, Dilbert needs little introduction. While continuing to be syndicated in hundreds of newspapers across the globe, Scott Adams now also publishes Dilbert strips—in both English and Spanish—online.
Having written Dilbert for almost twenty years, Adams’s punchlines seem effortlessly effective. It’s also a great comic to browse on work time as the office content of the strip makes it seem entirely work-related. Even better, Dilbert makes for a great research resource, helping you to flesh out your ‘HR Collaborative Design’ report that was due on your boss’s desk an hour ago.
4. Little Dee, www.littledee.net (updated daily Monday to Saturday)
Little Dee is a light-hearted, happy web comic suitable for all ages. A little girl gets lost in the forest and is found by a bear called Ted. After discussing it over with his dog friend, Blake, and Vachel, his vulture friend, Ted decides to adopt the little girl, whom he calls Dee.
Christopher Baldwin skillfully inverts the human-pet relationship in Little Dee. While the animals all speak, Dee only uses sounds and movement to display her emotions. Dee also happily dishes out affection and loves to play, bringing out a child-like innocence and joy in the animal characters and in the Little Dee reader as well.
5. Dinosaur Comics, www.qwantz.com (updated daily Monday to Friday)
If Jurassic Park gave you the idea that Dinosaurs behave liked tarted-up British backpackers, running amok on tropical islands and eating B-grade celebrities, Ryan North’s Dinosaur Comics will set you straight. T-Rex, the sexy new age dinosaur, proselytises to his buddies, Dromiceiomimus and Utahraptor, about everything from science to literature to the perils of unrealisable sexual fetishes (such as being turned on by an egg descrambling itself).
A ‘cut and paste' comic, Dinosaur Comics contains the same visual panels for every strip with only the text changing. Despite this, T-Rex and each storyline roar with personality, demonstrating how the quality of a script alone can create a very clever, popular comic.
6. Questionable Content, www.questionablecontent.net (updated daily Monday to Friday)
Jeph Jacques is somewhat of a web comic writer hero, having managed to quit his ‘real’ job due to the success of Questionable Content. And if you read the comic strip, it’s easy to see why. Jacques has a great graphic style, but it is his characterisations that make this comic so addictive.
The core QC cast—Marten, Faye, Dora & Sven—are young, hip, intelligent ‘thangs’ that make wry comments about life and demonstrate affection with sarcastic barbs. The individual quirks of each QC character quickly enamour the reader and the witty banter between the group keeps you hanging for the next strip. Faye, however, is the drawcard of QC, simultaneously enticing and destroying amorous young men with her flirtatious wisecracks and putdowns.
7. Indie Tits, www.indietits.com (updated daily Monday to Friday)
Another Jeph Jacques comic, Jacques describes Indie Tits as ‘a bunch of birds making obscure band references and stupid jokes’. And, yep, that’s pretty much what the comic is. But, hey, the comic has a great title and is full of laughs, even if you’re not a music aficionado.
As in Questionable Content, Jacques has a knack for dialogue and brutally funny one-liners, which he uses to great effect in Indie Tits. The comic makes me want to develop an unhealthy fixation with music, birds, and with Jacques.
8. Ctrl + Alt + Del, www.cad-comic.com (updated 4 times a week)
While not actually a favourite web comic of mine, Ctrl+Alt+Del deserves mention as the most popular web comic online, receiving up to 10,000 visits to the website each month. CAD is a gaming comic, a popular sub-genre of web comic that focuses on the world of video game players. CAD revolves around the life of two young guys, Ethan and Lucas, and their video game fetishes.
In its infancy, CAD’s humour was narrowly aimed at the gaming community – if you weren’t familiar with Xbox, Playstation and PC-gaming conventions, the comic gags were unlikely to make much sense. However, as the comic has established itself, its storylines and jokes have become more general in nature, making the comic an easy and enjoyable read for gamers and non-gamers alike.
9. A Softer World, www.asofterworld.com (updated weekly)
A Softer World is like a Christmas present from your crazy Aunt Bessie – a package wrapped up in pretty pastel tissue paper, with something slightly distasteful inside. Photographer Emily Horne collaborates with writer Joey Corneau to present three panels of sliced photographs overlaid with simple, reflective text. While not always black, Corneau definitely has a dark side and his sparse, humorous reflections beautifully contrast the soft-focused simplicity of Horne’s imagery.
With no consistent cast or storyline, A Softer World is like a weekly calendar quote for the slightly cynical at heart.
10. Alien loves Predator, www.alienlovespredator.com (updated irregularly)
Everyone loves a good showdown between Alien and Predator, but Bernie Hou makes it even better by spawning some New York humour in the mix. Instead of the usual bloody intergalactic battle, Alien and Predator, aka Abe and Preston, are bickering New York roomies with the usual cosmopolitan gripes. Subway commuter depression, New York Yankee fanaticism and finding love – these are just some of the issues facing these aliens in the big city.
ALP is very funny stuff, poking fun at contemporary culture as well as the comic's own written style (making reference to its Sex and the City and Woody Allen similarities). The only downside is that the comic isn’t updated more frequently. Hou sometimes lets months slip by before posting a new comic, potentially ‘alienating’ new fans. The website does contain a subscriber list, however, which lets fans know when the comic is updated.
11. The Web Comic List, www.thewebcomiclist.com
If the above list of comics doesn’t take your fancy, The Web Comics List can help you find web comics suited to your taste. WCL tracks approximately 10,000 online comics, ranking and categorising the comics according to their popularity and genre. The website informs readers when comics are updated as well as when new comics are added to the list. A host of other features, such as interviews and fan forums, makes the site a very valuable and interactive online community.
12. The Webcomics Examiner, www.webcomicsreview.com
Unfortunately, The Webcomics Examiner hasn’t been updated since November 2006. However, the site still serves as a fantastic archive for those curious to learn more about web comics and discover brilliant comics hidden in the million of website pages online.
The Examiner describes itself as a ‘forum of frank, sophisticated discussions of webcomics as a fine art’ and contains a mix of monthly articles, interviews, reviews and roundtable discussions on all things ‘webcomic’. While some in the web comic community have poked fun at The Examiner’s lofty aspirations, the website has generally been well regarded by the rest of the comic community.
Yauatcha
When someone trumpets the oft-used phrase ‘good things come in small packages’, there’s usually a skeptical groan in response from the listener. When our waiter says it to us at Yauatcha, however, the only audible sound comes from our bellies, rumbling in anticipation.
Created in 2004, Yauatcha is a modern Chinese teahouse that offers diners ‘an all-day grazing experience’. While Yauatcha has a full a la carte menu, its specialty is dim sum and it is these tasty morsels that earned the restaurant its Michelin star in 2005.
With over 50 types of dim sum on offer, we linger over the menu, relishing the evocative ingredients--duck egg, cloud ear and black fungus, just to name a few—on display. After soliciting a few recommendations from our waiter, we choose taro lotus wraps, winter melon dumplings, jasmine tea smoked ribs, roasted duck pumpkin puffs, and Chinese pear and taro croquettes.
While previous experiences of dim sum have always been a bit same same, Yauatcha doesn’t disappoint. The serves are generous and beautifully presented, and each dish has a unique combination of flavours and textures. The pear and taro croquettes end with a light touch of cloves, and the tea smoked ribs fall apart perfectly.
Handmade chocolates and macaroons tempt us from the dessert menu (and elaborate cocktails tempt us from the drinks menu) but we are too full to eat any more, so we opt to finish with a tea instead. While we sip our green and blue Taiwanese tea, we agree that it encapsulates our Yauatcha dining experience – sophisticated, delicate and delicious.
Created in 2004, Yauatcha is a modern Chinese teahouse that offers diners ‘an all-day grazing experience’. While Yauatcha has a full a la carte menu, its specialty is dim sum and it is these tasty morsels that earned the restaurant its Michelin star in 2005.
With over 50 types of dim sum on offer, we linger over the menu, relishing the evocative ingredients--duck egg, cloud ear and black fungus, just to name a few—on display. After soliciting a few recommendations from our waiter, we choose taro lotus wraps, winter melon dumplings, jasmine tea smoked ribs, roasted duck pumpkin puffs, and Chinese pear and taro croquettes.
While previous experiences of dim sum have always been a bit same same, Yauatcha doesn’t disappoint. The serves are generous and beautifully presented, and each dish has a unique combination of flavours and textures. The pear and taro croquettes end with a light touch of cloves, and the tea smoked ribs fall apart perfectly.
Handmade chocolates and macaroons tempt us from the dessert menu (and elaborate cocktails tempt us from the drinks menu) but we are too full to eat any more, so we opt to finish with a tea instead. While we sip our green and blue Taiwanese tea, we agree that it encapsulates our Yauatcha dining experience – sophisticated, delicate and delicious.
Bay of Bengal Restaurant
Located on Edinburgh’s most famous street, the Bay of Bengal restaurant certainly has some magnificent neighbours. With Edinburgh Castle to the left and the Palace of Holyroodhouse to the right, one could even quip that the restaurant is ‘stuck between a Castle Rock and a Holyrood Place’. But there are definitely no sticking points about the Bay of Bengal, it’s a true gem deserving of its place on the Royal Mile.
While not quite as old as the castle, the family-run Bay of Bengal has been serving authentic Indian and Bangladeshi cuisine for 32 years. Despite its longevity, the owners continue to keep the place feeling fresh – recent renovations give the décor a sleek, contemporary feel, while new dishes and specials (like the early bird 3-courses from £7.95) spice up the menu.
For starters, try the Lamb Tikka with vibrant notes of cumin and coriander. The Mango Chicken Malay Curry is a winner for the more mild-mouthed, while the Bay of Bengal Special Rezala is a sure-fire choice for those who like it hot (ask for extra chilli!). Vegies will love the Matar Panir, a curry of peas and home-made cheese, but best of all are the breads. Cooked in their new Tandoor oven, the Paratha and Naan – crisp on the outside, fluffy and soft on the inside – are the crowning glory of a most treasurable meal.
While not quite as old as the castle, the family-run Bay of Bengal has been serving authentic Indian and Bangladeshi cuisine for 32 years. Despite its longevity, the owners continue to keep the place feeling fresh – recent renovations give the décor a sleek, contemporary feel, while new dishes and specials (like the early bird 3-courses from £7.95) spice up the menu.
For starters, try the Lamb Tikka with vibrant notes of cumin and coriander. The Mango Chicken Malay Curry is a winner for the more mild-mouthed, while the Bay of Bengal Special Rezala is a sure-fire choice for those who like it hot (ask for extra chilli!). Vegies will love the Matar Panir, a curry of peas and home-made cheese, but best of all are the breads. Cooked in their new Tandoor oven, the Paratha and Naan – crisp on the outside, fluffy and soft on the inside – are the crowning glory of a most treasurable meal.
Rainbow Restaurant & Takeaway
Eating fish and chips is synonymous with being British. More than just a national dish, it’s a comfort food, a love affair, a dish that promises to warm the cockles of your heart after a hard day. To be truly patriotic, it’s not about knowing the lyrics to God Save the Queen but about finding the perfect fish and chip shop.
Luckily for the people of Edinburgh, Rainbow Restaurant is one such place. Located on the high street of Musselburgh, a coastal area just a short drive from the city centre, this place has been a chippy for over 80 years. The current owners, the Cerasuolo family, have been there for 30 years and have got their fish and chips down to a fine art.
The fish is fresh and tasty, their chips creamy and bursting with flavour. They also make incredible home-made pizza (crisp pizza crust on the outside, with just a hint of doughy texture on the inside – perfect!) and their menu boasts of burgers, kebabs and other chippy favourites, all made from locally-sourced produce.
With such great food and friendly, efficient service, it’s no surprise that the place is often abuzz with customers vying for a table at the back of the shop. And if you’re patriotic about being British, and about your fish and chips, it’s definitely a table worth fighting for.
Luckily for the people of Edinburgh, Rainbow Restaurant is one such place. Located on the high street of Musselburgh, a coastal area just a short drive from the city centre, this place has been a chippy for over 80 years. The current owners, the Cerasuolo family, have been there for 30 years and have got their fish and chips down to a fine art.
The fish is fresh and tasty, their chips creamy and bursting with flavour. They also make incredible home-made pizza (crisp pizza crust on the outside, with just a hint of doughy texture on the inside – perfect!) and their menu boasts of burgers, kebabs and other chippy favourites, all made from locally-sourced produce.
With such great food and friendly, efficient service, it’s no surprise that the place is often abuzz with customers vying for a table at the back of the shop. And if you’re patriotic about being British, and about your fish and chips, it’s definitely a table worth fighting for.
Tonic
After a hectic working week, I couldn’t wait to shake off my 9-to-5 cubicle blues and what better place to kickstart my weekend than at Tonic, for that perfect pick-me-up.
A favourite with the cocktail crowd, Tonic is nestled in a cosy basement space just off George Street. The bartenders here are serious mixologists, experimenting like mad scientists behind the bar, mixing premium spirits, homemade syrups and exotic liqueurs in an unyielding desire to create the ultimate drink.
The result is an ever changing menu of Frankenstein proportions. Classic cocktails are deconstructed and merged, and new ingredients shaken and stirred to create over 30 unique cocktails to suit all tastes.
We sampled the Dark & Stormy Daiquiri, a tasty combination of the two classic rum cocktails. Another rum favourite was the aptly-titled Rhumadan, a four-rum mix topped with a silky chocolate orange foam. Party at Roses, a rosemary-smoked Margarita, tickled my savoury tastebuds while my drinking buddy was partial to Monkey’s Got a Gun, a patriotic concoction of fudge-infused whisky, chocolate bitters and Innis & Gunn oak-aged beer.
The drinks on the menu, however, are just suggestions and the boys behind the bar also created delicious new cocktails for us on the spot. When I left Tonic that night, I felt indulged, rejuvenated and ready to shout from the rooftop, ‘I’m alive! I’m alive!’
A favourite with the cocktail crowd, Tonic is nestled in a cosy basement space just off George Street. The bartenders here are serious mixologists, experimenting like mad scientists behind the bar, mixing premium spirits, homemade syrups and exotic liqueurs in an unyielding desire to create the ultimate drink.
The result is an ever changing menu of Frankenstein proportions. Classic cocktails are deconstructed and merged, and new ingredients shaken and stirred to create over 30 unique cocktails to suit all tastes.
We sampled the Dark & Stormy Daiquiri, a tasty combination of the two classic rum cocktails. Another rum favourite was the aptly-titled Rhumadan, a four-rum mix topped with a silky chocolate orange foam. Party at Roses, a rosemary-smoked Margarita, tickled my savoury tastebuds while my drinking buddy was partial to Monkey’s Got a Gun, a patriotic concoction of fudge-infused whisky, chocolate bitters and Innis & Gunn oak-aged beer.
The drinks on the menu, however, are just suggestions and the boys behind the bar also created delicious new cocktails for us on the spot. When I left Tonic that night, I felt indulged, rejuvenated and ready to shout from the rooftop, ‘I’m alive! I’m alive!’
Hotel Novotel: Elements Restaurant & Bar
Situated in a 4-star hotel in central Edinburgh, Elements Restaurant & Bar focuses on using high-quality, locally-sourced produce to provide a diverse range of lunch and dinner options. An everyday menu offers a large selection of light bites and traditional favourites while head chef Craig Whitwar also creates an intriguing fortnightly menu of contemporary Scottish cuisine.
From this menu, the starter of blue cheese and walnut soufflé catches my eye although I struggle picking my main course – how to choose between medallions of Highland venison served with a chilli chocolate fondue or North Sea scallops on a celeriac and vanilla mash? They both sound divine. I opt for the venison (to match our wine – a New Zealand pinot noir) while my dining companion selects the spinach & Dolcelate risotto and Scottish cheese plate for dessert.
Along with a complimentary assortment of fresh bread, our meal is delicious and immaculately presented. And at £16.95 for two courses (or £19.95 for 3), it is sensational value.
The service is also excellent and the ambience is very inviting – we are so cosy at our table that when we finish our meal, we’re reluctant to leave.
The perfect dining experience is all about the right combination of ingredients – food, service, atmosphere – and at Elements, they certainly live up to their name.
From this menu, the starter of blue cheese and walnut soufflé catches my eye although I struggle picking my main course – how to choose between medallions of Highland venison served with a chilli chocolate fondue or North Sea scallops on a celeriac and vanilla mash? They both sound divine. I opt for the venison (to match our wine – a New Zealand pinot noir) while my dining companion selects the spinach & Dolcelate risotto and Scottish cheese plate for dessert.
Along with a complimentary assortment of fresh bread, our meal is delicious and immaculately presented. And at £16.95 for two courses (or £19.95 for 3), it is sensational value.
The service is also excellent and the ambience is very inviting – we are so cosy at our table that when we finish our meal, we’re reluctant to leave.
The perfect dining experience is all about the right combination of ingredients – food, service, atmosphere – and at Elements, they certainly live up to their name.
Sinking teeth, sunken ship
Rani Das loved to ask her parents about when she was born. Her mother (very white) painted colourful circles around the truth while her father (quite black), with his blunt scissor manner, cut straight to the point. The result was inevitable shades of grey, a messy collage of half truths and severed tales that Rani pinned to her chest: this is me.
‘I rubbed my belly one too many times and suddenly you popped out, just like a genie,’ Winnie winked at her. ‘But you still haven’t granted me my wishes, genie. Where are my three wishes?’ And then Winnie chased Rani through the concrete, square house on Elgin Road, her wiggling index fingers outstretched and ready to tickle the naughty genie once she was caught. When the giggles subsided and Rani had granted wishes to all who witnessed her punishment (Rani’s brother Robin and Aunty Mejsdi on this occasion), Rani went to look for her father. She needed him to finish the story.
Usually she found him in the study or propped up on his bed, inhaling words from a book. This time, however, he was in the bathroom. The door was closed but she imagined that he was sitting on the latrine, pen in hand and correcting all the errors in the newspaper.
She knocked on the door. ‘Daddy?’
Rani put her ear against the door and waited for a response but all she heard was the scrunching sound of a newspaper being folded. And perhaps a muffled sound of gas bouncing against the latrine walls. She persevered.
‘Daddy, Mummy says that I popped out of her belly like a genie.’
No response.
‘Is it true? Am I a genie?’
Another crackle of the newspaper. ‘No, Rani,’ he sighed in his red-pen voice, correcting the errors in Winnie’s story, ‘just a pretty little girl, not a genie. If you were a genie, my wish for you to leave me alone so that I can take a shit in peace would have already come true.’
Another time, some later time, some time when Rani was a number of days older, Rani asked about her birth again. A pungent Calcutta summer loitered in the air, sneaking into the folds of flesh and saris everywhere, dampening the resolve of Calcutta residents to do anything but sit and wait the summer out. Only beggars and children were undeterred by the heat, with beggars still shaking their tins and children still shaking their heads in laughter, often at the beggars’ expense. Rani was playing on the flat rooftop of the house, alternating between practising her Jharno Patare Pothe dance with her younger sister, Aileen, and spitting on the beggars over the side of the house with her brother, Robin. When she tired of her graceful dance moves and her less than graceful spitting prowess, she snuck back into the house.
Her mother and father were sitting, quite appropriately, in the sitting room. Saroj, in his pressed white dhoti and pants, sat neatly folded on the settee, while Winnie lazed on the concrete ground in a crumpled sari, her forehead bejeweled with tiny pools of sweat.
With her brother and sister still up on the roof, Rani, a typical middle child, took the opportunity to pretend to be an only child and revel in having her parents’ sole attention.
‘Mummy, tell me again about when I was born.’
Winnie patted her lap in agreement and Rani sat inside her mother’s skinny frame, her bottom filling the triangular space between Winnie’s crossed legs. She cushioned her back against Winnie’s breasts and belly, and rested her palms on each knee. Her own customised armchair.
‘Ready?’ Winnie asked once the squirms had subsided. Rani nodded.
‘When you were in Mummy’s belly, you became jealous of the sea. We were traveling by ship from England to Calcutta and you could smell the salt water and hear the waves. You wanted to create waves of your own and so you decided to come out three weeks early. Like a little fish, you swam out from between my legs and joined us on the boat’.
‘Like a fish?’ Rani’s eyes widened. ‘Did I make a splash?’
Rani’s father tutted under his breath. ‘You certainly caused a commotion,’ he said. ‘Because you came early, we were kicked off the boat at Bombay, on the west side of India. We had to catch a train across all of India to get to Calcutta. It took 15 days, three days longer than expected, and the family was most upset to be kept waiting for our arrival.’
This wasn’t exactly true. In fact, no one except Aunty Didi, Saroj’s eldest sister, knew that he was coming home from London. If they had known, they might’ve asked for British souvenirs, though not the kind that Saroj brought with him. A British wife and two half-caste children. There were already plenty of those in India.
Winnie groaned. ‘Saroj, don’t exaggerate. Your family didn’t know that you were coming.’ She turned her attention back to Rani. ‘And they didn’t know, Rani, that you or Robin or I even existed. Daddy never told them that he had a family.’ She squeezed Rani softly on the sides of her stomach. ‘Imagine how their jaws must have dropped to the floor when we arrived on the doorstep, suitcases in hand.’
Rani found it difficult to imagine anyone dropping their jaw to the ground, except for Aunty Didi, who kept her jaw in a glass bowl in the bathroom. ‘Those are Aunty Didi’s dentures,’ her mother had told her, ‘fake teeth. Aren’t they disgusting? I should throw them out one day when no one’s looking.’
Saroj raised his voice slightly, a diplomat in a sitting room renegotiating the truth. The red-pen voice. ‘No, that’s not true. Didi knew I was coming back to Calcutta and that my family was coming with me. I wasn’t going to send a telegram to every member of my family now, was I? Half of them live together in the same house.’
Together in the same house that we live in now, Rani thought. She liked having her uncles and aunties around, enjoyed their company and idiosyncrasies. Aunty Didi, who brought books from her school for Robin and Rani to read; Uncle Buro, who gave the children sweets and suffocated them with his enveloping hugs, their heads lodging between his stomach rolls; And Uncle Nanto, who often played with the children and kept Winnie company when Saroj was at work. Her favourite, however, was Aunty Mejsdi, who would lie on her back, put her feet over her head and do a somersault. All the time. The other adults paid Mejsdi no attention, but Rani and her siblings found it fascinating, particularly when Mejsdi’s sari opened up mid-somersault, exposing her private bits for all to see. Winnie had told the children that Mejsdi was the only one of their Father’s siblings who didn’t have a university education, and Rani wondered whether this was why Mejsdi did somersaults and no one else did. But Rani knew her mother didn’t have a university education (her Daddy had told her. Twice.) and she didn’t do somersaults either.
‘You only told Didi that you had a family when we got kicked off the boat at Bombay,’ Winnie said, raising her voice back at Saroj. ‘One would think that you were embarrassed, rather than proud, of having a British wife.’
Saroj got up from the settee and looked down at Winnie. Rani shifted uncomfortably in her lap. ‘I wasn’t embarrassed of having a British wife then,’ he said, before turning his back on them and walking out of the room. He walked down the hall, into their bedroom and closed the door. Closing the door on Rani’s story.
Rani looked up at her mother and saw colourful red dots spread across Winnie’s face and throat. Colours that she wished her mother would keep for her story.
Winnie maneuvered Rani off her lap and placed her on the floor. ‘I’m sorry, Rani,’
Rani watched her mother get up and follow Saroj down the hall, opening and slamming the bedroom door behind her. Closing the door on Rani’s story, too.
And the door remained closed for some time.
The children saw their parents less but heard them more and more. At first, they pressed their ears against walls and floors, strained their necks forward to hear the tense exchange of whispers. Saroj telling Winnie that her conduct was improper for a wife, that she was too proud of her colour (or lack thereof), too selfish to be a good mother. Winnie telling Saroj that he was simply cruel. Unkind. Cold.
Soon the children didn’t have to strain.
‘Stop controlling my life, Saroj,’ Winnie would scream. ‘You’re a bastard!’
‘Stop behaving like a British floozy,’ Saroj would yell back, ‘you’re in India. Have some self-respect.’
But their mother remained British. White, like a ghost, she would disappear to spend her time with other British expats. White and plain like flour, she raised her children less and less, leaving this role to the servants, and to Aunty Didi.
Their father, in contrast, was blacker than ever, his moods matching the colour of his skin; black as the new scuff marks that began to appear on his normally spotless dhoti when he returned from a day at work.
‘From beating up all the British soldiers who look at your mother the wrong way,’ Aunty Mejsdi, with her head between her legs, giggled to Rani one day before Aunty Didi told her to mind her own business. Although, with her head so close to her bottom, that seemed to be exactly what Aunty Mejsdi was doing.
Rani missed hearing stories about how she was born. Aunty Didi tried her best but in her headmistress tone, her stories sounded too factual, too true. There were no genies, no fish, no mermaids. ‘Do you know that the ship you were born on was called the SS Narkunda? And that the Captain of the SS Narkunda, Captain Frederick Sudell, is your godfather?’ Rani nodded, her glum face watching Aunty Didi’s dentures chomp the air around her mouth. ‘He christened you while you were onboard: Rani Narkunda Das. And so you are, by definition, Queen of the ship.’
Rani shook her head. ‘But Daddy said that the Captain kicked us off the ship after I was born. How could he kick a Queen off a ship?’
‘Because you were a very little baby, he was afraid that you might fall ill while at sea. He was worried that they might not have the facilities on board the ship to take care of you. And because you were his goddaughter, and also a Queen, he didn’t want that to happen.’
Rani watched Didi’s white dentures smile at her and decided that her mother was right – they were disgusting. She didn’t want them to tell her another story. And so she never asked her Aunt Didi to tell her a story about when she was born again.
Another time, a much later time, a time when Rani was many days taller, she attempted to ask her mother about her birth once more.
Rani, along with Robin and Aileen, had returned from school to find their father quietly beating Uncle Nanto outside the front of their house. Mouths gaping, they found a space amongst the crowd of servants and beggars to sit and watch the fight. The beggars asked them if they wanted to bet their pocket money, or their watches, on who would win. ‘And what would you give us if we won the bet, eh, Uncle? Robin said to them, in big brother mode. ‘Your rags, your empty tins? You have nothing; you’re not worth our spit.’ And he and his sisters laughed and spat on their hands, extending them out for the beggars to shake. As the beggars muttered obscenities and moved away from the rude children, Saroj caught sight of them. ‘Rabindra, Rani, Aileen Das, go inside at once,’ he yelled between punches. ‘Don’t listen to anything those dirty beggars say.’ Their Uncle Nanto, also between punches, agreed.
Robin and Aileen stayed fixed to their place on the ground but Rani decided to go and look for her mother, to tell Winnie that Daddy was beating Uncle Nanto, making him redder than black and blue.
Her mother was crying in the bedroom; Aunty Didi was by her side, holding a rag to her face. ‘Rani, not now,’ Aunty Didi said, trying to shush her away.
‘No,’ said Winnie, ‘let her stay. She deserves to see what her Daddy is like, how horrible he can be.’
At the mention of her Daddy, Rani piped up. ‘Daddy is fighting with Uncle Nanto outside.’
‘Good’ said Winnie, between sniffles. ‘I hope he pummels him.’
‘Winnie!’ reproached Aunty Didi, looking at Rani as if to say ‘don’t listen to her’.
‘I don’t care. Nanto doesn’t love me; he was supposed to save me, rescue me from Saroj.’
Rani watched as Aunty Didi peeled away the wet rag she was holding to Winnie’s face and dipped it in a bowl of water sitting on the chest of drawers nearby. On her mother’s left cheek was a huge bubble with a fiery perimeter, like someone had drawn around the bubble with a bright red felt pen.
‘What happened to your face, Mummy?’
‘Mind your own business, Rani,’ said Aunty Didi as she squeezed water out of the rag and reapplied it to Winnie’s cheek.
Winnie ignored Didi’s remark. ‘Your father decided to make your mother ugly by throwing boiling oil on her face. So no one else will ever find her attractive.’ As if by speaking in third person, Winnie could distance herself from the truth, pretend that she was merely an onlooker providing commentary on the soap opera saga, on the red bubble pulsating on Winnie’s face.
‘But why would Daddy do that?’
Aunty Didi clenched her dentures. ‘Because your Daddy found your mother and Uncle Nanto doing something that they shouldn’t have been doing.’ She suddenly clapped her hands, the way a headmistress does to indicate the end of a discussion.
‘I think that’s enough for now’ she said, gently pushing Rani out the bedroom door. ‘Leave your mother to rest.’ As she closed the door, Aunty Didi flashed her dentures at Rani, a sad smile to say she was sorry. And it gave Rani an idea.
The next morning Rani rose very early before anyone else in the house had woken. She went to the bathroom first, and then she went and knocked on her Mummy’s bedroom door. ‘Mummy, I have something I have to tell you.’ She walked up to the bed and tapped Winnie lightly on the shoulder. ‘I did something for you.’
‘What, Rani, what is it?’ Winnie asked, a fog (or maybe a frog) of sleep croaking her voice. Aunty Didi had bandaged the rag to Winnie’s cheek overnight, and tears of blood and pus had soaked through it.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone though, Mummy,’ Rani said, sudden panic rising in her voice. ‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone.’
Winnie sat up in bed and focused her eyes on Rani, while lightly poking the rag on her cheek. ‘Okay, Rani, I promise. Now tell me.’
‘I took Aunty Didi’s teeth,’ Rani said, a slow, unsure smile tiptoeing across her face, ‘and I flushed them down the toilet.’
‘What?’ Disbelief followed by dismay covered Winnie’s pale face, or at least the bits of her face that weren’t already obscured by the rag. ‘Oh, Rani. No, no.’
‘You mustn’t tell Mummy, you mustn’t tell!’
‘Shhhh. Calm down, Rani, I won’t tell anyone. But why on earth did you flush Aunty Didi’s teeth down the toilet?’
‘Because I wanted to make you happy, Mummy. And I wanted you to tell me a story again.’ But Rani already knew that she wasn’t going to get a story, and that Winnie wasn’t happy. She might as well have flushed everyone’s teeth down the toilet that morning because no one was going to smile in the Elgin Road household for a very long time.
Another time, a much later time, when Rani was many years older, Winnie attempted to tell her a story about her birth once more.
Winnie had long since left their father, and India, to return to England. Before she left, Winnie had kidnapped Robin one day after school on her bicycle (although, in fairness, Robin enjoyed and was very helpful in, the role of abductee) and he had moved to London with her. While Winnie had asked both her daughters to move to London as well, Rani refused to leave her father all alone. Aileen, ever the loyal younger sister, refused to leave Rani behind. And so they stayed.
Rani never asked to be told a story about her birth again. But one day, Aunty Didi, by way of an old newspaper clipping, did tell her one more. The story was about how the ship on which she was born, the SS Narkunda, had been requisitioned as a troop ship in the Second World War. The ship was bombed and sunk by the Germans in 1942, and 31 Allied troops had lost their lives.
It was a fitting story, Rani thought. That ship had more than sailed, it had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The stories about her birth could never be told the same way, anyway – with the extravagance of her mother, pared back by the modesty and control exercised by her father. They were no longer a team, an overenthusiastic storyteller and a ruthless editor, each a necessary evil for the other. Rani had to make up her own stories.
So when her mother penned a letter from England that began with the line, ‘once upon a boat, there was a little baby bump,’ Rani found a black marker pen and scribbled out all the words to the story. Once they were blacked out, she resumed reading the letter, delighting in her mother’s news. When she finished, she folded the letter, put it safely away and forgot about it, much like she forgot about the SS Narkunda, and forgot about Aunty Didi’s old teeth.
Lying somewhere at the bottom of the sea, a forgotten smile and a rusted-out ship, half truths and severed tales pinned to its mast.
‘I rubbed my belly one too many times and suddenly you popped out, just like a genie,’ Winnie winked at her. ‘But you still haven’t granted me my wishes, genie. Where are my three wishes?’ And then Winnie chased Rani through the concrete, square house on Elgin Road, her wiggling index fingers outstretched and ready to tickle the naughty genie once she was caught. When the giggles subsided and Rani had granted wishes to all who witnessed her punishment (Rani’s brother Robin and Aunty Mejsdi on this occasion), Rani went to look for her father. She needed him to finish the story.
Usually she found him in the study or propped up on his bed, inhaling words from a book. This time, however, he was in the bathroom. The door was closed but she imagined that he was sitting on the latrine, pen in hand and correcting all the errors in the newspaper.
She knocked on the door. ‘Daddy?’
Rani put her ear against the door and waited for a response but all she heard was the scrunching sound of a newspaper being folded. And perhaps a muffled sound of gas bouncing against the latrine walls. She persevered.
‘Daddy, Mummy says that I popped out of her belly like a genie.’
No response.
‘Is it true? Am I a genie?’
Another crackle of the newspaper. ‘No, Rani,’ he sighed in his red-pen voice, correcting the errors in Winnie’s story, ‘just a pretty little girl, not a genie. If you were a genie, my wish for you to leave me alone so that I can take a shit in peace would have already come true.’
Another time, some later time, some time when Rani was a number of days older, Rani asked about her birth again. A pungent Calcutta summer loitered in the air, sneaking into the folds of flesh and saris everywhere, dampening the resolve of Calcutta residents to do anything but sit and wait the summer out. Only beggars and children were undeterred by the heat, with beggars still shaking their tins and children still shaking their heads in laughter, often at the beggars’ expense. Rani was playing on the flat rooftop of the house, alternating between practising her Jharno Patare Pothe dance with her younger sister, Aileen, and spitting on the beggars over the side of the house with her brother, Robin. When she tired of her graceful dance moves and her less than graceful spitting prowess, she snuck back into the house.
Her mother and father were sitting, quite appropriately, in the sitting room. Saroj, in his pressed white dhoti and pants, sat neatly folded on the settee, while Winnie lazed on the concrete ground in a crumpled sari, her forehead bejeweled with tiny pools of sweat.
With her brother and sister still up on the roof, Rani, a typical middle child, took the opportunity to pretend to be an only child and revel in having her parents’ sole attention.
‘Mummy, tell me again about when I was born.’
Winnie patted her lap in agreement and Rani sat inside her mother’s skinny frame, her bottom filling the triangular space between Winnie’s crossed legs. She cushioned her back against Winnie’s breasts and belly, and rested her palms on each knee. Her own customised armchair.
‘Ready?’ Winnie asked once the squirms had subsided. Rani nodded.
‘When you were in Mummy’s belly, you became jealous of the sea. We were traveling by ship from England to Calcutta and you could smell the salt water and hear the waves. You wanted to create waves of your own and so you decided to come out three weeks early. Like a little fish, you swam out from between my legs and joined us on the boat’.
‘Like a fish?’ Rani’s eyes widened. ‘Did I make a splash?’
Rani’s father tutted under his breath. ‘You certainly caused a commotion,’ he said. ‘Because you came early, we were kicked off the boat at Bombay, on the west side of India. We had to catch a train across all of India to get to Calcutta. It took 15 days, three days longer than expected, and the family was most upset to be kept waiting for our arrival.’
This wasn’t exactly true. In fact, no one except Aunty Didi, Saroj’s eldest sister, knew that he was coming home from London. If they had known, they might’ve asked for British souvenirs, though not the kind that Saroj brought with him. A British wife and two half-caste children. There were already plenty of those in India.
Winnie groaned. ‘Saroj, don’t exaggerate. Your family didn’t know that you were coming.’ She turned her attention back to Rani. ‘And they didn’t know, Rani, that you or Robin or I even existed. Daddy never told them that he had a family.’ She squeezed Rani softly on the sides of her stomach. ‘Imagine how their jaws must have dropped to the floor when we arrived on the doorstep, suitcases in hand.’
Rani found it difficult to imagine anyone dropping their jaw to the ground, except for Aunty Didi, who kept her jaw in a glass bowl in the bathroom. ‘Those are Aunty Didi’s dentures,’ her mother had told her, ‘fake teeth. Aren’t they disgusting? I should throw them out one day when no one’s looking.’
Saroj raised his voice slightly, a diplomat in a sitting room renegotiating the truth. The red-pen voice. ‘No, that’s not true. Didi knew I was coming back to Calcutta and that my family was coming with me. I wasn’t going to send a telegram to every member of my family now, was I? Half of them live together in the same house.’
Together in the same house that we live in now, Rani thought. She liked having her uncles and aunties around, enjoyed their company and idiosyncrasies. Aunty Didi, who brought books from her school for Robin and Rani to read; Uncle Buro, who gave the children sweets and suffocated them with his enveloping hugs, their heads lodging between his stomach rolls; And Uncle Nanto, who often played with the children and kept Winnie company when Saroj was at work. Her favourite, however, was Aunty Mejsdi, who would lie on her back, put her feet over her head and do a somersault. All the time. The other adults paid Mejsdi no attention, but Rani and her siblings found it fascinating, particularly when Mejsdi’s sari opened up mid-somersault, exposing her private bits for all to see. Winnie had told the children that Mejsdi was the only one of their Father’s siblings who didn’t have a university education, and Rani wondered whether this was why Mejsdi did somersaults and no one else did. But Rani knew her mother didn’t have a university education (her Daddy had told her. Twice.) and she didn’t do somersaults either.
‘You only told Didi that you had a family when we got kicked off the boat at Bombay,’ Winnie said, raising her voice back at Saroj. ‘One would think that you were embarrassed, rather than proud, of having a British wife.’
Saroj got up from the settee and looked down at Winnie. Rani shifted uncomfortably in her lap. ‘I wasn’t embarrassed of having a British wife then,’ he said, before turning his back on them and walking out of the room. He walked down the hall, into their bedroom and closed the door. Closing the door on Rani’s story.
Rani looked up at her mother and saw colourful red dots spread across Winnie’s face and throat. Colours that she wished her mother would keep for her story.
Winnie maneuvered Rani off her lap and placed her on the floor. ‘I’m sorry, Rani,’
Rani watched her mother get up and follow Saroj down the hall, opening and slamming the bedroom door behind her. Closing the door on Rani’s story, too.
And the door remained closed for some time.
The children saw their parents less but heard them more and more. At first, they pressed their ears against walls and floors, strained their necks forward to hear the tense exchange of whispers. Saroj telling Winnie that her conduct was improper for a wife, that she was too proud of her colour (or lack thereof), too selfish to be a good mother. Winnie telling Saroj that he was simply cruel. Unkind. Cold.
Soon the children didn’t have to strain.
‘Stop controlling my life, Saroj,’ Winnie would scream. ‘You’re a bastard!’
‘Stop behaving like a British floozy,’ Saroj would yell back, ‘you’re in India. Have some self-respect.’
But their mother remained British. White, like a ghost, she would disappear to spend her time with other British expats. White and plain like flour, she raised her children less and less, leaving this role to the servants, and to Aunty Didi.
Their father, in contrast, was blacker than ever, his moods matching the colour of his skin; black as the new scuff marks that began to appear on his normally spotless dhoti when he returned from a day at work.
‘From beating up all the British soldiers who look at your mother the wrong way,’ Aunty Mejsdi, with her head between her legs, giggled to Rani one day before Aunty Didi told her to mind her own business. Although, with her head so close to her bottom, that seemed to be exactly what Aunty Mejsdi was doing.
Rani missed hearing stories about how she was born. Aunty Didi tried her best but in her headmistress tone, her stories sounded too factual, too true. There were no genies, no fish, no mermaids. ‘Do you know that the ship you were born on was called the SS Narkunda? And that the Captain of the SS Narkunda, Captain Frederick Sudell, is your godfather?’ Rani nodded, her glum face watching Aunty Didi’s dentures chomp the air around her mouth. ‘He christened you while you were onboard: Rani Narkunda Das. And so you are, by definition, Queen of the ship.’
Rani shook her head. ‘But Daddy said that the Captain kicked us off the ship after I was born. How could he kick a Queen off a ship?’
‘Because you were a very little baby, he was afraid that you might fall ill while at sea. He was worried that they might not have the facilities on board the ship to take care of you. And because you were his goddaughter, and also a Queen, he didn’t want that to happen.’
Rani watched Didi’s white dentures smile at her and decided that her mother was right – they were disgusting. She didn’t want them to tell her another story. And so she never asked her Aunt Didi to tell her a story about when she was born again.
Another time, a much later time, a time when Rani was many days taller, she attempted to ask her mother about her birth once more.
Rani, along with Robin and Aileen, had returned from school to find their father quietly beating Uncle Nanto outside the front of their house. Mouths gaping, they found a space amongst the crowd of servants and beggars to sit and watch the fight. The beggars asked them if they wanted to bet their pocket money, or their watches, on who would win. ‘And what would you give us if we won the bet, eh, Uncle? Robin said to them, in big brother mode. ‘Your rags, your empty tins? You have nothing; you’re not worth our spit.’ And he and his sisters laughed and spat on their hands, extending them out for the beggars to shake. As the beggars muttered obscenities and moved away from the rude children, Saroj caught sight of them. ‘Rabindra, Rani, Aileen Das, go inside at once,’ he yelled between punches. ‘Don’t listen to anything those dirty beggars say.’ Their Uncle Nanto, also between punches, agreed.
Robin and Aileen stayed fixed to their place on the ground but Rani decided to go and look for her mother, to tell Winnie that Daddy was beating Uncle Nanto, making him redder than black and blue.
Her mother was crying in the bedroom; Aunty Didi was by her side, holding a rag to her face. ‘Rani, not now,’ Aunty Didi said, trying to shush her away.
‘No,’ said Winnie, ‘let her stay. She deserves to see what her Daddy is like, how horrible he can be.’
At the mention of her Daddy, Rani piped up. ‘Daddy is fighting with Uncle Nanto outside.’
‘Good’ said Winnie, between sniffles. ‘I hope he pummels him.’
‘Winnie!’ reproached Aunty Didi, looking at Rani as if to say ‘don’t listen to her’.
‘I don’t care. Nanto doesn’t love me; he was supposed to save me, rescue me from Saroj.’
Rani watched as Aunty Didi peeled away the wet rag she was holding to Winnie’s face and dipped it in a bowl of water sitting on the chest of drawers nearby. On her mother’s left cheek was a huge bubble with a fiery perimeter, like someone had drawn around the bubble with a bright red felt pen.
‘What happened to your face, Mummy?’
‘Mind your own business, Rani,’ said Aunty Didi as she squeezed water out of the rag and reapplied it to Winnie’s cheek.
Winnie ignored Didi’s remark. ‘Your father decided to make your mother ugly by throwing boiling oil on her face. So no one else will ever find her attractive.’ As if by speaking in third person, Winnie could distance herself from the truth, pretend that she was merely an onlooker providing commentary on the soap opera saga, on the red bubble pulsating on Winnie’s face.
‘But why would Daddy do that?’
Aunty Didi clenched her dentures. ‘Because your Daddy found your mother and Uncle Nanto doing something that they shouldn’t have been doing.’ She suddenly clapped her hands, the way a headmistress does to indicate the end of a discussion.
‘I think that’s enough for now’ she said, gently pushing Rani out the bedroom door. ‘Leave your mother to rest.’ As she closed the door, Aunty Didi flashed her dentures at Rani, a sad smile to say she was sorry. And it gave Rani an idea.
The next morning Rani rose very early before anyone else in the house had woken. She went to the bathroom first, and then she went and knocked on her Mummy’s bedroom door. ‘Mummy, I have something I have to tell you.’ She walked up to the bed and tapped Winnie lightly on the shoulder. ‘I did something for you.’
‘What, Rani, what is it?’ Winnie asked, a fog (or maybe a frog) of sleep croaking her voice. Aunty Didi had bandaged the rag to Winnie’s cheek overnight, and tears of blood and pus had soaked through it.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone though, Mummy,’ Rani said, sudden panic rising in her voice. ‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone.’
Winnie sat up in bed and focused her eyes on Rani, while lightly poking the rag on her cheek. ‘Okay, Rani, I promise. Now tell me.’
‘I took Aunty Didi’s teeth,’ Rani said, a slow, unsure smile tiptoeing across her face, ‘and I flushed them down the toilet.’
‘What?’ Disbelief followed by dismay covered Winnie’s pale face, or at least the bits of her face that weren’t already obscured by the rag. ‘Oh, Rani. No, no.’
‘You mustn’t tell Mummy, you mustn’t tell!’
‘Shhhh. Calm down, Rani, I won’t tell anyone. But why on earth did you flush Aunty Didi’s teeth down the toilet?’
‘Because I wanted to make you happy, Mummy. And I wanted you to tell me a story again.’ But Rani already knew that she wasn’t going to get a story, and that Winnie wasn’t happy. She might as well have flushed everyone’s teeth down the toilet that morning because no one was going to smile in the Elgin Road household for a very long time.
Another time, a much later time, when Rani was many years older, Winnie attempted to tell her a story about her birth once more.
Winnie had long since left their father, and India, to return to England. Before she left, Winnie had kidnapped Robin one day after school on her bicycle (although, in fairness, Robin enjoyed and was very helpful in, the role of abductee) and he had moved to London with her. While Winnie had asked both her daughters to move to London as well, Rani refused to leave her father all alone. Aileen, ever the loyal younger sister, refused to leave Rani behind. And so they stayed.
Rani never asked to be told a story about her birth again. But one day, Aunty Didi, by way of an old newspaper clipping, did tell her one more. The story was about how the ship on which she was born, the SS Narkunda, had been requisitioned as a troop ship in the Second World War. The ship was bombed and sunk by the Germans in 1942, and 31 Allied troops had lost their lives.
It was a fitting story, Rani thought. That ship had more than sailed, it had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The stories about her birth could never be told the same way, anyway – with the extravagance of her mother, pared back by the modesty and control exercised by her father. They were no longer a team, an overenthusiastic storyteller and a ruthless editor, each a necessary evil for the other. Rani had to make up her own stories.
So when her mother penned a letter from England that began with the line, ‘once upon a boat, there was a little baby bump,’ Rani found a black marker pen and scribbled out all the words to the story. Once they were blacked out, she resumed reading the letter, delighting in her mother’s news. When she finished, she folded the letter, put it safely away and forgot about it, much like she forgot about the SS Narkunda, and forgot about Aunty Didi’s old teeth.
Lying somewhere at the bottom of the sea, a forgotten smile and a rusted-out ship, half truths and severed tales pinned to its mast.
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