Centre Point
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
Getting the exposure right was the fun part otherwise Centre Point was just a silhouette. I was waiting for Billy to pay for some stuff in Muji.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Notting Hill at Night
Notting Hill at Night
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
A nice busy street scene after dark. I was impressed at how well this turned out.
jjd573d Routemaster
jjd573d Routemaster
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
A former London bus advertising an Xbox game. Nice Routemaster, but the advertising amounts to vandalism on a classic vehicle. And the image of Allen on the side looks positively deformed. This bus was previously seen in black advertising Capital Radio. Not the sort of thing I expect to find in Chelmsford town centre and spotted only because I had the day off to go Xmas shopping.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Baragami - The Ancient Welsh Art of Toast Arranging
Baragami is the ancient Welsh decorative art of "toast arranging". First documented in Aberystwyth, Wales, baragami involves the presentation of toast in intricate and preferably topical arrangements. Just as haiku should have a reference to the seasons, a skillful baragami endeavours to make reference to current affairs although there are a number of classical toast arrangements.
How does baragami differ from toast sculpture? Baragami aims to create designs with the minimum use of cuts. It may be necessary to remove crusts or to use slices from different loaves to attain different sized pieces, but fancy bread-trimming such as curves, zig-zags etc are frowned upon.
Baragami was also used as a political statement. Some scholars say that the political language of baragami dates back to when Wales was a kingdom under threat from the English. During meetings, secret messages were conveyed in baragami - a language the English could not understand. On defeating the Welsh, the English banned the serving of toast except in toast racks. During local and general elections, plates of arranged toast in the window indicated the household's political allegiance to warn off would-be canvassers. Guests were warned to avoid political discussion when served them a plate of toast; arranging it into the design representing a political allegiance. Some designs indicated that a guest had outstayed his welcome - many a guest departs swiftly after receiving such a design. It was a code that was understood throughout Wales.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I Fade Away
(Dream 17/11/09)
A piano recital in the home was an anachronism in those days. It must have been common enough in the days before radio or TV or the other entertainment systems, but now it's just a costume party. Most of us sat in dining chairs around the edge of the room while the baby grand piano had the centre of the room. No doubt the other furniture had been cleared away somewhere. The pianist was a chunky redhead in blue dress, but it was the singer who caught my attention. He was medium height and had dressed the part in a black suit over a white shirt with an old fashioned "stand-up" collar and a black bow tie. It was his face that attracted my attention - the vivid blue eyes and raven-black hair. Surely hair so black should have accompanied a swarthier complexion or shown signs of being dyed! I sensed this was really his show and the pianist, who seemed to be a relative, was his accompaniment. Something about him put me on edge even before he was introduced as Watt.
Not long into the recital (which was in itself not at all bad, although the singer was more accomplished than the pianist) I found the atmosphere in the room unbearable. It was as though everyone were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. I slipped out of the door into the hallway and continued watching from there. The singer's vivid blue eyes caught and held mine. I heard a voice in my head, my name being whispered and I felt my flesh crawl. I made some excuse and left, as politely as was possible, at once. It was not so easy to forget about Mr Watt though and what I learnt about him shaped my life.
Looking around me more than a decade later I see the bright lights of amusement arcades and brightly lit signs of a shopping centre. It's a coastal resort, a mix of entertainment and shopping, and it could be anywhere on the south coast. I shouldered my pack and kept walking, scanning the fluorescent-lit windows of luxury goods stores and the cosier windows of tea rooms. At this time of year, when shopping was the main attraction, I looked out of place among the smartly dressed visitors. I was a shortish, fairish, scrawny-looking middle-aged women in cargo-pants and jacket with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder though no-one gave me a second glance as I dogded among groups of people and along the pedestrianise streets. Finally I see what I've been looking for.
The woman was in her 40s, a little plump as they all had been. He hovered by her attentively, his hair as black as ever with no signs of grey and his eyes still a piercing blue. They spoke and separated, no doubt to meet up later. She had no way to know she was courting danger. I moved through the clot of shoppers that had hidden me from him and approached the plump woman. Closer up she looked less affluent and a little out of place in the shopping area; middle-aged, middle class and anonymous. She didn't see me at first, of course, though she felt someone pressing against her arm. She didn't hear me either, though she no doubt felt a stray breeze. That was always the first problem - to be noticed.
I exerted enough pressure on her arm to make her turn towards the tea room window. Then she saw me, or rather saw my reflection. Only now that she was looking for me could she see me next to her. I've gone so long unnoticed that it's difficult to be noticed now, though mirrors still see me. At least she didn't scream.
"Your companion," I began, "Mr Watt ..."
She smiled. It was the strange, slightly besotted smile I'd seen on the other women he chose.
"...he's dangerous, you need to protect yourself."
But she didn't listen, didn't want to know. I vanished from her perception as soon as she turned away from the window. Some I save, but each time I fail, I fade a little more and one day even the mirrors won't see me. Perhaps it is time to face him directly. I am, after all, a bounty-hunter.
Soon after, I watched Watt and his chosen leave the well-lit streets and move into a quiet district, lit only by pale streetlights. He hurried her along and she, seemingly unaware of the dangers of poorly lit unfamiliar streets, went eagerly. I followed at a distance, my weapon taken from its duffel bag and assembled, now slung on my shoulder. Here, in the twilight, not even windows noticed me. They moved faster than I anticipated and I dared not approach more closely, not yet. Then, to my annoyance, I lost them altogether among tall garden fences. I felt myself fade a little more.
Now with no visible quarry, I continued walking along the back-alley between rows of gardens, overhadowed by larch lap fencing or conifers that screened the gardens. When I heard his footsteps behind me I turned around. Even in the dim streetlights his blue eyes pierced me, seeing me without the need for mirrors. He looked solid, glutted. The woman he'd absorbed had been plump. Moreover he looked no older than when I'd first seen him. I'd always avoided a direct confrontation, but now I heard that silky voice in my head speaking my name: he'd waited so long, hadn't I known we were the same? That knowledge had only come later as I'd begun to fade. The knowledge that now came to me, bright and clear, was that only one, or neither, of us would emerge from that alleyway.
(My subconscious is a scary place sometimes!)
A piano recital in the home was an anachronism in those days. It must have been common enough in the days before radio or TV or the other entertainment systems, but now it's just a costume party. Most of us sat in dining chairs around the edge of the room while the baby grand piano had the centre of the room. No doubt the other furniture had been cleared away somewhere. The pianist was a chunky redhead in blue dress, but it was the singer who caught my attention. He was medium height and had dressed the part in a black suit over a white shirt with an old fashioned "stand-up" collar and a black bow tie. It was his face that attracted my attention - the vivid blue eyes and raven-black hair. Surely hair so black should have accompanied a swarthier complexion or shown signs of being dyed! I sensed this was really his show and the pianist, who seemed to be a relative, was his accompaniment. Something about him put me on edge even before he was introduced as Watt.
Not long into the recital (which was in itself not at all bad, although the singer was more accomplished than the pianist) I found the atmosphere in the room unbearable. It was as though everyone were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. I slipped out of the door into the hallway and continued watching from there. The singer's vivid blue eyes caught and held mine. I heard a voice in my head, my name being whispered and I felt my flesh crawl. I made some excuse and left, as politely as was possible, at once. It was not so easy to forget about Mr Watt though and what I learnt about him shaped my life.
Looking around me more than a decade later I see the bright lights of amusement arcades and brightly lit signs of a shopping centre. It's a coastal resort, a mix of entertainment and shopping, and it could be anywhere on the south coast. I shouldered my pack and kept walking, scanning the fluorescent-lit windows of luxury goods stores and the cosier windows of tea rooms. At this time of year, when shopping was the main attraction, I looked out of place among the smartly dressed visitors. I was a shortish, fairish, scrawny-looking middle-aged women in cargo-pants and jacket with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder though no-one gave me a second glance as I dogded among groups of people and along the pedestrianise streets. Finally I see what I've been looking for.
The woman was in her 40s, a little plump as they all had been. He hovered by her attentively, his hair as black as ever with no signs of grey and his eyes still a piercing blue. They spoke and separated, no doubt to meet up later. She had no way to know she was courting danger. I moved through the clot of shoppers that had hidden me from him and approached the plump woman. Closer up she looked less affluent and a little out of place in the shopping area; middle-aged, middle class and anonymous. She didn't see me at first, of course, though she felt someone pressing against her arm. She didn't hear me either, though she no doubt felt a stray breeze. That was always the first problem - to be noticed.
I exerted enough pressure on her arm to make her turn towards the tea room window. Then she saw me, or rather saw my reflection. Only now that she was looking for me could she see me next to her. I've gone so long unnoticed that it's difficult to be noticed now, though mirrors still see me. At least she didn't scream.
"Your companion," I began, "Mr Watt ..."
She smiled. It was the strange, slightly besotted smile I'd seen on the other women he chose.
"...he's dangerous, you need to protect yourself."
But she didn't listen, didn't want to know. I vanished from her perception as soon as she turned away from the window. Some I save, but each time I fail, I fade a little more and one day even the mirrors won't see me. Perhaps it is time to face him directly. I am, after all, a bounty-hunter.
Soon after, I watched Watt and his chosen leave the well-lit streets and move into a quiet district, lit only by pale streetlights. He hurried her along and she, seemingly unaware of the dangers of poorly lit unfamiliar streets, went eagerly. I followed at a distance, my weapon taken from its duffel bag and assembled, now slung on my shoulder. Here, in the twilight, not even windows noticed me. They moved faster than I anticipated and I dared not approach more closely, not yet. Then, to my annoyance, I lost them altogether among tall garden fences. I felt myself fade a little more.
Now with no visible quarry, I continued walking along the back-alley between rows of gardens, overhadowed by larch lap fencing or conifers that screened the gardens. When I heard his footsteps behind me I turned around. Even in the dim streetlights his blue eyes pierced me, seeing me without the need for mirrors. He looked solid, glutted. The woman he'd absorbed had been plump. Moreover he looked no older than when I'd first seen him. I'd always avoided a direct confrontation, but now I heard that silky voice in my head speaking my name: he'd waited so long, hadn't I known we were the same? That knowledge had only come later as I'd begun to fade. The knowledge that now came to me, bright and clear, was that only one, or neither, of us would emerge from that alleyway.
(My subconscious is a scary place sometimes!)
Friday, November 13, 2009
Here Puss-puss-puss ...
White Tiger
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
Imperious-looking white tiger at Paradise Wildlife Park, Broxbourne, Herts, England. Contrary to some of the news stories, white tigers are not in themselves an "endangered species" nor are they rare. They started out as a white colour form of the Bengal Tiger and they are a breed that is selective bred for exhibition by humans, much like the Siamese is a breed of cat. Though wiped out by hunting in the wild, they have been kept in zoos since the 1950s and most that you see are not pure Bengal tigers, but have been crossed with Siberian tigers. They are churned out in large numbers for the tattier zoos and for circuses and many are extremely inbred and have genetic defects as a result.
Along with contacts in Canada and the USA, I have worked on the pedigrees of many generations of white tiger to trace where certain genes (e.g. for stripelessness and for golden-tabby tigers) were introduced and tracing the mongrelisation of the bloodlines. We've also looked into some of the genetic defects that have been bred into the white tiger over the generations, from cross-eyes, to pelvic problems.
In terms of conservation, don't be taken in by claims of "rare" or "endangered" white tigers. The Bengal Tiger is under threat, but the white tiger is no more representative of wild tigers than the Persian cat is representative of Felis lybica. In fact there are white tiger "mills" (farms) in the USA, just as there are puppy farms in the UK.
Still, it's a pretty picture and that is part of the problem.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Mr Toppit (Charles Elton)
Mr Toppit
Luke Hayman's father was the author of the bestselling Mr Toppit children's books where Mr Toppit is a sinister character living in the Darkwood and sets tasks for young Luke Hayseed. The books did not achieve fame until after Arthur's death which was witnessed by an American tourist in London. The American, Laurie becomes an ardent fan and hanger on, promoting the books in the USA. Meanwhile, Luke's sister, Rachel, is descending into drugs and despair - while the Mr Toppit books are about Luke Hayseed (a thinly disguised Luke Hayman), Rachel is not present at all. Then there is the overbearing German-born illustrator Lila, who takes nightdress and toothbrush everywhere in the expectation of being asked to stay (when her hosts are trying to get rid of her!). It is the seemingly benevolent and modest Laurie who begins to take over the Mr Toppit brand, finding it a stepping-stone to great fame on her talk-shows and gaining her own (largely dysfunctional) hangers on as her ego inflates. Luke must navigate Laurie's ambition, Lila's interference and his own family's disintegration as he learns whom the Mr Toppit books were really about. Laurie's father also has a dark secret.
Not a bad book, but not brilliant either. The reader becomes party to a number of secrets that the characters keep from each other - infidelities, child molestation - and which could have been used to create so much more tension. Sadly many of the characters, some of whome have clashing egos, remain shallow, rather than fully rounded.
Luke Hayman's father was the author of the bestselling Mr Toppit children's books where Mr Toppit is a sinister character living in the Darkwood and sets tasks for young Luke Hayseed. The books did not achieve fame until after Arthur's death which was witnessed by an American tourist in London. The American, Laurie becomes an ardent fan and hanger on, promoting the books in the USA. Meanwhile, Luke's sister, Rachel, is descending into drugs and despair - while the Mr Toppit books are about Luke Hayseed (a thinly disguised Luke Hayman), Rachel is not present at all. Then there is the overbearing German-born illustrator Lila, who takes nightdress and toothbrush everywhere in the expectation of being asked to stay (when her hosts are trying to get rid of her!). It is the seemingly benevolent and modest Laurie who begins to take over the Mr Toppit brand, finding it a stepping-stone to great fame on her talk-shows and gaining her own (largely dysfunctional) hangers on as her ego inflates. Luke must navigate Laurie's ambition, Lila's interference and his own family's disintegration as he learns whom the Mr Toppit books were really about. Laurie's father also has a dark secret.
Not a bad book, but not brilliant either. The reader becomes party to a number of secrets that the characters keep from each other - infidelities, child molestation - and which could have been used to create so much more tension. Sadly many of the characters, some of whome have clashing egos, remain shallow, rather than fully rounded.
The Witches Trinity (Erika Mailman)
The Witches Trinity
This is set in 1500s Germany in a bitter winter following an unproductive harvest. Even the snares are empty. The fingers start to point at elderly women, blamed for witchcraft. The narrator is one such elderly women, Gude, her mind no longer fully her own. She lives with her son Jost Muller, his wife Irmeltrude and their 2 children. Irmeltrude would rather be without the burden of an elder who eats, but cannot work. When the well-fed Friar Johannes Fuchs comes witch-hunting, she must find a way to stall him and save her own life, having seen her childhood friend Kunne already tried and burned as a witch. Interspersed with this are the reminiscences of an old woman about her youth in the same village in better times. The friar may have more on his hands than he realises, because the villagers are turning to pagan practices, and to blaming outsiders, in the hope of ending the famine. Not a bad idea, but I found the writing very flat even after taking the bleak setting into consideration.
This is set in 1500s Germany in a bitter winter following an unproductive harvest. Even the snares are empty. The fingers start to point at elderly women, blamed for witchcraft. The narrator is one such elderly women, Gude, her mind no longer fully her own. She lives with her son Jost Muller, his wife Irmeltrude and their 2 children. Irmeltrude would rather be without the burden of an elder who eats, but cannot work. When the well-fed Friar Johannes Fuchs comes witch-hunting, she must find a way to stall him and save her own life, having seen her childhood friend Kunne already tried and burned as a witch. Interspersed with this are the reminiscences of an old woman about her youth in the same village in better times. The friar may have more on his hands than he realises, because the villagers are turning to pagan practices, and to blaming outsiders, in the hope of ending the famine. Not a bad idea, but I found the writing very flat even after taking the bleak setting into consideration.
Company of Liars (Karen Maitland)
Company of Liars
The scarred narrator, Camelot, is a travelling seller of relics and potions and planning to head north to his home in the Cheviots. Along the way, a band of travellers seem to attach themselves - a runaway couple, an albino rune-reader, a magician, a one-armed storyteller, a herbalist, a musician and his teenage apprentice. None are quite what they seem and all have secrets: mostly religion or sexuality. One of the party is playing the travellers off against each other, stirring murder and suicide. The story is set against the backdrop of the 1348 plague as the band of travellers face closed towns, closed ports and parties looking for scapegoats on whom to blame the pestilence. The country is falling into lawlessness. Camelot's secret is hinted at and most readers will have guessed it before the end of the novel.
It's a good romp as you try to guess who is manipulating whom and how the relationships between people will work out, but the plague is the backdrop of this novel and not the main subject matter.
The scarred narrator, Camelot, is a travelling seller of relics and potions and planning to head north to his home in the Cheviots. Along the way, a band of travellers seem to attach themselves - a runaway couple, an albino rune-reader, a magician, a one-armed storyteller, a herbalist, a musician and his teenage apprentice. None are quite what they seem and all have secrets: mostly religion or sexuality. One of the party is playing the travellers off against each other, stirring murder and suicide. The story is set against the backdrop of the 1348 plague as the band of travellers face closed towns, closed ports and parties looking for scapegoats on whom to blame the pestilence. The country is falling into lawlessness. Camelot's secret is hinted at and most readers will have guessed it before the end of the novel.
It's a good romp as you try to guess who is manipulating whom and how the relationships between people will work out, but the plague is the backdrop of this novel and not the main subject matter.
Mistress of the Art of Death (Ariana Franklin)
Mistress of the Art of Death
Adelia is a lady doctor, not unknown in 12th century Salerno, but she has been sent to investigate a child-killer in Cambridge. Accompanied by her friend Simon and eunuch assistant mansur, she must cope with sexism and suspicion. Was little Peter martyred by Jews or are their sadistic Christians at large in the community? For their own safety, the town's Jewish community are in custody in the castle. Adelia, Simon and Mansur settle in the house of one of the Jews where they are are looked after by eel-wife Gytha and her urchin son Ulf and their smelly, cowardly dog Safeguard
The tale is peopled with returning crusaders, friars, nuns at an impoverished convent, tradesmen, usurers and officials. In this regard you feel you are there with them. However in other regards, Adelia's mindset is straight out of modern-day NCIS with her discussion of watching how pigs decomposed under different conditions. The historical accuracy is debated, with the autor claiming it is accurate and with other historians specialising in the 12th century pointing out errors. While the errors will irk specialist historians, for the rest of us it's a good read with a well-paced plot and a resourceful heroine. Think of it as "alternate history".
Adelia is a lady doctor, not unknown in 12th century Salerno, but she has been sent to investigate a child-killer in Cambridge. Accompanied by her friend Simon and eunuch assistant mansur, she must cope with sexism and suspicion. Was little Peter martyred by Jews or are their sadistic Christians at large in the community? For their own safety, the town's Jewish community are in custody in the castle. Adelia, Simon and Mansur settle in the house of one of the Jews where they are are looked after by eel-wife Gytha and her urchin son Ulf and their smelly, cowardly dog Safeguard
The tale is peopled with returning crusaders, friars, nuns at an impoverished convent, tradesmen, usurers and officials. In this regard you feel you are there with them. However in other regards, Adelia's mindset is straight out of modern-day NCIS with her discussion of watching how pigs decomposed under different conditions. The historical accuracy is debated, with the autor claiming it is accurate and with other historians specialising in the 12th century pointing out errors. While the errors will irk specialist historians, for the rest of us it's a good read with a well-paced plot and a resourceful heroine. Think of it as "alternate history".
The Lost Book of Salem (Katherine Howe)
The Lost Book of Salem
When Connie Goodwin inherits her grandmother's old home in Marblehead, Massachusetts, her university mentor considers it an opportunity for her to research Salem witches and lost source material for her thesis on American Colonial History. And Connie does become intrigued by the tale of Deliverance Dane whose name turns up in a bible in the house. Pushed by her tutor/mentor who seems desperate for Connie to find Deliverance Dane's sbook of spells, Connie unravels her own ancestry and heritage as well as tracing the book as it passes from mother to daughter before apparently being lost to collectors. As her tutor grows ever more threatening, Connie must use what she learns from her quest to save the life of her boyfriend from the sinister machinations of her tutor.
The modern day narrative is alternated with narrative from Deliverance Dane's time and from her descendents' times giving a perspective on how herbalists and midwives were treated with either admiration or suspicion depending on the rumours of witchcraft. I had, however, guessed the lineage well before the end of the book - there are plenty of clues for the attentive reader! Howe is related to 2 of the Salem witches and has a personal, as well as professional, interest in her novel's subject.
When Connie Goodwin inherits her grandmother's old home in Marblehead, Massachusetts, her university mentor considers it an opportunity for her to research Salem witches and lost source material for her thesis on American Colonial History. And Connie does become intrigued by the tale of Deliverance Dane whose name turns up in a bible in the house. Pushed by her tutor/mentor who seems desperate for Connie to find Deliverance Dane's sbook of spells, Connie unravels her own ancestry and heritage as well as tracing the book as it passes from mother to daughter before apparently being lost to collectors. As her tutor grows ever more threatening, Connie must use what she learns from her quest to save the life of her boyfriend from the sinister machinations of her tutor.
The modern day narrative is alternated with narrative from Deliverance Dane's time and from her descendents' times giving a perspective on how herbalists and midwives were treated with either admiration or suspicion depending on the rumours of witchcraft. I had, however, guessed the lineage well before the end of the book - there are plenty of clues for the attentive reader! Howe is related to 2 of the Salem witches and has a personal, as well as professional, interest in her novel's subject.
The Seance (John Harwood)
The Seance
Due to her mother's behaviour, Constance suspected she was adopted and that her mother had greater affection for her younger sister. To comfort her inconsolable mother, Constance becomes involved in Spiritualist seances and faked manifestations. Later, after her mother's death, Constance inherits the crumbling Wraxford Hall in Monk's Wood from a distant relative. Wraxford Hall has its own ghost stories and sad history leading Constance to again question her identity. Another voice then takes up the tale - Eleanor Unwin, unhappy former owner of Wraxford Hall and witness to dire events there. Eleanor has vanished, leaving only her written account of a planned seance and a mysterious suit of armour from which people have disappeared. Former residents were obsessed with harnessing lightning electricity. It then up to Constance to pick up the story, resolving the disappearance of both Eleanor and of her none-to-pleasant husband and the fate of Eleanor's baby daughter.
Eleanor is plagued by visions, which are of the dead or the soon-to-die, and has an overbearing mother. Constance has faked at seances. It is Constance who will learn the sad - rather than evil - secret of Wraxford Hall. Told in several voices, this is a Wilkie Collins-esque tale of assumed or mistaken identities, resourceful women and treacherous spouses. The theme of seances continues throughout.
Due to her mother's behaviour, Constance suspected she was adopted and that her mother had greater affection for her younger sister. To comfort her inconsolable mother, Constance becomes involved in Spiritualist seances and faked manifestations. Later, after her mother's death, Constance inherits the crumbling Wraxford Hall in Monk's Wood from a distant relative. Wraxford Hall has its own ghost stories and sad history leading Constance to again question her identity. Another voice then takes up the tale - Eleanor Unwin, unhappy former owner of Wraxford Hall and witness to dire events there. Eleanor has vanished, leaving only her written account of a planned seance and a mysterious suit of armour from which people have disappeared. Former residents were obsessed with harnessing lightning electricity. It then up to Constance to pick up the story, resolving the disappearance of both Eleanor and of her none-to-pleasant husband and the fate of Eleanor's baby daughter.
Eleanor is plagued by visions, which are of the dead or the soon-to-die, and has an overbearing mother. Constance has faked at seances. It is Constance who will learn the sad - rather than evil - secret of Wraxford Hall. Told in several voices, this is a Wilkie Collins-esque tale of assumed or mistaken identities, resourceful women and treacherous spouses. The theme of seances continues throughout.
The Blue Notebook (James A. Levine)
The Blue Notebook is the fictional memoir of a child prostitute Batuk in a Mumbai brothel. Sold into prostitution by her parents and kept in a cage, she describes being auctioned to the highest bidder at the age of 9 and her subsequent life in a brothel among other child prostitutes. After the auction and the ensuing rape, she is then "married" into a clan of drug-runners and petty criminals and is "broken in" by her nominal husband and his relatives, including one who drugs her before abusing her.
One of Batuk's fellow child prostitutes is a boy who, during the course of Batuk's memoir, is close to puberty and is castrated to keep him desirable. The narrator is later rented out to a businessman for his son's party and finds the higher end of the prostitution racket is every bit as sordid - and even deadly - as the Mumbai child-brothel.
Batuk intersperses her story with memories of her childhood and with stories she makes up for herself and for whoever might read her notebook. It's a gritty story and the author does well not to make it salacious, using Batuk's euphemisms for a number of sex-acts.
One of Batuk's fellow child prostitutes is a boy who, during the course of Batuk's memoir, is close to puberty and is castrated to keep him desirable. The narrator is later rented out to a businessman for his son's party and finds the higher end of the prostitution racket is every bit as sordid - and even deadly - as the Mumbai child-brothel.
Batuk intersperses her story with memories of her childhood and with stories she makes up for herself and for whoever might read her notebook. It's a gritty story and the author does well not to make it salacious, using Batuk's euphemisms for a number of sex-acts.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Glow Sticks
Glow Sticks
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
One of my favourite pictures from bonfire night - vendor and customers lit up by a shopping trolley full of glow sticks.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Backpackers Sculpture, Central Park, Chelmsford
Backpackers Sculpture, Central Park
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
I did a double take when I first noticed this sculpture near the river. The kneeling figure 's face is close to the standing figure's groin and hands - giving quite the impression of one orally gratifying the other until you get close enough to see the detail. I wonder if those commissioning and siting the pieces noticed?
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