Hero of the week

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My hero of the week is 7-year old Yamato Tanooka who survived for 6 days on his own in a bear-infested forest after his parents left him by the roadside to teach him not to throw rocks at people and cars. I was initially struck by how insane the whole premise was until I saw a photo of the boy this morning. The irrepressible smile, the sparking eyes and the peace sign- I think Yamato will be just fine, at least I hope so.

I don’t know what crime a child could possibly commit where the just punishment would be abandoning him next to a forest. The mind boggles; people truly amaze me. An adult who is left devastated because their partner/husband/whatever seems to be losing interest in them will then go on to treat a small child in the most appalling manner and expect that child to cope with it and recover. But then, that is the modus operandum of the sadist everywhere– I will shut you in this closet, stab you with this knife, beat you with this belt, burn you with this iron, because you did not do your homework/ make your bed/ finish your vegetables etc etc. This is for your own good, it’s going to hurt me more than it hurts you, ad nauseaum. There is never any correlation between the magnitude of the punishment and the severity of the offence- they just get off on causing pain and sorrow.

It is possible that his parents do love him and just made a massive mistake. I don’t know them, I can’t judge. For all those who are living with stone-cold sadists and psychos, make an exit strategy and get away from them as soon as you can. They don’t change, that streak of evil runs through them like writing through a stick of rock. On a lighter but not dissimilar note, another story which caught my eye is about the Jawbone-style bracelet you can now buy which is linked to your bank account. Every time you become overdrawn, it gives you an electric shock. Presumably, it will be like a chastity belt you cannot remove or else how would you be compelled to keep it on? The kicker? It costs £120. If you weren’t overdrawn before……. Some people use their brains to discover immunotherapy, some use it to make a product worthy of the concentration camp. O brave new world, that has such people in it, to completely misapply a quote. Wishing you all a wonderful, love-filled weekend.

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Oh give me a home

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Back in London after working away from home for a couple of weeks. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be back in London. My return trip was a nightmarish cap on the whole enterprise. The zip on my suitcase broke an hour before I was due to check in, at 8.30 am on a Sunday in Guernsey. No, Guernsey does not operate as a 24/7 destination. Much panic and wielding of pliers and screwdrivers and tape ensued (thanks Viesturs, God bless you) and I made it to the airport.

‘The flight to Gatwick has been delayed by eight hours. No, it’s not cancelled (!), just delayed, so we won’t be offering compensation. We can fly you to Stansted but you will have to arrange and pay for your own way to London, seeing as the flight is only delayed not cancelled. Oh, your luggage is 1.9 kilos overweight so I will have to charge you £24, or you will have to remove something from it. Yes, I can see the zip is broken and that you have taped around the suitcase so you may be unable to close it if you reopen it. Yes, I can also see that you have no hand luggage but that is irrelevant, as is the fact that we have just delayed your flight by 8 hours. You owe us £24′

Not a single word of apology for the delay. Just in the nick of time, I remembered that I had been joking with one of my colleagues Clarisse that my sole aim was to get through the week without punching anyone in the face, what with the Christianity malarkey and all. Phew! Mind you, technically, Sunday is the start of another week………. 🙂

I was reading the paper on the 2-hour coach trip to Victoria, and it was full of accounts of horrible things, as usual. Having witnessed some prime examples of treacherous villainy and utterly despicable behaviour recently, I started thinking about how difficult it can be to remember that a billion and one random acts of kindness occur all over this planet every single day. It is impossible to completely avoid the more psychopathic elements masquerading as human beings amongst us (as the late, great Fela dubbed them- animals in human cloth), but my advice is, once you’ve identified them, minimize your contact as much as possible. Abhor evil, cleave to the good, as the Good Book says. It is a great world, chock-full of excellent people and many wonders. In this spirit of joie de vivre, I have included pictures of fab hotels to dream of staying in, and some frivolously beautiful things to brighten your bank holiday. May all your journeys be smooth and your week full of grace. And no, I did not open my case or pay the airline £24 because, what the hell!

Having spent quite a bit of my time with crazy Latvians who have been teaching me Russian songs from children’s cartoons (All hail Aiga), I leave you with the poem Ludmilla, by Ernest.W. Thiele. Ciao ciao.

Ludmilla, the Soviet lassie,

Has many a notch in her gun;

She thinks it a trifle to pick up a rifle

And blow out the brains of a Hun.

If cartridges happen to fail her,

She’s equally expert with steel;

She uses a dagger to cut off the swagger

Of ev’ry Hilterian heel.

 

The Finns and Rumanians dread her;                                              

Their leader has only to cry;                                                              

‘Ach, here comes Ludmilla, the demon guerilla.’                                

And back to their bases they fly.                                         

Contrariwise, Russians adore her-                                                       

The gal with the gat in her gown;              

From Omsk to Tiflis the redoubtable miss

Is toasted by country and town.

 

But where is the Muscovite hero                                                          

Would venture Ludmilla to date?                                                         

Her great reputation for swift liquidation                                            

Would make her a perilous mate.                                                              

One man, and one only is worthy;                                                             

I move , Mr Chief Commissar-                

And the motion is carried- that she shall be married                         

To Ivan Skavinky Skavar.

(Photos: Laser-cut interior design panels, Private Residence; Verandah restaurant; La Reserve hotel, Paris;Buchanan hotel, San Francisco; Sculpture by Pascal Haudressy; Matteo Cibic table)

 

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A rose by any other name…..

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It’s one of the funny quirks of compounding fragrances that one begins to allot certain fragrances to people one meets, in the same way that an artist sometimes sees people in hues and shades – a mild form of synaesthesia, I suppose. So, I was queueing up behind a lady at the chemist last week. She handed a prescription to the shop assistant and asked how long it would take to fill. The girl told her that it would take a couple of minutes, at which point she snarled that she could not wait that long. And I thought to myself, “Titan Arum a.k.a The Carrion Flower, in this case, surrounded by thorns”. Presumably she went off to one of those magical pharmacies where they are equipped with crystal balls which enable them to dispense your prescription even before you hand it in. It could also be that she inhabits a different time-space continuum to the rest of us. Every Carrion minute is equivalent to ten Earth minutes. By the way, queueing is the only word in English that has 5 vowels in a row. Thought you’d like to know that….

Anyhoo, this got me thinking about the people I’ve been working closely with lately. There’s Carol who is a menace with her cleaning. I have resorted to ordering a Hazmat suit for when I’m with her so she doesn’t wipe me down with her industrial-strength cleaner. Eau de Industrial Cleaner is not how we roll at AlaraApothecary. Then there’s Bob who has been messing with my head with his impossible trick of rotating your hands towards yourself in opposite directions simultaneously. Thanks Bob – that’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back! Carol is Sandalwood with Orange Blossom, and Bob is Cedarwood with Peppermint.

And the model with her hair on fire? That’s a tribute to Carol after her last bright-orange hairdressing malfunction. I’m laughing with you, not at you, honest! Please take photos next time 🙂 Y’all have a terrific week now.

 

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Happy Days Are Here Again

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The sun is shining, the birds are twittering away, the sap is rising, and the time has come for the design obssesive’s fancy to turn to- yep, you guessed it, the spring design shows. Entire rooms filled with all the shiny, lovely distillations of human ingenuity and imagination. Shallow? Us? You bet! Before you sneer and tell us that you spend all your time thinking of higher things, feast your eyes on these bits of gorgeousness which are due to be shown at the Clerkenwell Design Festival next week, and tell me you’d rather get your furniture from Ikea. Exactly. You can’t do it, can you?I rest my case, M’Lud.

Hope you all have a wonderful week filled with higher thoughts of course, but if you get a chance, go sneak a peek at the new pieces that designers with bleeding thumbs and furrowed foreheads ( non-Botoxed) have been slaving over for the last year. Pip pip.

(Photos: Tap from The Watermark Collection -pure beautifulness, and yes, that is a word,  in its simplicity. A fave rave) ;Petit Friture furniture; Lamps by Zero Lighting; ÖRSJÖ lamps: Fabrics by Anthology)

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Reasons to be cheerful

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To say that living through the last month has been rather effortful is an understatement. However, sometimes you just gotta keep on keeping on. So, here at AlaraApothecary we have decided to make lemonade from the surfeit of lemons. Pah to all would-be disasters- in God we trust.

  The spring is sprung, the grass is riz.  

  I wonder where the boidie is.

  They say the boidie’s on the wing.       

 But that’s absoid. The wing is on the bird.

Excellent reasons to count my blessings this week include-

  • Finally, help seems to be on the way to help the child refugees in Europe. Of course, it would be preferable if the problem did not exist, but this is the world we live in. You do what you can and hope it will not propagate the problem
  • A terrific birthday lunch at The Charlotte Street Hotel on Sunday. HBD Folistix 🙂
  • a Cocktail-fuelled danceathon on Friday. If you’ve never tried a Peach & Raspberry Daiquiri, I strongly suggest that you do so if you get the chance
  • A new Mayor for London. When it comes to politicians, I always feel a sea-change is beneficial once in a while, pour encourager les autres. Complacency and public policy make bad bedfellows
  • My favourite new joke in lieu of Shakespeare’s quadricentennial:                                                                                 Q: why was Shakespeare thrown out of the pub?                          A: Because he was Bard
  • Last but not the least, beautiful, glorious sunshine. Apple blossom, swallows, the smell of freshly-mown grass, Vitamin D, strawberries… Need I go on?

I leave you with a poem by one of my fave raves, Ogden Nash:

 Two Dogs Have I

For years we’ve had a little dog,
Last year we acquired a big dog;
He wasn’t big when we got him,
He was littler than the dog we had.
We thought our little dog would love him,
Would help him to become a trig dog,
But the new little dog got bigger,
And the old little dog got mad.

Now the big dog loves the little dog,
But the little dog hates the big dog,
The little dog is eleven years old,
And the big dog only one;
The little dog calls him Schweinhund,
The little dog calls him Pig-dog,
She grumbles broken curses
As she dreams in the August sun.

The big dog’s teeth are terrible,
But he wouldn’t bite the little dog;
The little dog wants to grind his bones,
But the little dog has no teeth;
The big dog is acrobatic,
The little dog is a brittle dog;
She leaps to grip his jugular,
And passes underneath.

The big dog clings to the little dog
Like glue and cement and mortar;
The little dog is his own true love;
But the big dog is to her
Like a scarlet rag to a Longhorn,
Or a suitcase to a porter;
The day he sat on the hornet
I distinctly heard her purr.

Well, how can you blame the little dog,
Who was once the household darling?
He romps like a young Adonis,
She droops like an old mustache;
No wonder she steals his corner,
No wonder she comes out snarling,
No wonder she calls him Cochon
And even Espèce de vache.

Yet once I wanted a sandwich,
Either caviar or cucumber,
When the sun had not yet risen
And the moon had not yet sank;
As I tiptoed through the hallway
The big dog lay in slumber,
And the little dog slept by the big dog,
And her head was on his flank.

(Photos: Chandelier by Delightfull; Aquazurra shoes; Fendi 2016 bag: Nigel Slater’s Pistachio, Lime & Cardamom cake; Cucumber Margarita: Bel & Bel chair)

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