A difficult road

I travel,

a winding high mountain road which is reachable only by a steep path.

I travel - a path to Philosophy, edged with sharp stones and prickly thorns and acacia trees.

It is an isolated road, with the occasional mountain goat, and the occasional fellow traveller whom you meet on your way up - I pass them all.

I travel alone.

The road becomes more desolate; more isolated, the higher we ascend.

No fear! Brethren! You must show no fear if you wish to pursue the path.

And moreover, you must leave everything behind, everything. Carry nothing on your back, save the skin stretched taut on your very bones and those pearls of sweat decorating your brow - like a crown. Of Philosophy.

A King indeed - of your own castle.

It's tough. I know It is tough. Nobody said it was going to be easy, but you must be confident and steadfast in your resolve. Often you will espie a path, that leads back down to the plain - I know how tempting it is, but you musn't. You musn't take it.

Sometimes you will come to a precipice and look down on the verdant valley below. A violent attack of dizzyyness and vertigo may grip you and draw you over the edge - but steady! Steady my friend! You must remain in control of yourself and cling to the jarring rocks with might and main and utmost fibre.

Utmost fibre.

In return for your endeavours, as payment in kind for all that hard work, you will eventually... reach the top...

And when you do:

The whole world you will see beneath you. Its sandy deserts and morasses will vanish from view, its uneven spots and moraines will be levelled out, its glaciers will no longer cut you with their jagged corners, its cities will look like smears of grease. Its aches and pains and troubles - so far - so distant - so small. its jarring sounds will no longer reach your ears. The truth of the worlds roundness, its wholeness and its completeness will be revealed to you - as a purple-blue smudge of a horizon - that curves.

that curves - There is no escape from a Sphere

At night, as you sit on the mountain top, with a cool breeze stirring you to ponder, with the stars piercing your skull with their light spears, with the great heavenly machine with its planets and celestial spheres sounding your depths with its immensities - you will cry.

Oh yes you will definitely cry.

Oh my,

For you are here - and at this moment - you can see it all in an instant

Eternity - and the truth:

Life is a Jest

And all things show it

I thought so once,

But now I know it

___________

The day I found out I was going to die

Please don't be unnecessarily alarmed. I am not suffering from a mortal disease or from a cancer. I am not going to die - yet. I am simply referring to that day, way back in childhood; a day I can recall with alarming and rather frightful clarity, when I realised, I would die one day. I think I was seven years old. Though I can't be too sure. Do you remember the day you found out that you were gonna die? I'm not sure if this is a common theme / experience that everybody goes through - or whether it happened just to me. I suspect it's common.

Anyway, I clearly remember that day when I was about seven. It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck me. I don't know what initiated it, all I remember is being alone, and then suddenly without warning, realising that one day, I would die. And it made me cry. But the tears were not for my demise. The tears were for the eventual and certain death of my parents. It was their assured departure from my life, that frightened me - my mum mostly. What would I do? How would I cope when she was gone? And I still retain that faithful day in memory. The day when the shrivelled old arm of mortality touched me with its cold and rigor mortis flesh. The day I learnt that the world could also be a scary place and not all playground funland. It was the day I grew up in the universe. Grew up Almost, into a man. For after that moment of lightning-bolt realisation; once the tears had dried, I went out into the garden to play. It is what separates us from the other members of the animal kingdom. For no other animals; dolphins, chimps, bonobo monkeys, squids; for all their famed intelligences, not a single one of them bury their dead. Because they never find out that one day they will die.

Anthropologists know that mankind made a Great Leap Forward approximately 50,000 years ago. It is the first time man started using language; and the earliest cave paintings in France date from this period. But most importantly, this period is marked by the first instances of human burial practices. It's when we first began to bury our dead. My Great Leap Forward occurred when I was seven years old. A mighty leap forward! A magnificent 5-steps-in-one-bound jump into the unknown!

It's an arresting thought, but I think that at that moment, when I was seven, I became self-aware. It's hard to prove but I think, that that self awareness manifested itself, as a sudden lightning-bolt realisation of my mortality. To be self aware. To know you are alive - you must know you will one day die. Otherwise without death how can you know you are alive? And I remember it! That moment! When a light-bulb switched on inside me. The day I found out I was gonna die.

Did this light bulb switch on suddenly? With the press of a switch? Off and then On? Off - On, Off - On. Or, from the day I arrived screaming into the world, was it more gradual, like a dimmer switch getting brighter and brighter and brighter? Now we're straying into deeper territory where the grass is longer with more tangles. This blog entry could grow the necessary legs and crawl all over this mountainous region - It could even grow a set of wiiings (Red Bull gives you wiiings!) and soar, but now is not the time for wings or legs or soaring. Perhaps some other time. Now is the time to make myself a cup of delicious Monmouth coffee and, if I'm lucky, to find something pleasant and sweet in the kitchen, to put in my mouth.

_________

Cognitive Adventures with my 7 year old niece

I must admit there is much adventure to be had with children. Not chubby faced 'come here and let me gobble your pink cheeks' babies. Babies are plain annoying and scream the place down. Nor do they allow you to concentrate on Schopenhauer (and you really do need to concentrate hard with Schopenhauer!). My main issue with babies is that they don't respond when you ask them a question. How insolent! So clearly, as you can see, there is not much intellectual food to be gotten from them. Not however with 7 year olds like my niece for example. She's great fun. Particularly great for experimentation purposes. What makes children of this age ideal subjects for experimentation is that; for all intents and purposes, they're still blank slates. Experience and knowledge haven't touched them yet so their answers are not tempered by caution and dread of shame. I love asking my 7 year old niece tricky questions! Don't get me wrong. I don't plug electrodes on her temples, I just make her sit beside me on the sofa, and through endless bribes of chocolate and crisps, I probe her mind via questions. Through her I can learn about the world. Through her seven year old brain I can scan the human condition. Through her I can learn about myself. What kind of questions? Questions like:

'Alisha, where does the cashpoint get its money from?'

And my niece will frown and squint her eyes into her 'thinking pose'. She'll screw her nose into a bear muzzle, and she'll suck the question through and through - like a boiled sweet. But she won't answer. Because she doesn't know the answer. So I tell her:

'Alisha, there's a little man on the other side of the cashpoint and he pushes the money through when you press the buttons'

I can see her brain mulling this over. A little man - on the other side - with lots of money - pushing it through, Mmm...she seems satisfied with my answer.

I can see the new direction her mind is going: 'Uncle? Now you have no excuse for not buying me everything I want'

I played another Q & A game with her the other day. I wanted to know whether she knew the difference between a 'living' and a 'non-living' thing. Here's what happened:

'Is a chicken alive?' I asked her

'Yes!'

'What about a cow'

'Yes'

'A sheep?'

'Yes uncle'

'A frog?'

'Yes munkle!'

"Hey, don't call me munkle. I'm your uncle!'

And now something a little trickier for a 7 year old: 'What about a carrot'?

Slight delay, but eventually she said: 'Yes'

'A cabbage? - Is it alive?'

'Yes'

'A flower?'

'Yes'

'A tree?'

'Yes'

'A rock?'

And then she paused.

'No'

'The moon?'

'No'

'Rain?'

'Er, No'

'A TV?'

(giggles) 'No!'

'A car?'

'No'

'My laptop?'

'No'

'Your mother?'

'Yes'

'What about me? Am I alive?'

'Yes!'

'How do you know?'

She shrugged her shoulders. And that's the thing. If I ask her why, she just shrugs her shoulders. She doesn't know why - she just knows. Knows that I, her lovely clever uncle, am a living thing. It's almost instinctive isn't it? It's something she's too young to articulate and explain - but it's something hardwired into her little seven year old brain. She's never been taught at school the differences between living and non-living things. In fact she won't be taught that living things grow, breathe, reproduce, excrete, move, till she's at least 11 years old.

How does she know then? Or more importantly: what does this tell us?

That children are much smarter than we give them credit for?

Sure

What else does it tell us?

Never tell a child that endless money can be had from the little man behind the cashpoint machine?

Sure

But, what does it really tell us? What does it tell us about the childhood of mankind? The fact that a seven year old knows - deeply, instinctively, within the marrow of its bones - that the twinkle-twinkle little star, is somehow different, to the Baa Baa Black Sheep...

These are questions I think about all the time. I can't help it! My thinking life is so strange; I suppose, to others...but its through asking simple questions, like these...that we learn to see and feel and touch the human condition. Einstein; when he was young, used to imagine what it would be like to ride upon a light beam. Look where it got him! The very edge of Space and Time. I'm not saying I'm Einstein (!) - but what I am saying, is that, within the answers of a 7 year old - to the question of whether a bumble-bee or a rock is alive - lies the mystery of - the earliest stirrings, the birth pains, of our ancestral origin myths. It's all there. Etched on the tongue of my seven year old niece. And all it took to fish it out was patience, pertinent questions and lots of chocolate.

Told you children are wonderful, brilliant creatures. Not babies. Babies are annoying. But seven year olds; on the cusp of self-awareness. They can tell you everything you need to know.

You just gotta ask the right questions.

'Is a man alive?

'Yes'

'An angel?'

'Yes'

'Father Christmas and the tooth-fairy?'

'Yes'

And there you have it. If you don't know what I'm talking about - well, you've not been asking yourself the right questions!

________

Panasonic Lumix GF-1 - A Review

I want to use this blurb to say a few things about this camera: the Panasonic Lumix GF-1. The holy grail of photography; the one thing that photographers have always desired, is a compact camera that is not a compact. Compactness is desirable. Who doesn't want a 'take everywhere you go' camera that fits neatly in the pocket? Normally, if you want to take fantastic pictures when you go on holiday you have to take along an SLR. And everyone knows that SLRs are huge lumbering beasts that require a backpack, a strong back and biceps. They also draw attention to the photographer (due to their size) and are not ideal for spontaneous photography. In addition, they serve as a 'rob me' label around the neck of the bearer. Many people are therefore intimidated into not taking large cameras on holiday. The other factor is the cost. With an array of lenses an SLR system can be prohibitively expensive. Hence, why many people prefer compacts for holiday snaps. The problem, if you happen to be a perfectionist like me who happens to take image making seriously, is that 'holiday snaps' are just that: holiday snaps!

The problem with compacts has always been the sensor. The sensors of all compacts are way too small. This limits the dynamic range which basically means that colour rendition is not as accurate or as rich - greens are not truly green, reds look orange, and blues have a purple hue. In addition the range of colours that a small sensor can record along the electromagnetic spectrum is limited. Apart from colour issues the small sensor has poor low-light performance - it is noisy and has poor high ISO performance. Thus the need to use flash under all but the brightest indoor lighting conditions. And flash is no good. It is harsh and unsightly and brings our flaws in skin. To be honest I have no idea why professional photographers at weddings continue to use flash?

The Panasonic Lumix GF-1 is part of a new breed of Micro Four-Thirds technology cameras. They may be the answer; the holy grail, that photographers have been looking for. What makes these cameras, such as the GF-1, so special is their sensor. The sensors of these cameras are considerably larger than those of compacts. In fact, even though they are considerably smaller then SLR's in body size, their sensor size approaches that of SLR's. Thus they have all the advantages of a large sensor camera. Namely:

i) Much better low light performance (no need for flash but the darkest of situations)

ii) Better 'depth of field' (see below)

iii) Improved dynamic range

But significantly, what raises the bar even higher for the GF-1 in particular, is the lens. The GF-1 comes with a 20mm f1.7 prime pancake lens. The lens, as you can see, is small - but that is not what makes it special. Let me tell you a little about this lens. The first and foremost thing to note is the maximum aperture of f1.7. This baby is bright - it let's in lots of light...if there is light in the room, even a candle, this lens will suck it in like a black hole. To give you an idea, the maximum aperture of most lenses that people normally have on their cameras is about f4.0 - f5.8. These perform poorly under low light conditions. The maximum possible theoretical aperture is f1.0. This baby is an f1.7. The maximum aperture lens you can actually buy is a Canon f1.2 and it'll set you back a hefty £2,000. This lens costs considerably less. In fact the whole camera set up including the 20mm f1.7 pancake lens will cost you about £600.

But a large maximum aperture lens has other 'creative' advantages: the Bokeh. Bokeh is a Japanese word used to describe the quality or amount of blur in the out of focus parts of the image. Bokeh is a highly desirable quality especially in portraiture as it allows the subjects to stand out from the background which is blurred. Technically Bokeh is determined by the 'depth of field' and the depth of field in turn is determined by the aperture. The higher the maximum aperture the better the Bokeh and the greater the depth of field. The image below gives an indication of the Bokeh achievable with this camera.

This is a beautiful camera that has few of the 'size' encumbrances of an SLR. It's not perfect though. There are negatives. For example it lacks a zoom function, so if you want to take a close up from far away say...you can't. You have to physically move closer to the subject. i.e. use your feet! But that is a price you pay for the high aperture lens. But these minor issues (in my opinion) are more than compensated for by the creative potentials that a camera with an f1.7 lens can offer. Not only that, but combine this with speed of focus, receptability, excellent ergonomics, and restrained but sexy aesthetics, and you have a toy that is a real pleasure to use. It brings the fun back into photography. The only thing is - it's not a toy. This is a serious piece of sophisticated photographic hardware and any serious photographer worth his salt would be well advised to get one!

Lemon Monkey Delicatessen (a review) - In the heart of Stoke Newington

Lemon Monkey is a delicatessen on the concrete shores of Stoke Newington High Street. It can be found at the junction with Church Street, not very far from that other favourite haunt of mine, the 'Stoke Newington Book Shop'. As an establishment serving quality fair it seems Lemon Monkey is a little incongruent amongst its less esteemed neighbours. There is a KFC a few doors to the right and a Kurdish greengrocers to the left. Not too far away next to a cashpoint a tramp sits shiftily beneath one of the doorsteps. But he is a gentle tramp and ever since reading Orwell's 'Down and out in Paris and London' my feelings for the tramp have softened somewhat. But this article is not about tramps. It is about Lemon Monkey.

I love coming here to invigorate and recharge my creative batteries on delicious coffee and pastries. The walls inside are packed with quality foods from the continent (which you can also buy). Pastas from Italy, olives from Sicily, sardines, jams, quinces, wines, biscuits, exotic chocolates and coffees and teas amidst much else besides. Foodstuffs from all over the world stand in soldierly rows. The decor is rustic and it has something of the Edwardian about it. If you forget to bring a book you can always stare at the walls or read the labels. The clientele it must be said are not a mixed bunch. When contrasted with the denizens of Stokey as they shuffle pass the large street window, they seem positively hand selected. They're more likely to be Guardian newspaper readers and foppish types in here.

I love coming here for a spot of reading on my days off. The coffee served is from the veritable Monmouth Coffee Co. (which every coffee connoisseur knows is one of the finest coffee houses in London). The sandwiches are delicious and stuffed with continental chorizo, prosciutto, and bries. The pistachio pie is sublime; not as sweet as the others, and the lemon provencal is simply zinging. The music piped through the speakers is not too loud so as to interfere with the serious business of reading and thinking. Only the other day I was seated there and a most brilliant thought visited me. Luckily I caught it before it flew off again, for if I hadn't been on the look out for it, it may have landed on another perch.

I'm currently plodding through 'A life of Montaigne' by Sarah Bakewell and 'Torquemada - and the Spanish Inquisition' by Rafael Sabatini. Montaigne (Michel de Montaigne (1533-92)) wrote his famous 'essays' in the 1580s. These bite sized pondering's of a nobleman are like modern blog entries. He writes about himself. He writes about what he see's. What he feels. He casts his gaze inwards letting it fold and refold itself within him. As if he is kneading the dough of his internals. He's never certain. Always adding a qualification 'but I don't know' at the end of his sentences. He lets his writing meander, and it does, and it takes him to wonderful places in thought space. Montaigne was the first blogger in the world. He advocated moderation in everything and encouraged introspection. He also said that everyone should 'keep a room at the back of the shop' - by this he meant everyone should have a place to retire to now and again. A place away from everything where one can be oneself and where one will not be disturbed. Montaigne lived in a castle in Bordeaux and he himself 'kept a little room for himself' in one of the castle turrets. The turret is round so the room was circular and it had a little window which looked out onto the family estate. One of the walls was covered with about a thousand volumes of books Montaigne had inherited from his father and his friend La Boetie. There were tomes from Greek antiquity to contemporary literature. Montaigne would retire to his little room of contemplation whenever he needed escape from life, his wife, family, children, and the demands of running an estate. He'd come in, take a book off the shelf, seat himself comfortably and pour over the wisdom of the ancients. He read Plutarch, Cicero and Seneca. He read Marcus Aurelius, Plato and Socrates. He read everything. For the age in which he lived; an age of Witch burnings, Catholic-Protestant internecine conflict, the rape of the New World, the auto de fas of the Spanish Inquisition, the intolerance, the talk of 'end of days' - his mind and his 'little room at the back of the shop' was a sanctuary. In fact it was a time warp. The future.

I love the idea of the little room behind the shop as a metaphor for how to order one's life. There are a lot of wise men in the world. They are mainly Greek or French and unfortunately, they're all dead!

Oh well, they live on in their hallowed written pages. In their witty aphorisms and mild mannered admonishments. Which I, now hundreds of years later, keep securely fastened to my chest - like butterflies in a box - lest they escape.

____________

Further adventures at a Pakistani wedding...

[All images taken with a Panasonic Micro 4/3 Lumix Gf-1 (20mm @ f1.7 or thereabouts)]

Adventures at a Pakistani wedding

The first thing you notice as you approach the outskirts of Birmingham is a yellow haze hovering just above the cityscape. Initially you think it's the car window needing cleaning. But its not. It's a narrow smudge of Haldi yellow, and as the sun sets through it in the early afternoon, it imparts an exuberance not at all unbecoming of a glorious Ethiopian sunset! It's a good omen. The signs are good. Things will be fine at the wedding. I will not babble and bumble my way through the social etiquettes. Birmingham has always been a currypot of exotic flavours - the hues of culture, language, creed and social eccentricity (like plastic wrappings on brand-new carpets). For me, stepping into Birmingham, brings back childhood memories of family visits to the north when I was young. My mum and dad would get me ready (at some godforsaken hour of the morning) and after a dollop of shiny hair oil I was as good as new! We'd get into my dad's yellow Datsun; my dad sporting an embarassing looking Jinnah hat (which is probably also the reason I hated him coming to parents evening at school), my mum in shimmering gold epaulets threading through her ears - and thus attired we'd head north from London - to meet my army of aunties and uncles who babbled in strange tongues and smelt aromatic.

I remember those days vividly; playing with my nephews and nieces amongst red-bricked homes; I remember the leather skinned withered old ladies with jaundiced tongues who smelt of Pakistan; I remember the constant torrent of 'family relatives' passing through the maw of my sisters door all pinching my cheeks red raw; the pungent smell of garlic sizzling in oil; and grey bearded men with skullcaps who had nothing to teach me (and still don't), the putting your headscarf on your head when a man walks in, the frisky women asking me when I'd get married (I was only like 7 years old!). It was a totally different planet.

These memories are all positive and happy. It seems when you look back now that childhood was constantly bathed in blue skies and sunshine. But as you get older you begin to realise that there are dark clouds too. How did we manage to miss those dark clouds when we were young? Answer: innocence.

So as I was saying, here I am now in 2010, older (but not any wiser), approaching the Haldi haze of Birmingham with memories of childhood running through me. I stare at the haze. Where does it come from? I have a theory: the frying pans of hundreds and thousands of evening meals - cooked in the presence of husband, children, grandma and grandpa, and the er next door neighbour Zulfikhar (aka Zulfee) who seems to have a permanent place on the family sofa. But I am digressing. And I am guessing.

The wedding itself was to be held at a plush venue (the Burlington Hotel banqueting hall in the City Centre, for those interested) and plush it was indeed. The carpet as you approached the hall was shaggy and thick and looked as if the animal it belonged to had only recently had its life extinguished. I stepped into the hall and straight into a maelstrom and hail-fire of hundreds of beaming smiles and shotgun colours. Alas the smiles were not for me. I went in unnoticed and uncared for, and was looking out for something. A landing light telling me where I had to land. Luckily, my nephew (bless him) was waving at me from the other end of the hall clad in a bright pink shirt - so at that moment I knew I would land safely. I was saved. No crash landings tonight. I weaved through the obstacle course of tiny children, slightly bigger children, slightly even bigger children, spotty teens, twenty somethings, slightly older folk, hob knobbling grandads and grandmas (not mine) and withered old creatures with walking sticks who had no business being at a wedding. What if they were to choke on their food?

Anyway, I've now seated myself at the table and said 'Hi' to my sisters and nephews and nieces. I have a drink and look around me. It looks scary and I want to hide under the table. I could easily spend the evening under the table and no one would notice. I take another sip of the drink. It's non alcoholic. Damn! The thing is I'm not used to being surrounded by lots of people. I'm not a misanthrope. I do like people. The London Underground trains are packed full of people at rush hour and I have no problem with that, but what I'm talking about is a little different. You don't have to talk or even say Hi to the folk on the London Underground do you? OK, let me say it out plainly: I am not used to being surrounded by so many Asian faces. Not that I harbour any prejudices against them (me?). They are God's people like everybody else. They are God's handiwork; and what a masterful people they are! Full of complexities and layers and contradictions and a thick patina of hair grease. Solving them is like solving a puzzle.

The youngsters are the most fun to be around. Lacking the morose and complaining attitudes of the elders; the youngsters are fresh and cool and minty - like an autumn breeze. The elders are always complaining about some aspect of the wedding and never happy. Either the food is too late in arriving, or the kebabs are too spicy, or the fizzy drinks are in jugs thus loosing their fizz...ad infinitum. The youngsters just want to have a good time and are grateful for the invitation. Where's the gratitude?! Show me the gratitude! And the youngsters wear cool clothes (like me), they have cool hairstyles (like me), they have opinions (like me) and most importantly of all they're sure of themselves. Unlike their parents on the other hand who are constantly struggling with a past that no longer wants them and a future they can't embrace. The youngsters are all 3rd, 4th generation - after the first pioneers (like my dad) who ventured forth from the Indian Subcontinent to forge a better life for himself and his family. The youngsters are more confident. I noticed that. But it's not a faked confidence or a confidence 'purchased' using the currency of ostentatious pretentiousness. And that is gratifying. My parents generation and even the 2nd generation in some cases never had that; for my parents always considered themselves immigrants. And you never really loose that. But not the youngsters. The only immigrants they know are the Somalis and the asylum seekers. And the language they speak is English with a Northern lilt. Urdu or Punjabi is uttered very rarely from their tongues and my educated guess is that in the next couple of generations it too will perish in the smouldering heap of history - as will memories of Pakistan and all thus connected. It is inevitable. A process of dilution. And then one day, the separation from the homeland will be absolute. Like the Iguana Lizards in the Galapagos Islands...but I am digressing.

Anyway, from the Galapagos back to the wedding hall! After the bride and groom had said their vows. and after the mullah had read his overly log sermon - (a sermon he did try to convert into a stand up comedy act - but it didn't quite work out) we we're treated to food. Ah food! The main event! The raison d'etre for being here. And what a carnivorous feat it was too! For starters it was spicy lamb kebabs (with spicy sauce for xtra Oomph), chicken on the bone coated in a sticky tikka massala paste (bright red and fluorescent), a zingy fishy thing (my favourite) and the usual green salads to counterbalance the red hues of the meat dishes. The main course was predominantly organic organism based again - there was chicken, meat and something else I don't recall. Octopus? No, not octopus - I think it was cauliflower. For dessert there was an extremely sweet and bright orange1000 megawatt calorie infused concoction made from distilled carrots - Gajrelah...and, for those on a diet, a lumpy milky dish called Ras Malai. All very nice. All very sweet.

That was the food. What about the conversation? Was is as satisfying? Put it this way. The best conversation I had was in the gents toilet when I asked someone for the loo roll...

...only joking. I would not be so mean and nasty! The best conversations were as follows (in no particular order):

1) On the youngsters table discussing latest hair styles and fashion trends and the merits of doing a degree in English Lit.

2) Asking people to be 'spontaneous' for the pictures I was taking and trying to make the children laugh so that they would show their teeth for the photographs. It's not difficult. You just have to say something silly and puerile like: 'bummblebee bum bum'. Spontaneity is always good in photography.

3) Trying to wriggle my way out of one conversation that had strayed into the perennial 'why are you not married yet Wasim?' territory. This question, usually dispatched with an all knowing smug countenance, is said in such a manner that it makes you feel like you have a lethal disease. Yes, I have a disease. It's called 'love of independence now fuck off and leave me alone before I start quoting Cicero' is usually my response (without the expletives of course)

4) Loo roll (discussed previously)

5) A chat with the bride's mother who was thanking me for coming. Thank you very much for having me!

5) A chat with a little human. A baby. I think it was 7 months old. Not sure who it belonged to though. The baby was just rolling around the carpet rummaging for scraps of food. I placed it on my lap and we talked much. We agreed on much. Like the general stupidity of the people around us. It told me about its nappy and how it was constantly chaffing its bum. I told it about my constant ear ache from the parrot like chattering's of the women in the hall.

6) A girl. Yes a pretty girl. She was facing me 2 tables away and kept looking at me. We didn't actually talk as such. It was mainly communication through facial twitches: eyebrow arching's, lip curling's, frowning's, smiles, and playful twisting of the hair (not mine hers). I think she was attempting to tell me something: 'You there in the smart clothes and intelligent looking glasses. Yes you there! You have great genes and I want to use your sexual organs to make a baby'. I wouldn't have minded her using my sexual organs - she can have them, well not have them, she has to hand them back as I use them, but she can use them - but its the making a baby part that sends shards of lightning down my spine and a rumble through the empty dungeons of my heart.

Talking of which I'm not sure when those rusted joints in the dungeon of my heart will be prised open. Perhaps someone with a bolt cutter will come along and let some air in. And that's that! That was the wedding.

That wasn't really funny was it?

A bit sad huh? Especially the ending huh? With all that dungeon talk huh?

Well I don't care what you think. I love dungeons and I'm escaping into mine now, and no you can't join me. Go get your own dungeon. My dungeon belongs to me!

___________

Coming soon...Adventures at a Pakistani wedding I went to recently (and almost died at)

Warning: This blog post (when it is written) will be extremely funny. There is a real risk of heart and lung failure due to extreme funnyness. If you are unsure whether you can handle such levels of funnyness please consult your funnyness practitioner for guidance. If you do not have a funnyness practitioner then please carry out the following self-test:

1) Locate your tickle muscles

2) They can be found right below your armpits

3) Please find a hand that belongs to somebody else

4) Ask the person whom the hand belongs to, to gently stroke at the tickle muscle nodes (but please make sure you have cleaned your armpits before - for health reasons)

5) If, after stroking of the tickle muscle node, there is a deep expiration of air from your lungs followed by a squeaky-girly tickling sound from your lips - congratulations! You are a tickly bum loaded with tickles. You have passed the tickle test

What a man is

It is quite obvious, to those vouchsafed with reason, that what a man is, contributes much more to a man's happiness than what he has or what he represents.

Happiness ultimately depends on what a man has in himself - for it is this that accompanies him wherever he goes, and everything he sees and experiences is tinged by this thereof. Epictetus says: 'it is not things that disturb men, but opinions about things'. What he means is that two people may see or experience the same thing but their opinion of it will differ. Say, for example, you lose your job. If you are of positive & cheerful temperament than you will see this as an opportunity - to do what you enjoy. To the peevish and irritable, loosing one's job will be seen as a total disaster. These are all opinions. And they depend on what a man is in himself. Thus we come to a certain truth:

It is not what things are objectively and actually, but what they are for us and in our way of looking at them, that makes us happy or unhappy

Shakespeare recognised this and gives a fine description of this fundamental difference in temperament in the Merchant of Venice:

Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time

Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,

and laugh like parrots at a bag-piper;

And others of such vinegar aspect

that they'll not show their teeth in way of a smile

Thus what a man is in himself is the sole important determiner of our happiness. There are some of us who are paupers when it comes to inner wealth. The result of this is a mental dullness, an inner vacuity, and emptiness, that is stamped on innumerable faces, and betrays itself in constant chattering and lively attention to everything going on in the world. That is because there is nothing inside to act as stimulus. People with such an affliction constantly crave external stimulation: parties, socials, card games, family and friends, luxuries, amusements, diversions. Put such people in a room with only themselves for company and they will run away from themselves! Nothing protects us from this inner boredom than the wealth of the mind; the play of ideas, the constant ruminating, questioning, postulating, and the more eminent it becomes, the less room does it leave for boredom.

The clever and intelligent man will first of all look for painlessness, freedom from molestation, quietness, and leisure and thus a tranquil and modest life which is as undisturbed as possible. After some acquaintance with human beings and their manifold failings, the intelligent man, will wise up and choose seclusion and, if of greater intellect, even solitude. For the more a man has in himself, the less does he need from outside and the less other people can be to him. Therefore we are now coming to our conclusion: It is a fact, a fact proven when you look at the history of eminences, that great intellect leads to unsociability!

And I leave you now, on this beautiful cloudy Easter Weekend with sunshiny thoughts from our Greek friend Seneca:

'The very thing that makes people sociable is their inner poverty'

Have a happy Easter. And remember, the happy person does not say 'it is a dull cloudy day' but he will say 'the sun is always shining above the clouds, it just can't get through'

It just can't get through, but it is shining all the same.

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