The Boy Likes Gin

My pesky inner saboteurs are at it again. They mean well, but I am on to them. I think. 

Julia! My wonderful friend. Here is my WhatsApp 50th birthday voice message to you but shared with THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD! I want others to have a glimpse into our special friendship. I want them to see for a moment the dazzling person who has helped me and inspired me so much. It is recorded in the way I record all my daily WhatsApp messages you: on my phone, unscripted, wind whistling, me rambling...

Today. Nothing like yesterday. Percy and I had an intruder. I am not sure how I feel about it, yet. 

I need to take the podcast back to first principles. A joy machine. A place not to be heard or to sound important but a dreamland of stories, a space for me to speak and waffle on. It makes me so happy. Mum is not well, and I need all the jolliness I can muster. Sorry, darlings! Anyhoo. All explained within. 

My heart was in my mouth as I waited to hear if my ex-boyfriend wasn't harmed in the Berlin Pride attack. He wasn't, thank goodness. It may make the fear caused by the attack a little easier to manage if we remember how far we in Europe have come over the last few decades in gay rights - and human rights.  This heinous barbarity will firm our resolve to go even further. 

Receiving a 'sad face' emoji on the night of Brexit made me realise that nation I adored had changed. I knew the impact of Brexit would be bad, but I never imagined that things would get this bad. Watching the wonderful nation go to war with itself is heartbreaking to watch. Will Mr Burnham, the prime minister-in-waiting, be brave and lead Britain back to whom it once was?  Receiving the happy fac...

My grandad was an Indian immigrant into Britain in the 1950's. He taught me a lot about integration. Become new, was his example. He didn't teach me to wear yellow trousers. I learnt that all by myself. 

We in Europe have much to thank America for, but it is time to realise just how different we are. It is perhaps time to give each other a peck on the cheek, a tight hug, and then go our separate ways. 

Hell in a handbasket? I am not convinced, darling. I think that there are many reasons for optimism even in this current era of madness. A decade of rage, indeed, but anger can't last forever.

My darling friend Margot, knowing of my geopolitics obsession, messaged me to ask what on earth is going on in Iran and how will it all end. Here is my reply. 

I love talking. Talking is my only real skill. I like to use my voice to help people, but a recent conversation with my sister made me realise that giving people space with my silence is sometimes far more helpful. I vow to (occasionally) shush. 

I was immensely overweight in my twenties. I am not now; some would say I am a tad dashing. But to lose the weight, and keep the weight off, I had to be incredibly brave, and go to battle against a battalion of memories and traumas. So, not even a wild storm could stop me walking to the gym last week, especially when one was joined by Queen Mary.

I have a confession. I am having a wild love affair. It has been going on for years. And, as  all deep loves are, it is complicated, unfathomable, and entirely wonderful. It's time I revealed all. 

Christmas makes me ache, and not in a good way. But it was not the case when I was a child. They were teeming with magic. This year at our family Christmas, I could see the magic maker - Mother - was fading away. I may never wear a Christmas sweater, but I need to start wearing my Christmas memories more often. They soon will cease to be made. 

Sat alone in my regular bar, I witness a lot. Nothing is more gripping than a disastrous first date. Last week's was one of the most spectacular in years. But, Claudette, we salute you for your final word! 

A leaky ceiling during a heavy Lisbon storm transported me back to my first monsoon in India. The wild and dazzling rains became a dear and treasured companion during my lonely life on the other side of the world. 

A retelling of a dramatic moment on a Bavarian mountainside where I had a showdown with destiny. Sloppy racial profiling, Richard Burton, couture overcoats, and artisan Kirsch cups made for thrilling evening. 

A story about a love, my ultimate love, my gold-standard love. The love I measure all other loves against. I was sat in my bar last Friday when a song came on that picked me up and threw me into the past, into a time when a wonderful young man taught me how to love. 

A story my grandma told me, many years ago in a Punjabi garden, has been whirring again in my head for the last two weeks. It has been gobbling me up. I needed to do something with it. I need to help, somehow. But all I can do is talk. So, I hope in retelling it I can do some good  

Everything is going to be just fine, darling. The young of Europe are revolting, and in a good way. They are wired for tolerance. We old folk will be saved by their kindness.  

A handsome devil wandered into my bar. My flirt offensive was about to be unleashed, until he hurled himself across my red lines. 

I turned forty-six. A horrible number. But I am fine with getting older. Time is, however, running out on this life. I have so much more to do. So many versions of me are yet to be lived. So many wild imaginings to make real.  

My dear darling friend is suffering from a horrid disease, in silence. No one wants to hear about female reproductive health issues and the devastating consequences of some of the associated illnesses.  Well, tough bananas, I'm speaking up. Talking is all I can do for my wonderful friend. 

Someone I know is in a mess. If I intervene I risk so much. The peace that cushions me would evaporate. But they might be rescued. What to do? How far does one go? Gosh, it's a conundrum for the ages.

A 'thank you' to the most recent silent inspirer who wandered briefly into my life. My bravery needs, at times, charging up by witnessing the bravery of others.