Call me tiger

If you remember at all, I went to have laser hair removal on my legs at Indulgence Spa. Well, the first treatment didn't work at all, and the second treatment resulted in me literally having grill lines all over my legs. Not good.

I was more British about this obvious catastrophe than I am about most things. I informed them that I'd been "over cooked", politely accepted the technician's (Tamara - for those of you who want to avoid her) scar cream and went home for a month of wound licking.

But yesterday, my mind finally made itself up. I called them up and left an urgent-but-calm voicemail on their answering machine. I tried to sound like a ship's captain reporting a mayday - authoritative yet unequivocally in dire straits. "I need to speak to the manager. Severe scarring has occurred etc"

Needless to say, the manager called me back immediately and asked me to come down to the spa so their laser "expert" could look at me. I arrived and was led into a room, patted, hugged, stroked, photographed, tutted over and soothed. At this stage, I informed the manager that I would be getting all my money back, to which she replied she was going to "deduct the price from the upper leg" to which I repeated you-will-deduct-everything. Small victories. I mean, seriously, I could have rolled myself up inside my oven for free.

Anyway, the expert, the manager and the soother all left me alone in the room for a minute as they went to turn the accountant upside down and empty his pockets. At that moment, I absent mindedly looked down at the cream the expert had given me for scarring, and read that it was the wrong cream. I'm no dermo, but "bleaching cream" isn't going to help skin healing. No comment. I marched out and told them they were dangerous and should have their license taken away. They nodded, soothed and hugged in reply.

So, while I wait to see my doctor for a real solution. Just call me tiger.

P.S. If anybody knows any good scar reducing cream or anything to get the white stripes to disappear please let me know!!

Waiting for the wind

Left to their fate

There has been much anticipation about the Super Typhoon Megi that's supposed to hit this weekend. People have been scrambling over each other in the supermarkets, rushing down aisles and grabbing all the Campbell's soup from the shelves. Offices have been sending warning signals to employees about shuttle buses and staying far away from moving objects. Workers have been praying for a day off.

This morning, T and I ran up into the howling wind on our roof to tie down the plants, and pull the flowers into the stairwell. I had naively stocked up on foliage this weekend in the Flower Market and do-not-want-to-see-them-dead-in-a-day.

And now, after all of that, the typhoon is "no longer coming directly past us". Shame. We were quite looking forward to all the excitement. Rather anti climatic all round, I'd say.

Busy getting married

Photo borrowed from http://www.aarondelesie.com/

T and I are getting married. Hooorrraaaayyy!! We've been engaged for quite a few months actually, but it's taken us a while to refocus...

Now that we've set a date (summer 2011) and a place (Greece), I have now got a full year ahead of me to go completely mad. Organization thus far has been seamless...other than a couple of Hong Kong specific adventures...

Remember my shoes? Buying a wardrobe? Finding a flat? Well, much like Karate Kid, I can now apply those life learnings to finding a wedding dress. Although with much more excitement, anticipation and reflections of me in princess dresses that only come down to my ankles.

I have also started frequenting the local church. Which has been quite emotional. I spent much of Sunday morning sniveling into the hymn sheets, while what looked (and sounded) like the Tabernacle Choir powered from number to number.

Not only does this church have a seriously well practiced choir, the priest has also craftily assigned men with voices like Russell Crowe to read all the readings and announcement. So, in between tear-jerking hymns, we have Russell Crowe booming out over the microphone, with that all-powerful-yet-incredibly-calming voice of his. Even the announcement that "we will be having tea after the service" sounded like "If only you had been born a man, what a Caesar you would have made".

My life, and Sundays, now have a whole new meaning to them.

Histoire de France

T, T's Parisian Friend and I went to Sai Kung last weekend. Sai Kung is not only beautiful, it's also only 15 minutes away by cab from the center of town. Why everybody says it requires a weekend trip to get there and back completely baffles me. So, the plan was to climb a mountain (Sharp Peak). And you know how much I love climbing. It's up there with sitting in traffic jams and running on treadmills. Endless.


So off we went. T walking at the speed of light and me panting along behind him, holding onto my knees for moral support. Meanwhile, T's friend, who smokes like a chimney and is skinny as a rake, walks the entire 5 hour trail with utmost calm and composure. As if he's taking his dachshund for a morning stroll by the Seine. His head held high, and with a certain swagger in his gait, he politely keeps me company by telling me just about the entire history of France, with anecdotes and tales of treason and defeat thrown in for good measure. All the while, my tongue is hanging somewhere on the floor and my calves feel like glass shards are shooting up them.


We arrived at the beach just as clarification was being made that it was the French, in fact, that had started most European wars and not the Germans. Much against popular belief...





The stinky village we passed after the beach, was prefaced by a story about how Les Halles was covered in cobblestones to stop the goats from digging up the corpses from the cemetery. Something this village might want to consider.


We then climbed up and down a few more hills and zoomed home on a motori...the wind whistling through T's hair.

Sleep

When I told Babes (my boss) that T hasn't slept a full night in 5 years, she said that was un-f**ing believable and that something had to be done about it. Babes, by the way, always refers to bad news as being un-f**ing believable. Anyway, she recommended we take T to her Chinese doctor. So, after much bribing, coaxing and eventually just ordering, I managed to get T to leave the office at 7 and join us at the Chinese apothecary.

The shop was piled high with glass jars full of gnarled up pieces of what looked like dried body parts and plants. And in the corner was someone who looked like the accountant - blue shirt, neat hand writing and a notepad. The doctor.

So Babes positions T in front of the doc and launches into a full blown description of T's medical history (in Cantonese). Might I mention that this is the first time the two of them (Babes and T) have met. So, her knowledge of T's medical history is pretty shaky, to say the least. Within minutes she has his jacket off and the doctor poking and prodding him while the two of them humm and haa. All this in the midst of busy shoppers queuing up for potions, buying tea and generally pretending to be busy.

The doctor then gives us his meticulously scribed Chinese notes and Babes directs me to the potion counter to get T's sleep elixir while T is shuffled to a corner where, from a distance, it looks like he's launched into a wrestling match... 4 elbow jabs in the thighs and 10 toe pulls in the wrong direction (think wish bones) later and T emerges looking dazed and a little off balance. This was meant to "relax" ..seemed to have done the trick. That night, he downed the foul smelling concoction and went to bed to wait.

...

It takes a few sessions to kick in.

Today: round two.

NYC Eating

Coffee and Continental breakfast

Cafe Gitane - Italian and Frog petit dejeuner hang out

McNally Jackson - Self-consciously curated left wing books for all day browsing and chewing

Think Coffee - Crap coffee but good outdoor seating on Bowery

Joe - Thick black coffee on a bench in West Village

Brunch

The Standard Grill - Big sunglasses, models and fantastic food (ghetto chic)

Cafe Habana - Bad cuban food, great cuban music, waitresses that look fresh from Havana (ghetto chic)

Bubby's - Same as The Standard Grill but with babies. Arrive early or risk being run over by prams (preppy)

Bar Marche - Good food for crying over boys (preppy)

Public - Australian modern food (upscale-ish)

Lunch (all are good for taking parents, in-laws and clients)

Any michelin star restaurant with a prix fix menu (Nougatine, Bouley, Joel Rubichon etc)

Any Keith Mcnally restaurant (Balthazar, Pulino's, Mineta Tavern, Pastis etc)

Cipriani Downtown - Yuppy-st Tropez sort of place

Dinner

Momofoku - Ramen. If the queue is killing you, go round the corner to Leon (hipster casual)

Hecho en Dumbo - Modern Mexican, mean Mezcal cocktails. Don't expect to leave sober

EN Japanese Brasserie - (minimalist)

The Modern - Full on at the MOMA (parentally friendly)

Adour at the St Regis - Deliciously French (parentally friendly)

Wallse - Minimalist Austrian (parentally friendly)

Detox (Go alone with your dog)

Liquiteria - every juice on earth

Angelica's Kitchen - raw, vegan food for those who love their bodies more than life

Parentally friendly = somewhere your father feels comfortable. Well lit, tablecloths, space between the tables and waiters in closed shoes

Ghetto Chic = fashionably grungy. Kate Moss sort of hang outs

Minimalist = upscale but no table cloths

Preppy = pea coats, navy blue jeans and alice bands

NYC Part II

4am in Hong Kong. Can't wait for the old body clock to re-set. Any appetite I had for writing was sucked out of me by the 17 hour flight, which was made even more arduous when my freshly unopened FT Weekend (with mag) was swiped when I went to the bathroom. I spent 10 hours festering and thinking of ways to track it down - loudspeaker, frisking everyone before they left the plane..the air hostess (tron?) gave me the WSJ to appease me, but that's like replacing a baby's dummy with its finger. Not quite the same effect.

So, here are some shots from my crap iphone camera of my wonderings through the city. Loved every minute of it, but oh so happy to be home.

Early morning in the Upper East Side. Just before the poodles and facelifts hit the road.

Soho after trying on Ralph Lauren shoes that actually fit.

Any-juice-on-earth bar with Micheal Jackson hits blaring over the blenders, patrons with designer tattoos and orange nails (on the girls..and some boys). Need I say it's the East Village.

Our coffee shop. On our street. By our home. Obligatory attire: Ray Bans.

Great Jones Street. Sorry this is an even more crap picture than the other four.