Indochina

Director: Régis Wargnier
Plot Summary: Indochina during the 30's. One of the largest rubber-tree plantations is owned by the French colonist Eliane, a proud but imprudent woman. She lives with her father and her native adoptive daughter Camille. At an auction Eliane gets to know the young officer Jean-Baptiste; after a short affair she refuses to see him again. But in the meantime Camille falls deeply in love with the young man, so Eliane takes the necessary steps to cause a transposition of Jean-Baptiste onto a far island. Though Camille gets married to another guy she goes on a long journey throughout the country in order to find the man she loves.

Cast: Catherine Deneuve, Vincent Perez, Linh Dan Pham, Jean Yanne, Dominique Blanc, Henri Marteau, Carlo Brandt, Gérard Lartigau, Hubert Saint-Macary, Andrzej Seweryn, Mai Chau, Alain Fromager, Chu Hung, Jean-Baptiste Huynh, Thibault de Montalembert

Awards: Won Oscar. Another 9 wins & 10 nominations

imdb

This mythical story, set in a crucial historical moment for the country which will become Vietnam, centres on Eliane, a French woman, born and grown up in Indochina. 


The exotic sceneries of the far-east, immortalised by a seducing photography, and the epic story behind the personal drama contribute to the lure, but I believe that the film sources all its strength and fascination by Catherine Denueve's role and interpretation. The charm of a mature, caring and strong headed woman is delivered in the most natural way, without too much effort. Her iconic beauty (pointed small nose, thin mouth, rounded eyes, slender elegant figure) is enhanced by her role of emancipated, apparently independent, (single) mother of an adoptive Indo-chinese girl, Camille. Eliane looks perfectly integrated in, and shows a solid attachment to, her native place. She is caring and friendly with the locals and embraces their culture and traditions, but also accepts to step aside when she is not allowed to participate. In this sense, she is still an outsider: she can't attend the traditional religious celebrations and distinguishes herself by wearing European clothes: flamboyant 30's style dresses and trousers. As a colonist and employer, she shows a business determination which shares with her father: every morning at dawn she personally goes to the fields to supervise the works; and, as a west woman, she enjoys privileges banned to the east women: she can step into dives and smoke opium with men.

A halo of mystery about her personal past rotates around her complex figure. Nothing is revealed about her mother or past lovers. Neither her daughter knows much about her past. However, the two women seem to have a strong bond based on expressed love and complicity. I was particularly flattered to see them dancing together in such a corporeal and fond way, but you couldn’t miss to notice their diversity in appearance and personality, mirror of an ambivalent rapport. Camille is the romantic and idealist adolescent, sweet and gracefully beautiful. Although her temperament will evolve through the film, and she will become a re-born woman at the end of it, she still lacks the sophistication of her mother’s nature. The duality of Eliane's persona emerges also in the conflicting relationship with her controlling father and the young Jean Baptist.

While she doesn’t approve her daughter's choice of running away in search of her lover, she empathises with Camille’s resolution, aware that her over-protective attitude was detrimental and partly provoked the young lady’s escape from her mother, her conservative traditions and her social status--privileged but at the same time endangered by the unstable political situation of the time. The irony is that the man Camille is going after is the same man who seduced her mother not long before, and with whom she had a short intense affair before deciding to discontinue it. Eliane starts mourning her loss. She becomes the sympathetic narrator of Camille’s adventure; you can feel that she is with her, sharing those emotions she has always suppressed. And Camille's story, retrospectively filtered by Eliane's tale, becomes *legend*. 

I did not really like Vincent Perez' interpretation. And I did not like his part of a troubled soul either. Maybe because it was overshadowed by the grandesse of Deneuve's acting. But this is a detail of a praiseworthy film.

French style

Et Voila' ... After a long research, I finally managed to find a website (French Sole company) stocking fab ballet shoes. ;o ) I love pumps. I used to wear all the time as a young girl. I have worn my last black pair to destruction, and my red pair is very consumed as well. The choice in this website is thrilling! Well, if you are a flat shoes fan, like I am...

The art of wearing the corset

The corset, especially in the nineteenth century, was symbol of purity, virginity and *inaccessibility* (see “mini-history of the corset” below). However, as stated in Valerie Steele's book^, the practise of tighten the corset used to encourage fetish fantasies for small waists. Small waists and the corset played about the same role as the Wonder bra today. There are people who think that the concept of wearing a corset is barbaric and emblematical of centuries of feminine repression. It is in fact the best piece for the wide-spread market of sex. In alternative, it is commonly used for brides. But at the London Fashion Week, this historical item has been re-launched in a modernised version as a garment to be over-worn and shown (see FashionCapital and FashionUnited). It has been adapted to our current times at its best: retaining its own elegance and femininity like in the older age, but being pruned of the vulgar elements characterising most of the commercial corsets (see for example La Petite Salope collection). It may still arouse unspoken fantasies amongst the opposite sex, but in a more subtle way, and hopefully by arousing eroticism in its etymological meaning (in Greek ‘erotikos’ from ‘eros’ ‘erotos’= sexual love). Finally, the best use ever! ^ Valerie Steele, Fashion and Eroticism, Ideals of Feminine Beauty from the Victorian Era to the Jazz Age, Oxford University Press, 1985. MINI-HISTORY OF THE CORSET In the 1830's, the corset was thought of as a medical necessity. It was believed that a woman was very fragile, and needed assistance from some form of stay to hold her up. Even girls as young as three or four, and probably directed by the best motives, were laced up into bodices. Gradually these garments were lengthened and tightened. By the time they were teenagers, the girls were unable to sit or stand for any length of time without the aid of a heavy canvas corset reinforced with whale bone or steel. The corset deformed the internal organs making it impossible to draw deep breath, in or out of a corset. Because of this, Victorian women were always fainting and getting the vapors. Women were thought of as the weaker sex, therefore their minds and bodies were weak. So the corset was deemed morally and medically necessary. Tight lacing was considered virtuous --a loose corset was probably a sign of a loose woman. To keep her innocence and virtuosity, a lady had to be chaperoned everywhere she went. She could not read or see any plays lest it excite her imagination. Even Shakespeare was thought unsuitable for ladies. A woman needed to protect herself from lustful men (and her own morality) by wearing heavily reinforced layers of clothing and tight corsets that made getting undressed a long and difficult task. Working-class women (except when dressed for special occasions) did not go through the discomfort of wearing tightly laced corsets. They wore looser corsets and simpler clothes, with less weight. The higher up in class a lady was, the more confining her clothes were. This was because they didn't need the freedom to do household chores. Paid servants took care of such cumbersome matters. © Victoriapast.com

Fruit Loop

Self development update: I have just had my fifth class of Spanish. I am half way through my intermediate course already! I have learnt quite a bit because I have never missed a class since I feel at my perfect ease during the class and the teacher is lovely. Today, for example, she offered us a tasty hand made chocolate cake. How sweet! But it is a matter of fact that I could have learnt more, had I studied at home a bit more seriously. Nothing is lost yet though. I have still five classes to go and over one month to make my lacunas up. BTW, Lofty, to keep me quite, plays Play Station in Spanish thinking that I won't complain in this way. How wrong he is! He has now passed on *offending* me by saying that learning Spanish for me is like learning American for him. :o ( [Maybe he is not so wrong considering his attitude towards foreign languages.]

Look update: I have decided: I want to get my hair cut and colour changed. How? Well, I took inspiration from the glam Sex and the City, and I came out with this mixed solution: colour á la Carrie Bradshaw season 6 and haircut á la Carrie Bradshaw season 5:

Now I just need Fatrobot’s help to mingle the two images into one and replace Sarah Jessica’s face with mine. Fatrobot, are you reading me?

Work update: Yesterday I got a threatening email from one of my authors being very upset because he discovered that the content of his chapter had been altered without being informed and wrong information and references had been inserted. Panic. The funny thing was that he thought that I had changed it, which I didn't, as if I am an expert on *Torts*, which of course I am not. What I do is checking the grammar, spelling, paragraphing, footnotes, etc. but I do not certainly move words around or add content. The mystery was solved when the main author admitted that he did change the chapter and failed to inform his colleague. It was a bit rude by him (the contributor) to address the email to me AND copy all the other contributors + general editors in. But he did make the gaffe. Boohh. So, Eggs on his face! [I learnt this new phrase today.] This morning I found a long apologetic email from the main author giving a double-sided version of the story to somehow absolving himself. A typical letter from a proper lawyer. I am tempted to post it here, but it is better not to risk to be accused of a tort. :o )

Taste update: I have realised that I enjoy trash television more than I thought. Two Pints of Beer and a Packet of Crisps (the title is all a programme in itself--my friend said) makes me laugh heartily. I have been blamed for watching it, and Lofty thinks I am becoming a fruit loop (other expression recently learnt), but I can't help it, it entertains me, especially Johnny (fourth from the left in the photo below): a child in the body of a man. I admit, the episodes are silly, incoherent and repetitive, and the characters are more tokens than human beings. I started watching it because I found the background interesting: it is placed somewhere in the north of England and the characters, typical working class youths, have a strong northern accent which I find very funny, plus the script plays ironically and amiably with the commonplaces about their social class. Any way, I think that the important is to watch these kind of sitcoms with irony, detachment and enjoyment for what they are, without taking them too seriously. So maybe I shouldn't even make a too big issue (and a post) about them.

From Le Canard a L'Orange to Le Daube de Boeuf

5.30pm. Friday. I switched my PC off. I had enough. I walked down to the underground and caught the Jubilee Line, for the first time alone in a long time--definitely the first time after the bombings. I glanced at the stops' number: six to Waterloo. Not too bad. I sat down. It was a colourful and fairly new train. Not too crowded either. I didn't feel uncomfortable at all. It did not remind me of the carnage. More people got on as we were approaching central London. I looked at a guy, I looked at his rucksack and I started building some paranoids. This demonstrated that I am not recovered, as I thought I was.

I got safely to Waterloo station, I was early and decided to wait at the platform 7. I had something to read but I was distracted by the stream of people rushing around. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry. It was hard to believe that it was a late Friday afternoon. Finally Lofty arrived and blamed me not to have bought tickets already. We got on a smart train to Woking. There Lofty's parents were waiting for us for a night out together: pizza and then cinema: Wallace and Gromit & the Curse of the Were-Rabbit. A little gem of an English old fashion style cartoon, especially if you think that it is not computer generated but a *hand made*. It was funny, sweet, human and loving. Gromit, the doggy, was the hero of this animation film. Even though mouth-less, he was very expressive and very cutely hilarious.

Saturday morning--up at 8.30 am for a day trip to Bath. For economy of words, see travel section of this blog. We went back to London on Sunday with Lofty's parents for a Sunday brunch at our place. The plan was to experiment Duck a L'Orange, which we bought a few days early. Unfortunately, Lofty had the idea of leaving this huge corpse out of the fridge to defrost. Fair enough, it was so big! But he left it defrosting for over two days.. and two nights. I leave you imagine the smell we found in the flat on our return. We decided to change recipe and bought beef joint instead. It was already 3pm, so we decided to have a walk through Primrose Hill, before starting cooking our eventually successful Sunday roast: Le Daube de Boeuf. Guess what are we having tonight? Crispy Duck... But from my fav supermarket: M&S. An expensive but safer option. ;o )

VIVA ZAPATERO

Docu-film by Sabina Guzzanti http://www.vivazapatero.org/ A provocative phrase, especially for Italy, where Spain seems to have been forgotten after the electoral victory of Zapatero's social party, was chosen as the title of this motivating documentary film. The only news recently published by the Italian media about Spain, with the sole aim to demonise the current Prime Minister, regarded the “outrageous” approval by the Spanish government of homosexual weddings. [Note that when Aznar was in power, we have witnessed even his daughter’s wedding ceremony on television!] All of a sudden Ms Sabina Guzzanti,famous Italian comedian, politely banned from the Italian TV channels, reappears, stating that Viva Zapatero simply means “Hurrah for those politicians who keep their promises”. A simple message--as simple as this *domestic* documentary which does not aspire to be either a masterpiece of direction or photography, and even less can be compared to a Fahrenheit 9/11 for depth of investigation or quality of the images. The fact remains that we do need this movie, almost desperately, in a country falling increasingly down the *hit parades* for freedom of press (according to Reporter Sens Frontière, Italy is at the 40th place, after Chile and South Korea*). The picture emerging from this documentary is of a country that does not respect the different views, degrades journalism and has made television a grottesque vanity show. The recent cut of funds to the popular arts, included in the Financial Bill 2006, will cause a drastic reduction of the arts activities and will endanger more than 60 thousand jobs**. It is therefore important to give honour to the film’s objectives of: informing, investigating, questioning and protesting. Finally, it is interesting to notice that the satirical television programme by Ms Guzzanti, “Raiot”, was discontinued after the first episode for not being considered satiric and so being defaulting part of the contract with RAI. A puzzled Ms Guzzanti carried out an investigation at the highest levels of RAI, as well as enquiring several politicians on the meaning of “satire”. As predictable--no convincing answers came out. In order to get one, she needed ask some academics and satiric actors (amongst them, Dario Fo, who made a clear distinction between “satire” and “sfotto’” = “mockery”), demonstrating that those who arbitrarily decided to suspend her show do not even know the meaning of “satire” … bless the ignorance!

And long life to freedom of speech, thought and press! by Arianna Braccioni You can find the Italian version of the above review on: www.achmatova.blogspot.com

* http://www.disinformazione.it/libertadistampa.htm

** See article Cuts 'threaten Italian culture' (BBC)

Attack to the Smurfs (known also as Puffi)

Here you go! They killed a myth of my childhood. The Smurfs (known also as Puffi) have been bombed. And Smurfette (known also as Puffetta) died (can you see her foot on the left corner of the picture?).

Reported by Corriere.it & bbc.co.uk

What should we expect next? That all our idols will be targeted one by one?!? Also the safest place on earth (the memory of our fantasy world has been violated). :o (

Click on Barbapapa

New Arrivals and Old Returns

Amanda's niece is born, and well in advance. She was impatient to come to the world. Aleix (my Catalan friend from Barcelona) has recently become father of a rounded baby boy. This morning, I found two unexpected emails in my inbox: one from John, my Irish mate who shared my German Erasmus six years ago, & one from Betta, my friend from Matera who shared my Venetian parenthesis four years ago. Finally, I got news from my old Italian friend Ilenia, who headed to Canada two weeks ago for a new adventure. All of them are doing well.

Today was a day of new arrivals and old returns. A day of sweet reconciliations.

Before Sunrise

Director: Richard Linklater
Country: USA, Austria, Switzerland
Language: English/German
Plot Summary: A French grad student named Celine (Julie Delpy) meets an American boy named Jesse (Ethan Hawke) on the Budapest-Vienna train. They get off the train in Vienna and hang out for a while.
Cast: Ethan Hawke, Julie Delpy, Andrea Eckert, Hanno Pöschl, Karl Bruckschwaiger, Tex Rubinowitz, Erni Mangold, Dominik Castell, Haymon Maria Buttinger, Harold Waiglein, Bilge Jeschim, Kurti, Hans Weingartner, Liese Lyon, Peter Ily Huemer

© Imdb

I should have seen this film long ago. Or maybe not. Maybe it was even more interesting to identify with the story retrospectively, because this was the effect this film had on me: I was with the characters wandering for the streets of (a familiar) Vienna for one day and one night. My empathy was due not only to the frame--both were penniless students in their “grunge” style, which I used to proudly embrace in the '90s myself, travelling around Europe. Above all, I could easily identify with their very human dialogues and observations about life, parents, love, men & women, future and relationships, which I somehow still concord with. Since the beginning, they shared their intimate "scary thoughts", and this is something which can happen only with strangers without sounding too ridiculous and silly, or with your most intimate friend, in rare occasions.

I liked their moments of brief, awkward, silences and the embarrassed looks they exchanged in a so credible and sincere manner. These uneasy silences were accompanied by more *reflective* pauses, in which they appeared being with their own thoughts in their own worlds, maybe still regurgitating about the emotions and confessions they had just shared, in their own manner and with their own encyclopaedia knowledge and  background. 


They played their roles with complicity and at the same time individualism. There was chemistry at first sight between them and they looked the perfect couple: both young, beautiful, healthy, profound and chatty. But the more they talked the more their cultural, sexual and personal [but strangely not linguistic--her English was a bit too perfect maybe?] diversities emerged: without falling into any stereotypes, she looked the cute cultured idealist European girl and he was the good looking, passionate, but a bit sceptical, American guy. These peculiarities, even though confronting, never clashed and rather gave them a distinctive character and intellectual volume.

The subtleness of their romantic gestures and their indirect declaration of love, filtered through an imaginary telephone, contributed to render their story romantic in the noblest rather than cheesy sense of the term. They managed to live and enjoy the night with com-passion avoiding the reality of their imminent separation, even though you could feel the presence of a secret question in their minds: "Are we going to see each others again?" They rationally decided that it was better not to think about it, that letters and calls are boring and would spoil the magic which is in the space between the two of them... 


Since it is known that there is a sequel, I can say that, at the end, I was really hoping that they would meet again, but not nine years after, in Paris, by chance (see Before Sunset). No. I truly believed in their promise to meet at the same station, at the same time, six months later ... And now I know that they didn't. Disappointed? Yes. But even so, I still (or like to) believe that this is something possible, by chance or not.

Risk (aka Risiko)

My Canadian "pen friend" Fat Robot posted the footage interview (see link "Invading" below) to a bunch of American people on his blog. The question was: "In terms of the war on terror, which countries do you think America should invade next? ... And how about finding them on a map?" Here the reply: Invading Someone even said Italy!!!! Panic! THIS IS H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S! Made me crack. :o )

"Je suis Catherine Deneuve"

Although my intention is to enjoy the end of this relaxing weekend at its most, it is approacing the end and I can start resuming it. On Friday after spending the day at home (working), I headed in the evening to my colleague's birthday at The Langley in Covent Garden. We were mainly ladies, and the place was full of sassy girls and chatty guys ... I bought Maddy a book by Isabelle Allende, Aphrodite, which is a collection of erotic recepies Allende put together elaborating a story for each ingredient. Afterwards, Amanda and I went to Camden Town and had a drink at the Barfly. I stayed at her place, and we carried on chatting till 4am. On Saturday morning I walked through Camden market and got home at around 12pm, had a mediterrenean brunch, then relaxed a bit, kept working on the copyediting of a never-ending book and lazed around. At 1am I decided to watch Indochine with an astonishing Catherine Deneuve. I finished the film at about 3am, without falling asleep. Hurrah! This morning Lofty and I finally booked the films from the London Film Festival. The choice is overwhelming (108 films!), so it took us a while to select them. In the end, we chose two French language films: Ultranova (Belgic film) and Violent Days (French film). The selection was driven by several reasons, but one criteria was that those two films don't have a distributor in the UK, therefore it is unlikely to see them in the London cinemas in the fothcoming months. Unfortunately, we couldn't afford anything more. Contrary to its spirit of exposing the audience to the world contemporary cinema, the LFF is an elite event. Tickets for the opening and closing gala, screening respectively the Constant Gardener (Brazilian) and Good Night, and Good Luck (USA) are available for an outrageous £25. Other films we selected, but won't see in this occation, were Dark Horse (Denmark/Ireland), Burnt Out (France), Sacred Heart (Italy) and News from Afar (Mexico), The Beast in the Heart (Italy) and The Wind Blows Round (Italy). Who knows whether we will ever find these films in DVD?

Planning

DOES Change doctor (asap) -- DONE! Re-start my Spanish classes --RESTARTED :o ) Re-start giving Italian classes to Maddy -- not yet Book the Silvia's weekend in Bath (Oct) -- DONE! Book the weekend in Paris (in mid Nov) -- DONE! Arrange transport for the weekend in Wiltshire (Nov) -- DONE and paid only £19! Book the Rubenstein Kiss at Hampstead theatre (21 Nov?) -- not done yet Book the London Film Festival 2005 (19 Oct-3Nov) -- DONE! Book Somerset Ice Skate rink (3 Dec) -- DONE! Book flight to italy (again) -- DONE! Look for a house (by December) -- ongoing Work on my blog-- ongoing I have nearly done everything. And after? :o ( This post will disappear and I will come with more resolutions for the new ywar.

One sad fact, a nice discovery an odd observation

Three interesting things: one sad fact, a nice discovery an odd observation. First: the tube and bus fares have increased... again!! A single ride in zone one only (which means a maximum of five stops) rose from £2 to £3 (=4.5 Euro, 9000 liras!). Shame on Livingston and London Transports! My decision to stop travelling by tube and limit the use of the buses is now a rooted belief. Second: I have just discovered that there is another Italian girl working in my company. I thought I was the only Italian in the village! And I was wrong. :o ) She looks nice and she has been living here for 10 years (!). Third: I noticed that at the traffic light people do not pay attention at the colours but they follow what other people do. So, in more than one occasion, it happened that someone risked being run over simply because they were following the initiative of a reckless pedestrian sneaking through a car and another...

La Langue & la Parole

Just back from my Spanish class. I got inspired and created the Spanish corner. I will post elements of grammar as I study them, a personalised dictionary and useful links. I really need to learn these verbs not to risk to end up speaking Italian all the time. I like learning languages, and one of the infinite reasons is that I like studying them on those uplifting textbooks where the character always seem happy and do nice things like going on holiday, meeting friends at the market and have tea breaks. Even when they work or are sad and tired, they look serene and make me cheerful. I also like to talk about basic things in another language, which we very often give for granted in our mother tongue. When you start learning a new idioma/parole/lingua, you actually speak like you used to speak when you were 6 or so, and it sounds more authentic. Also Samuel Beckett preferred writing in French (his second language); he used to say that it was a more direct and spontaneous way of communicating since he knew only one way to say things. Well, I think it is becoming clear, from my previous posts, not only that I am nostalgic of my infancy, but also that I am Russounian in believing that our primitive personality was closer to the state of nature and therefore freer. [My cousin explained (in italian) this Rousseau's concept much better than me]. Thanks to my boyfriend, who cooked the dinner for me, I managed to post this second post of the day, and to inaugurate my Spanish corner! Hurrah! I can't believe what a fantastic chef my boyfriend has turned into! I still remember that the first months we were dating, we would eat just butter on toast for breafast, lunch and dinner at his house. Good for me which I used to love this salted butter (non-existent in Italy) and slices of soft bread, but tedious for him. Now the least I get is a delicious dish of pasta with spicies, pesto and crispy bacon. In this way though, I have lost another occasion to learn how to cook. Well, next time. In the next paragraph of our life, perhaps. ;o )

Honouring our roots

The blog is like a tamagotchi, if you don't take care of it, nobody would read it and it dies. So, although I am super busy at work facing the year-end madness of sending 3 books (one of which counts 3600 pages!) and 8 loose-leafs for press by November, I feel the Kantian imperative of posting something. This past weekend I had the honour of attending the Lofty reunion and meet the extended Lofty family. Steve's mum has been working for years on the family tree, which I find very fascinating, and for the occasion she proudly showed her researches on a detailed chart with photos, where I appeared as well… in my pyjamas! :o ) Steve's cousin Jennifer is still laughing about it. Funny to notice that all the components of the families, present on the tree, were local: all from Middlesex. The only exception was Lindsey (from America), Steve's aunt Sheila (who moved to Australia) and me. The senior Lofty members were gathered around a table chatting intensely. Amongst them, Steve's grand mum, Eileen May. She is great. In her '80s, in fantastic shape and still very bright. I also think that she is (and not she was) a beautiful woman, which is usually hard to say about an old lady. She plays bowls and admitted that she doesn't like losing. She also told me that her husband, with whom she has been married for over 60 years, was a placid man. But she revealed that once she got angry and threw a chair to him. :o ) Despite this episode, she has got a noble quality in her manners, and I love her cynic and sharp observations, especially when coming from senior people. Steve told me that she has always had a strong character, which still emerges now but it is somehow softened by the action of the age. Well, I would love to age in such a lofty way. I lost both my grand mums in ‘98/’99, and I was particularly close to my paternal grand mum. I have only a granddad left, who is 87. He is in good health, except for his knees which he injured working on the fields for over 60 years. The signs of the sun and fatigue are also impressed on his face. He was always described by my uncle as a harsh person, hard worker, authoritarian and demanding. The person I have met and the person I know now apparently is completely different. He developed a funny sense of humour and a detachment from life which is proper of the old wise. He used to be a wine producer and a peasant. Well, he thinks he still is. Although still mentally capable, he starts forgetting things and thinks that someone is carrying on taking care of his land and producing wine for familiar use. Sadly, this is not the case: his land was sold, and nobody in the family is carrying on the tradition. At the moment, he is worried about his nuts. he still owns 65 nut trees (true) and is concerned that the wild pigs could destroy them (?). He found out a solution: to kill one of the pigs and leave the corpse there so that the other pigs would sense the danger and stay away ... How sweet. I think I am going to call him one of these days. Our telephone conversation always starts in this way: Me: NONNO!! [shouting because he is deaf on one hear] = GRAND DAD!! Him: Pronti! [instead of “pronto”!] = Hello! Me: COME STAI? = HOW ARE YOU? Him: Sto rittu! E tu? [Dialect from Marche; in Italian would be: "Sto in piedi"] = I am standing, and you? Me: STO BENE. TI CHIAMO DA LONDRA. = I AM FINE. I AM CALLING FROM LONDON. Him: Pare che stai qui! Che dice gli inglesi? = It seems you are calling from here! What news from the English people? … ... always the same incipit...

Les Invasions Barbariques

Director: Denys Arcand

Country: Canada / France

Language: French / English

Cast: Rémy Girard, Stéphane Rousseau, Dorothée Berryman, Louise Portal, Dominique Michel, Yves Jacques, Pierre Curzi, Marie-Josée Croze, Marina Hands, Toni Cecchinato, Mitsou Gélinas, Sophie Lorain, Johanne-Marie Tremblay, Denis Bouchard, Micheline Lanctôt

Tagline: A provocative new comedy about sex, friendship, and all other things that invade our lives.

Copyright © 1990-2005 Internet Movie Database Inc.

Remi, the protagonist of this story, is a strong and energetic university lecturer from Montreal, politically involved since his youth and a Latin lover in his private life, who cheated on his wife many times and had many “mistresses”. But Remi, as a fierce socialist, is also an angry man—angry with the world. Life is described like a sequel of “Barbarian invasions” throughout the film: invasions of Latin America through the slaughter of million of indigenes; invasion of Europe by the Nazis; invasion of America on 9/11… invasion of drug dealers, and drug users; invasion of ill people in the overcrowded hospital. And now that Remi is about to die, he knows that it is not a big deal to leave the world behind--he doesn’t even enjoy wine any more and doesn’t have any woman to lust any longer. However, at some point, he explicitly admits: “I can’t accept this [to die]. If only I had learnt something… a meaning. I feel like the first day I was born”. But the situation doesn’t look good—the doctors inform; and not much time is left. So Sebastien, his estranged son, back from a record of professional successes in Europe, endeavours to make his father’s last moments as comfortable as his money permit: he places his dad in a separated lovely refurbished bedroom of the hospital, engages a junkie to supply him heroine (stronger than morphine because mixed to chemical elements), borrows a cottage from a friend, pays some ex-students to visit his dad and manages to reunite all his old friends (the same crowd of the Decline of the American Empire) at his bedside.

At a subtler level, the metaphor of the barbarian invasion can be read  as the invasion of Remi’s friends into the most intimate last moments of his life. At first, he rejects this intromission refusing, for example, to move out of the hospital, as his son suggests. But the attempt of Remi’s friends to ease this painful reality has finally a very positive effect on the protagonist. The lofty aim of Remi’s friends has in fact the ultimate objective “to struck at the heart of the empire”, like reported by the hospital television in regards of 9/11.

In real life, people do not usually die in such a graceful way, and the reason is that most of us are never present in the most extreme moments of our life. This film show us that death not need be necessarily gruesome; and the philosophy that life is short, should be experienced at the fullest and not taken too seriously is coherently and poetically embodied by Remi and his friends, who succeed in taking control of this tragic moment through the power of irony, wit and humour. And Remi, with the complicity of his comrades, has also the privilege of deciding when and where to farewell life, defending himself in the most dignified way from the barbarian invasion of his cancer.

Cinematic experience

This week I have been really struggling to find (useless) topics to talk about in the blog. The fact is that I don't have material time to think creatively, and I end up thinking compulsively about the same boring things: buying a flat, not buying a flat; booking this, cancelling that. Yesterday Lofty and I were invited by Richard at his new house. He moved near us, and for once it was nice to have a doorstep social life. We walked to his place and back, which is a unique exception for a scattered and scattering city like London. The dinner was exalting: tender steak with cheesy backed potato and mixed salad garnished with vintage balsamic vinegar (still debating in my mind what vintage associated to a Sainsbury vinegar means. But it sounds cool). After dinner and a boring discussion about the house market (initiated and led by me), we finally set to watch the film, the Barbaric Invasions (see Arts page). I liked the relaxed atmosphere we created, and Richard's comments during the film (which Lofty strangely allowed), because it made the cinematic experience more intimate and interactive. Someone, one day, told me that they didn't like going to the cinema with friends because it is not a sociable experience. After the film, in fact, people are still with their mind inside the film, digesting the story, searching the meanings of it, still wondering about the sense of the title and assessing whether they enjoyed it or not, and don't feel like commenting and categorising it too quickly. Fair enough. It is a personal enjoyment, first of all. Words later, please. But yesterday we talked during the film (...and not much after). I liked the freedom of observing and commenting things while they were happening, always careful, of course, not to spoil the suspension of disbelief. This is certainly something you can do at home and with the right circle of friends, whereas it would be utterly annoying doing it in a cinema where even an inappropriate laugh would bother your neighbour and where, paradoxically, you go to be as lonely as you can. Although some people find strange to go to the cinema on their own, cinemas are perfect for individualists. In the past, the atmosphere was much more relaxed and friendly. Until the '70s in fact it was even allowed to smoke in some Italian cinemas, and I remember that some time ago you were admitted to it even after the film was already started. It was quite interesting to enter the film in media res and deconstructing the plot by watching the second half first and the incipit later (at the second screening). After all, this is a suspense technique that many directors have been using (think of 5x2, Memento, Two for the Road and many others). While in the *modern cinemas* you can't eat, you can't drink, you can't arrive late and, now, they also check your bags at the door. I don't know if this happens only in London in the aftermath of the attack, but all these rules make the whole entertainment less entertaining.

Becoming a yoga guru?

Here we are again, September time, time to start thinking of my Autumnal evening courses. This period last year, I started an art course which I really enjoyed, but it is relatively far from my work, and so not convenient considering that I go to yoga and Spanish classes as well during the week. There is another course I am interested in: Comparative Religion Studies. This is offered at Birckbeck University, but again, not very handy in logistic terms. Yesterday, my yoga teacher proposed us a Yoga Teaching Training Programme. It lasts 18 months, including some Saturdays and Sundays of the month plus some retreats, for a total of 270 hours. The programme includes philosophy, Sanskrit language, the yoga practice and meditation, didactic and business. It is something I would really enjoy, and got excited at the idea until I read the price: £3000. :o ( It is possible to pay in instalments, which is good. So, now I have to think about it seriously, and I have two choices: 1. Going for it, forgetting all the amazing holiday plans I have for 2006 (and possibly also for 2007). 2. Forgetting the course, and maybe buying the books suggested in the reading list and practicing more frequently at the centre and by myself. ... Hard choice. Any advise? "When you start doing yoga your body is one piece and your mind many pieces. By practising yoga, your body will become more and more fragmented and your mind one piece."

My yoga teacher's teacher's words

Saturday Fever

Saturday morning -- I headed into town for a healthy and therapeutic shopping session. I was meant to meet Amanda who did not turn up, due to the consequences of her previous party night, known as hangover. Shame. But I still enjoyed my shopping trip on my own: I could rush from the lingerie section to the shoe sector, to the opposite shop, randomly as I wished. It was fruitful and, of course, expensive. But for once, satisfactory. I get usually frustrated and stressed when shopping in central London where the choice is overwhelming, but the time and energies always limited. Plus, if I don't find anything suitable to me, I fall in a sort of short-term depression. This time it was not like that, maybe because I hadn't done for a while and didn't have that sense of saturation.

Here the damage: apart from a face tonic water and a hair cream and two bras, I bought two rock-and-roll items: a funky white t-shirt leaving the back uncovered and skinny black jeans. The shop assistant insisted that I bought one size less because they would stretch a lot, but I am not sure this was the right choice. I sweat to try them on, and, although very comfy because stretch, they are still very tight. We'll see. Finally, I was about to buy a pair of shiny red shoes and a red necklace, but I didn't. I thought:--I can make the necklace by myself. So, I headed to the bead shop in Carnaby Street and bought read and purple wood beads to make a very long necklace. Saturday night--Carlo's 30th birthday at Digress Bar in Soho. It is the third time I go to that club for people's does, and I don't really like this mainstream bar. However, it was a pleasure to see our friend Carlo (who is half Italian, half Spanish but grown up in London, so, in fact, a real cockney). The place was packed and the music, mainly R&B, not my cup of tea, but we were in a reserved area, and it was nice to see Carlo so happy, energetic and drunk. I chatted for a while with an Italian girl, then danced and drank (only three cocktails in the whole evening) , and had some real fun dancing some songs such as Volare in Spanish version (very quick) and Mambo Number 5 (my fave song in my dancing repertoire--it just drives me positively crazy). It was a so funny contrast when the DJ put on a Jewish ballad and soon after the very pop Indian song. Incident: while dancing, my brand new hand-made necklace--for which a girl had already complimented giving me the business idea of selling them online-- snapped, and half of the beads rolled on the floor. I was upset, and kept thanking the two girl who tried to rescue the little balls scattered on the dance floor. Fortunately, the necklace was so long that I am still left with a reasonably long thread. We left the club at 2.30 and got home at 3 or so. Well, I got home at 3 or so, because Mr Lofty, who was sitting on the stairs of the bus, did not realise that the bus reached our stop. I was sitting downstairs and couldn't warn him as the bus was packed. I got off, waited for him to get off, but nothing. Thinking to have his mobile phone and *not* having any other choice, I decided to go home. When in front of the front door, I realised that he did have his mobile phone, so I called him. He had not noticed yet that his stop was passed long ago. How funny. Typical of him.

Oh my god!

Well, what we feared when Ratzinger was voted, is becoming (painful) reality. Even my mum, faithful follower of the Catholic church, admitted she did not like this new Pope. I have just listened to the flash BBC news mentioning the last *naughtiness* by pope ratzinger denying to any gay man of becoming priest, *even if there is only the suspect of ambiguous gay behaviours*. This latest inquisition-style ban is the second ban and implicit condemn (I am aware of) in the arch of two months of so. In June, his *subtle* influence inflicted on the Italian people, by encouraging them not to go and vote for the referendum about assisted procreation, was winning. Even my mum was unsure about what to do. She asked me an advise. And I simply put the question on a personal level, by saying: "Think if I can't have children and would be compelled to go abroad to get treatments". The next day she was at the voting site. But unfortunately, I could not persuade, on time, the other thousands of people who decided to stay at home that day. I am sometimes irritated by the laicity of the country I am currently living and saddened by the arideness of people without a faith (no matter which one). I am also quite annoyed by the constant irreverent sarcasm of the English media about religion. But I appreciate the fact that here the news--at least on this matter--come thorugh straight. This news, for example, was posted on the BBC News website, whereas in the Italian online newspaper Il Corriere della Sera appears an article about the value and importance of the family--noble thought; and the implicit condemn of the couples living together. But not mention of the ban of gay men from priesthood. More (elaboration) later.

Me, a young rebel

When I was very little I was a rebel. Yes, I was. At the age of three, I used to refuse to go to kinder garden, and I preferred instead to spend my days with my grand mother playing with her, watching her cooking or washing clothes by hand, playing with my mum's clothes and makeup, or just sit in front of the fire place with her in the cold wintery days. I even created my own space under the kitchen table. I painted the internal part of it with drawings representing rooms, and that was my house. If you stick the nose under my parents' kitchen table, you still will see some scrabbles. In some occasions, my teacher--who was also my aunt--would come to my house to try and persuade me to go to the nursery school like any other child; so, I had sometimes to give up my stubbornness of remaining an *illiterate* and my laziness. In fact being at school was not always so disastrous, I would enjoy working on nice projects for daddy's day, Christmas, or for someone else's birthday. But I did not like the rules: I did not like that you were not allowed to drink water while eating soup (“cold with hot would upset your tummy”-- they used to explain) and that you had to drop your head on the table and have a forced nap after every meal. I would always be with one eye closed and the other wide open staring at the watch and hoping that torture would finish soon. One day I got ill, and loved it. They put me on a portable bed in the garden, covered me with a blanket, and all the children were asked to be gentle with me: they all came to me to make sure I was okay and to ask if I needed something. My mum was concerned that I would have done the same fuss with elementary school. So, she decided to move from a full- to a part time job to have more time to dedicate to me and my upbringing. (I am not still so sure this was a good idea for me!) For her surprise, at school I was a model pupil. At the beginning, it was a bit demanding for me who still couldn't read and write at the age of six (which is when in Italy you start primary school) because nobody taught me it before and I had missed far too many classes at kinder garden level to have actually learnt it properly. I just knew the alphabet letters which our nursery teacher had forced us to write hundred of times in our notebook—another rule I really didn't like. However, I loved to go to school, do homework and study different subjects. When I actually learnt how to read, it was a big discovery for me. My dream at the time was to become a teacher. I used to spend many afternoons with my grand mum obliging her to listen to my lessons and act as my student. I still like teaching and sharing my knowledge (hence one of the reasons why I opened a blog), but I don’t like patronising (although I have done it sometimes with my younger cousin and my boyfriend) and judging people in the cold way the business mentality selects human resources: based on results, experience and specific skills. Full stop. See my post "interviewing experience". ... I much prefer observing, ... as yoga teaches...

Why a blog?

After a month or so I inaugurated the new version of my blog, I have had the time to think of the reasons why I decided to create a *web diary*. I found seven motives so far: The first reason is because I am born to share. As an only child, I have always suffered from loneliness and always looked for company. I have spent many time crying in my bed and repeating endlessly: "I want company I want company..." Useless... My complaining prayers were unheard because I have remained an only child. But friends were always welcome to stay in my house. To demonstrate this, my parents bought me a lovely double bedroom with two single beds. I agree with the nice portrait that Haruki Murakami gives aout only-children's generosity against the common belief that only-children are spoilt and selfish. Not true. Believe me. As far as my things are treated with respect and care, I am happy to lend (almost) all my wardrobe. ;o ) Second reason: *life as a theatre*. The blog is a powerful tool to giving me the opportunity to shape my life as I fancy and to drive other people's perception about me. Third reason: I use the blog as a memorandum of things I would like to do, read, learn, of places I would like to visit, people I would like to meet, books I would like to own, etc. Fourth reason: It is also an archive of my life--as stated in the title and, of course, a personal diary to reflect about everything I feel worth to discuss. Fifth reason: To record my life and its evolution or involution. [This will be an interesting point to rediscuss in, say, ten years time.] Sixth reason: I am truly interesting in biographies. And a blog, at different levels, is real life. At least in principle. Seventh reason: To have the illusion of communicating with all of you, even though not many of you will ever read my posts. This brings to my first reason: the need of feeling myself part of a community, especially now that many of my friends and family are so far, yet so close--as Amica Achmatova always reiterates. More (practical) reasons: To keep my brain active, develop my writing skills, and as a therapeutical excercise. One thing I promise: with the time and practice I promise to render my blog increasingly more *theatrical* and less self-indulgent or self-referencial, like a platform staging posts disguised in a fictional rob, conveying therefore a more universal message. In other words, I hope to turn from the author to the narrator of it...

Working from home

Hi Guys Today I am working from home. I feel a bit like being back at uni, spending the day in my pijamas with tons of books to read and absorb. And I quite like this sensation, but I really have to organise well my time. At uni I used to plan nearly every minute of my day, especially when the frightening (oral) exam was approaching. We (rarely just me; some times Katia, Laura and I; other times Katia, Laura, Arianna, Federica and I; more often just Katia and I) used to write down a time table like: from 4 to 4.30pm read three sonnets. From 4.30 to 5.30pm read the commentary. From 5.30 to 9pm (!) revise the monographic course. And so on until 1am, interrupted by many hedonistic breaks. Three days before the exam the time schedule would be like: 4 to 5pm revise Reneissance (all of it!), from 5 to 6 pm revise Lost Paradise by Milton (all of it!), from 6 to 7pm revise Virginia Wolf (all of her!) ... And so on. And so forth. An almost titanic enterprise--which I have modestly to admit--was always fruitful. ;o ) I used to feel all the adrenaline while repeating aloud in 3 hours, at the light speed, the key concepts of the whole programme. Today, of course, it is a bit different. First of all, I am inevitably alone. Well, I have the blog to keep me company, hence all of you. But the book I am reading is about *Torts*... so nothing to do with Shalespeare or the Medieval mystic women... And this time I have to copy-edit the book, which always implies an interpretation, but my power of copy-editor is really limited in terms of content. Something is very similar: the very limited amount of time I have to accomplish the job... Gosh... It's already 10am. I have to get on with it, and I have to keep in mind that this is is NOT time off work... Off I go. More later X Lunch time I popped outside at lunch time. it is incredible how many people do not work in this city. I have met people of all ages and sex out there. Okay it was lunch time for everybody, but most of those people were there shopping, hanging around without any rush or suit or air of going back to work afterwards... Ver strange. Maybe is because I live in an area with loads of people living on benefits and having the privilege of enjoying the sun of this Friday afternoon. 4.30pm Working from home is great. The job I am doing is exactly what our freelancers do from their homes. This is a good opportunity for me to see if this working mode suits my persona. Verdict: I quite like it even though I wouldn't do it full time. Our freelancers are usually well paid--some times even too much for their (poor) performance-- but deadlines are always like ashes hanging over their heads and it is ultimately a bit mono-tone. But I would consider the possibility of becoming a freelancer in an indefinite future. In my sector it is even possible to work from home as a publishing editor, and this latter option is even more appealing for me, because I prefer to do research and decide what to publish rather than publishing what it has been already decided, which is what I am doing now, and--don't misunderstand me--already love. Here you go, so you know now what I do for living and won't ask me any more:-"What does being an editor mean?" I have just told you and in the most synthetic way possible. Time flies. Better finish off the chapter and get ready for the Surrey adventure. Have a great weekend.

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I am definitely getting older. My tastes are getting increasingly selective. If in the past I would have enjoyed an action film as well as a romance, these days I nearly avoid any Holliwoodian epic movie and opt instead nearly exclusively for quirky, undertone, low cost films--in a phrase for the so-called *independent movies* [Almodovar's sophisticated creations are of course an exception in my limited umbrella of tastes].

Life as a dog and You me and everyone we know are the films I recently enjoyed the most. Both have in common a simple story, and both share the attention to the characters's feelings and their microcosm in a very *realistic* setting, but both chronicle the protagonists' everyday life in a unique and seductive way.

You Me and Everyone we know is the story of an eccentric average woman and of a sensitive average man.

She is a graceful cab driver and a would-be contemporary artist, lonely, atypical, like any artist, and a bit gutted. Her melanchonic crystal eyes and timid smile make her a pleasant and attractive character. He is a graceful white man, father of two shy and a bit sad-looking black sons. His fragile figure and penetrating eyes inspire benevolence and sympathy in the spectator. Separated from a smart (black) woman, he works as a shoe shop assistant for a big shopping centre somewhere in the States.

One day, the eccentric woman and the sensitive man meet at the shoe shop. They like one another, but, for a series of adverse events, they don't get to date each others, if not for few minutes, for few moments. The film goes on with the parallel story of their lives focusing on their meaningless (and yet meaningful) details of their trivial daily existence in a tragi-comic way. Some scenes are in fact truly uproarious. Their hilarity is conveyed by the verisimilar absurdness of some situations: a gold fish is forgotten on the roof of a car, and its fate is followed by the eccentric woman, and her passenger, who sympathetically witness the scene from the car behind. However, the online chat between the two sad-looking sons and an *unknown* interlocutor--supposedly a *hot girl*--remains the highlight of this film. I had not laughed so much for a film in ages. I mean, Charlie and the Cchocolate Factory is amusing and Johnny Deep so witty; Life as a Dog made me smile in several points; and Amelie's fruitful imagination is really comic--just to mention a few. But this scene, combining the naivety of the boy in front of a clearly sexual circumstance, is purely hilarious. In all his innocence, the little child--who can barely write at the age of six--suggests to his brother a reply to the hot girl’s spicy provocations, perceived as a fetish proposal by the receiver, and as an extremely funny fantasy by the audience, for the ambivalent nonsense and yet childish nature of it. I bet that everybody at some point in their youthful lives has had a similar thought (with all its variations). I can summarise it in this iconic way:

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My 29th Birth-night

With two weeks of delay, I have finally managed to put together some pictures of my 29th birthday. I celebrated it in rural style, having a rich dinner in the new agriturismo lying in the countryside village where my maternal grand mum grew up. The location enjoys a great view over the valley and is backed by San Vicino mountain, the highest mountain in the area. Beside Lofty and I, 15 people turned up: my adorable cousins, Giacomo and Valentina; Luca (Vale's boyfriend); my university friends Pippo and Fede; my (boy) friends, Dosti, Galio, Giacomino and a friend of him; my married friends, Monia & Danilo; my single friends, Laura and Vanessa; and a lovely couple: Bea and Marco. Arianna and Maurizio were not present since they were struggling with the choppy sea on the boat taking them back from an amazing holiday throughout Greece. Back in the restaurant, we had some delicious local food based on pappardelle with wild pork, ravioli with mushrooms and truffle, all sort of organic meat and salami. Everything accompanied by red (and white) wine and spumante. A nice cake completed the abbufata. :o ) I was so happy to see all of them around a table. We had a fantastic night, chatting and laughing a lot, especially about my dream car: Bianchina cabriolet. Towards the end of the dinner, my daddy popped to say hello and... to have a slice of cake. Although we had to wake up at 7am to start our Croatian adventure, we ended up going to bed at 4am. I omit the awakening of the day after... I got some lovely presents for which I thank all of the above-mentioned once again: thank to all of you very much! You shouldn't have... But I appreciate them a lot. :o P Namely I got: a fonduta machine (to cook cheese or chocolate); a sexy green dress; a sophisticated evening bag; a shiny necklace + bracelet, which I am wearing on the photos; two books (La notte dei blogger--tales by 18 Italian bloggers, having the night as the common liaising theme; and L'isola di arturo--by Elsa Morante, Alberto Moravia's wife); some charming stones with a crystal therapy guide; and $$ from my parents & grand dad. Steve bought me a cute hairy little dog, some dark chocolate and a massage voucher. Finally, Simona came to visit this weekend and brought me the Dalai Lama's book: the Art of Happiness. Great timing. ;o )

Penelopian thoughts

Some thoughts about the day of today, maturated while walking back home from my yoga centre. I woke up at 8.30am, got ready very slowly, drunk a coffee and walked to work. No breakfast. I have stopped having breakfast. Despite being known as a bad habit, it works well for me. So, don't blame me for this. It was sunny and fairly hot. I was in the office at 9.30, I think. I worked a bit on my titles, a bit on my blog. I lost a good-hearted desk mate who headed to a new adventure with our competitor. I ate chicken Caesar salad (without dressing), a banana, mango-blueberry-peach salad and a roll. I thought to buy sage at the local farm market (to make my teeth whiter, as my cousin Giacomo recommended), but never did. I drank honey tea and water all the day long. I had far too few breaks during the afternoon. I had the usual 1to1 with my manager, and, beside the role of mentor to new editors, I was assigned the role of *mentor of the mentors*. It was good to hear that I am allowed to work from home a couple of days of next week to dedicate to the copyediting of a brand new book. I am also thinking of attending one of those finance courses aiming to *deepen my financial awareness of the company*. I have already dealt with this boring side of the business during my MA, but forgot about it very quickly. Hence, it may be useful to refresh the parameters necessary to assess the success of a book. After work, I rushed to yoga. It sounds nearly a contradiction rushing towards the most relaxing moment of the day. However, as soon as I stepped into that centre, my senses released. My teacher is 5 months (?) pregnant. She had the most perfect belly button, and for the first 3 minutes I could not detach my eyes from her rounded belly. The practice was slow. I felt I didn’t breathe properly. My balance was miserable. My head a stone. I justified my heaviness with the fact that I hadn’t done much yoga lately (second time of this week after a break of 10 days). My flexibility was decent, but what worried me was my lack of concentration. During relaxation, I thought how much I loved that place, even though it is sometimes a bit too exclusive for me (I think I spotted Sienna Miller today but not entirely sure--so, just ignore my attempted gossip). After the practice, I bought one of those anti-stress balls covered in talc and offered to my self an organic *crazy pear* juice, which was delicious and apparently beneficial for the heart. Outside, it was a beautiful evening, the sun just set and it was already darkening. The sky in the horizon was of a greenish/bluish hue. I felt it like a taste of one of those sweet Autumnal nights, when the air is clean, fresh and cool. Autumn is in fact my favourite sensorial season, when my energies are at their fullest. My day in numbers: I saw 1 of those dog rats. I saw also 1 real rat (they hunt me everywhere). I even heard its impression (squeak squeak). Dreadful. I turned grey. I have been nearly run-over (and scorned) by 2 pizza delivery men, one in the morning and one in the afternoon (or maybe it was the same one both times). 2 cars stopped quasi-abruptly to let me kindly cross the road, even though I didn’t have the least intention of crossing it (I was taking it easy in my post-yoga relaxing state). Nice from them though.Faithful to my little vices, I bent 3 leaves and stroke my shell bracelet countlessly. I am at home now. I am planning to spend the rest of the night in horizontal position, watching the second part of inside 9/11 on National Geo Channel, the episode of Sex & the City for the 80th time, and to fall asleep with the Da Vinci Code, easy reading, at times a bit flat - but never boring, since the controversial mysteries of Jacques Sauniere keep your curiosity alive...I hope that also your evening will be full of little retrospective and regretless thoughts. Nite Nite

A very fancy engagement Party

Alex and B got engaged and will get married on 9 April 2006 (bless them!). The theme of the party was anything that started with "A" (for Alex) or "B" ( for Beatrix) . Although hard to tell from the pic, I was a Black Angel, Lofty an Albanian Bandit and Richard a British Army. :o )