Lights, Camera...

The thing about movies, is that they're awesome. I'm no film critic (if only I was cuttingly intelligent enough....), and honestly, in spite of my private dreams of reaching the star spangled land of Keira Knightley-dom, I'm no actress. Thus, my fixation with movies doesn't make much sense beyond the fiction being a balm for my incompatibility with my time and space, and even then it doesn't always hit the spot. (Though remarkably, disadvantaged as I am when it comes to the Space-Time continuum, I thoroughly enjoyed Inception. It gives me little shivers every time I think that means I might be approaching the aura of the whole other spectrum that just is Christopher Nolan.)

Nor can I, much to my shame, enumerate the director, vice director, producer, sub producer a, b, c, d, the star, the co-star, the little galaxy of extra people and the bloke behind the camera who got all those really head spinning shots of the bat mobile crashing over Gotham. I know neither their names in alphabetical order, their involvement in other works or their individual dates of birth. I consider myself lucky if I remember that 'oooh, that bloke was in Inception too!' and even then, only after a heated debate with my brother discussing whether said 'bloke' also played a villain called the Penguin. I can't place films on a timeline, I lack the encyclopaedic knowledge to group them by genre, sub genre, and that other artsy level which is just showing off. So, to be frank, I'm not interested in film because I want to hang out with 'film people' either, because a fresh clownfish with a broken fin would last longer against a great white shark. I hold these people in sincere awe, but I doubt I would ever be able to override my instinct for the preservation of my intellectual pride and actually approach them.

I'm not even interested in movies because they're some sort of wish fulfillment, (although lets face it, I would make a fantastically swashbuckling, Orlando ridden Elizabeth Swan.) I like fantasy, and sci-fi, drama and rom-com, horror when I can stick it out without screaming and stand the subsequent nightmares, action, thrillers and pretty much everything else on the market. Like a lot of, (definitely not stereotyping) teenage to young to middle aged to probably too old for this women, I will happily settle down for a cheeky little session with a certain insomniac Seattleite.  If it has an interesting plot, and the violence is neither too pornographic nor gratuitous, I'll drag a suitably strapping man to a horror film. I will be the loudest, most annoying gasper in the fantasy film when they go for a whizz on the old dragon, and I will spend hours staring at my mother trying to send her a telepathic illusion of myself as the wife of a certain Professor....X. However, in spite of my daydreams, which are both wild and detailed (again, I'm definitely compensating for the low performance when it come to the spacio-temporal vortex in which we exist) I cannot make myself avoid the fact that I will never look as good as Agent Romanov-Johannson in a skin tight black leather suit. Or, for that matter, a certain kitty Kyle-Hathaway. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never find a beau with either Andrew Garfield's  sweet sense of humour, brooding chocolate gaze, or shapely rear end...

However, I do like movies for a reason, and not because they happen to be my paradisal oases away from work. Of any kind. I was writing something other than my blog (it happens people, let it go) and all at once, I had one of those annoying, niggly, epiphanous thoughts that you should probably listen to but really don't want to. (Mostly because it means taking a hacksaw to what you've done and revamping it, with neither fangs, yellow eyes, nor Bambi.) I asked myself what the point was. And I couldn't find the answer, so out came the verbal hacksaw.

Because here's the thing. Not too long ago, a lot of people, some who knew things, some who didn't, and some who said they did and thought they did but knew less than the rest, started ranting and raving about a gladiatorial sci-fi involving teenagers and archery. "If we're not supposed to watch children killing children, then why are we watching children killing children?" The answer, from my perspective at least, as I found myself repeating to various acquaintances, was simple: "You don't watch it for the murder, or the violence, or the horror. People watch it because she gives hope. They want to see the fight. They want to see the victory of something good, specifically our something good - the triumph of all the good little fragments of human spirit over the great chasms lurking in every one of us." Which is why it is singularly fantastic that people went to see a certain Man of Bats, even after the Aurora Shooting (may the victims rest in peace, and their friends and families learn to heal.) Because the fact people continued to see the film about the hero proves that that shooter has won nothing.

That's why I watch films. Not because of maniacs and psychopaths, not to prove a point. Not to take tips in seduction, or to drive myself mad over whichever chippendale-esque and totally non objectified hunk is in fashion. I watch films because, science fiction or fantasy, romantic comedy or thriller, action or horror, there is always a human truth to be found. No, it's not likely I'll ever develop the mutant powers of my dreams and run away with James McAvoy. But prejudice against minorities happens every day. It is unlikely that a superhero will ever turn up and then dispose of a nuclear bomb in a suitably heroic fashion, but sacrifice, great and small, is omnipresent. No, the characters are not real people. But the stories are eternal, and human, manifold and true. They are necessary mirrors, of our struggles and our victories, our flaws and our saving graces.

And yes, honestly, they're also the only places where I'll see that many good looking men in one place, and not avoiding eye contact.

Typhoon Vs Subway

Hong Kong has a really ship-shape public transport system. No truly, for all the crowding, lack of recycling/green space/responsible use of electricity, and general toxicity that is the city, the MTR really can't be faulted.

Most of the time.

There are these great blinky light maps, so even Little Miss What-Space-Time-Continuum? doesn't get lost. Everything is in English and Chinese, so as long as you're not a tourist from the 150+ countries which speak neither, you won't even need a phrasebook. The trains are efficient, the trams are fairly regular, and the buses break the speed limit on a regular basis to drive past you because they're full. The ferry has one of the best views in the world, and is normally only a little bit bumpy.

And best of all, because it is Chinese, it is very, very clean. As in, no food or drink clean. As in, wear masks so you don't breath germs clean. As in, feeling ashamed because you've tracked in a puddle clean. Which is nice, as well as neurotic and intimidating. In Hong Kong, you can jump on the subway without holding your breath to avoid air born toxins, and you simply will not find chewing gum stuck anywhere. It is, in fact, a gum free zone.

The only problem with Hong Kong MTR. The only teensy weensy tiny little thing, is the minor issue of crowding. As you may or may not be aware, Hong Kong's population makes it to just over 7 million. There are, roughly, 16,000 people per square mile in the city. Which means there's about 3 people per square foot. And when there's a typhoon warning ( bearing in mind that the marvelous, clean, efficient public transport just shuts down at 'T8') all 16,000 people within your little square mile try to defy all the laws of physics and anatomy in order to crush themselves into one tube of aluminium and plastic, otherwise known as the train.

Because, you know, you couldn't stand around in the well lit, clean, spacious station and wait for the next one. In two minutes. That's just asking too much, really. Especially when you just got let off work early, and you really do have nothing better to do than beat up that silly white girl with your briefcase, because as a middle aged man with no small amount of paunch, it's both likely and reasonable you'll fit into the space between her and the doors. The space which, incidentally, is smaller than your briefcase...

The Hong Kong public transport system is great, just not when you're method acting a human sardine.

And I know that Typhoon Vicente was a pretty big deal. And I know that more than a few people didn't want to get stuck in the middle of the city during what was essentially a tropical hurricane. But I also know, now, what it feels like to have my face pressed into a strange man's sweaty armpit. And next time? I think I'll take the storm.

Not quite Zeus himself, but...

Wow, just wow. Currently sitting in a typhoon (the wonders of Hong Kong public transport to be discussed tomorrow) and as ever in storms, I'm enjoying being impressed and a little bit intimidated by the sheer power of the world we live in. Then I stumble across this. Amazed anyone?

You know you're somewhere fancy when...

So, first off, apologies for the unforgivable and excessively prolonged absence. Apparently, reality got the better of me, and for a short while I was hurled into the abyss that is five hour revision sessions, parent society Burns nights, and, horror among horrors, not finding chocolate cereal in the canteen. I can now say however, that it is all over....for now. Currently I'm enjoying the summer, and discovering that speaking French isn't all that great an asset when trying to get a job in Hong Kong, who knew? So I'm teaching myself Japanese. Because why pick the right country's language when you have so many hundreds more to choose from?

The weather in Hong Kong at the moment, for those of you who are curious, is rainy. Yeah, you'd think that moving 6,600 miles to a country widely considered to fall into the 'tropical' category would guarantee a break from certain precipitations. Apparently not. Owing to this, I discovered flip flops are designed to double up as Extreme Sports kit when applied to wet pavement with pressure. But hey, I'm taking the good with the bad, and plan on signing up for the next high speed skating world cup.

Honestly actually, thanks to the vast, sparse, soul destroying sahara that is my search for jobs, I've not been doing a great deal. Started reading Camilla Lackberg's 'The Ice Princess', which is great, but hard to really get into when you're on an island in the South China Sea, and there is a distinct lack of arctic wasteland. So I moved on to Leo Tolstoy's 'Anna Karenina', set in nineteenth century Russia. You know, because I'm logical like that. I watched 'The Amazing Spiderman', which was great, I experimented with making smoothies...

At this point you're probably wondering, if I've done so very little, why on Earth am I bothering to sit down and blog about it?  Because I had done all but nothing, until last night.

Last night we visited the Asian Nirvana, nay, Olympus, nay, the Valhalla, that is Hutong Restaurant. Seriously, you know you're somewhere fancy when washing your hands is an artistic experience. I mean it! I am easily pleased, but in this case I could have been a dinosaur confronted with an artistic representation of a meteorite and I'd have been bowled over. I mean - this sink for example! The tap was a sort of bamboo tube coming from the bottom of a hanging basket. It took me about five minutes to figure out this gorgeous water feature was actually a tap. When I did I experimented for another five.

However, even this gorgeous little novelty could not keep me away from the main restaurant for long, and we'd not even ordered yet. Because apart from the interactive, sculptural vision that is the bathroom, one of Hutong's best features is the floor to ceiling, wrap around wall of windows, opening onto what is quite probably the best view in Hong Kong. Truly, it's enthralling to the point of being obsessively beautiful, you just can't take your eyes away. Before you, a black satin carpet ripples with silver and burns with the lights of the city above. Ships and ferries make their graceful way from one side of the harbor to the other. The buildings themselves bring to mind a 21st century vision of the Tower of Babel.

It's so easy, on visiting Hong Kong, to come away with the negatives. To come away with the pollution, and the crowding, and the excess and the ludicrous living conditions bestowed on the vast majority. But it truly is a beautiful place, and a very very human one. Hutong presented Hong Kong's best face on a silver platter, and it was as entrancing as it was impressive.

As for the food, it stood up to the view, which is a tall order. And it made my brother, affectionately nicknamed the Human Hoover, pause and allow his tastebuds to share in the experience normally sent straight to his gullet. Myself, I was lost for words.

I think that says it all really.

Till next time, all the best.

Dear Whomsoever It May Concern.

Foreword: Firstly, my apologies for having ignored the blog for quite so long. The whole spatio-temporal awareness thing apparently gets worse with age, so if you think it's bad now, I'd recommend giving up on me in a few years. Still, I'd like to say that for once I have a genuine excuse; being an archaeological dig, AS level exams, a quick weekend to Beijing, holiday homework to write a book and a week in Kathmandu helping at an orphanage called the 'Buddhist Child Home.' It is as a result of my experiences at the Home that I write the following letter.

The Home was set up in 1997 by Mrs Durga Mainali; and it is an entirely non-political, humanitarian social organization. Durga decided to found the home after making the life changing decision to take in a baby she saw crying on the street. Because of the strict and heavily family oriented traditions of Nepalese society; hundreds of children are thrown every day into a merciless world with very little hope for a future. This is what, above all else, the Home provides. Hope. It takes in children, making sure to follow legal procedures, and raises them, cares for them, and helps set them up for a future that would be otherwise outside of their reach.

The children I met had been in gangs, left in fields, put in prison for their parents' crimes, forced to work under age and tied up in temples for begging. There were and are so many more stories along similar lines, but they were, I can honestly say, some of the most incredible people I've ever met. The home has managed, with the help of a few generous sponsors, to send the kids to school, but every day they walk past dozens of shops full of things they can never have. I know this, I walked the road myself when asked to come meet their friends (possible commandeering of the playground ensued..) Still, they are the kindest, most well mannered children I'd ever met. Entirely without bitterness, or anger, or hostility, they all care for one another, and quite happily accepted me into their family.

I write this not because I want to be considered a good Samaritan, or even, following the original intention of my stay, to encourage others to go and do what I did and intend to do again. I write this to anybody and everybody, who would consider helping in any way they can; whether that's by donating money (Mrs Mainali asks for 101 Nepali Rupees a month, that's less than a British pound), clothes, shoes, toys, rice...really, anything would be greatly appreciated. So the following letter is written pleading for anything, from myself, for my brothers and sisters. Please help them.

Dear Whomsoever It May Concern,

My name is Gabrielle. For one week, I had the privilege of helping out at the Buddhist Child Home in Jorpati, Kathmandu. I've seen the work done there, and I've known the children. The whole setup has come into being on account of a society restricted by tradition and corrupted by opportunists seeking to manipulate such stigma for personal gain.

Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of room for both tradition and opportunists, doubtless: but when these combined and potentially subversive factors result in abused children, starving children, imprisoned children, dying children...One has to ask where exactly and to what end any 'opportunity' exists, and question the validity and relevance of traditions that are throttling their own society by poisoning the lifeblood of its future.

There are people, dozens, who need to wake up and realize that if nothing else: if not being simply innocent, helpless, talented, kind and human; these children are the hands in which Nepal's future lies. And it is your decision, should such matters concern you, as to whether these hands will be emaciated, diseased and bloody, or capable, healthy and gentle.

Of course, change cannot happen easily: certainly not the sort of change required to overhaul and undermine the misguided present reliance on generations of invalid tradition. But change can happen. It already is happening, right now. The children in the Buddhist Child Home aren't surly, violent, rude or filthy. They're clean and confident and ready to burst back into their society, if only you'll give them a nudge in the right direction. If only the city, the country and the world will open their eyes and see the most valuable resource on offer today. The next generation.

This is not the sort of opportunity you should dismiss, or wait for someone else to find and deal with. How often do people, in the Western world at least, complain of words and not actions? Corrupted charity? Free pens that could have been water supplies? There's a chance; right now to change that.

These children were abandoned, for whatever reason, by their families: their only lifeline in the ever-more tumultuous ocean that is the world today. When that happened, they were thrown violently into life and society, and like it or not, they became our responsibility and our concern.

These children are not a burden, they're people, and good ones if you'll give them a chance. Why, after all, in a world maniacally preoccupied with saving what little reserves we have left, are we throwing away so carelessly one of our best 'materials' in the struggle for a healthy, just and equal global community? Human beings are our own best chance, and these children can be anything and anyone if only you'll let them. Think Van Gogh, Michelangelo, J.K.Rowling, Alan Sugar, Aristotle; and don't be the fool that turned them away.

This is the world's concern now, so please, step up, and see the miracle waiting just over the mountains.

If you have my contact details, please feel free to get in touch to find out how you can help. It not, please visit www.buddhistchildhome.org.np to find out more about how to help. Don't let them continue to 'crying in their hearts'. Thank you.

'The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep' - Robert Frost.

Seasons greetings...!!

Because, I'm afraid, by this point saying Merry Christmas is late and Happy New Year is early. Lucky me that I can wrap it all up in one generic statement without being concerned with any chronological mishaps.

In fact- generic messages seems to be the whole feel of these few days between Christmas and 2011. We're all sort of drifting on the flotsam of used wrapping paper and leftover mulled wine, sustaining ourselves with rations of turkey that just keeps going and occasionally glancing at the blank horizon that is post-Christmas filler TV. Don't get me wrong, I had a great Christmas thankyou very much- my Grandad regained his infamous devil pants, my Aunt thought she spotted yoda and I made a snowman called Gerald in the then abundant snow- all in all, a pretty normal, peachy celebration for house globe trotter. Yes, my family and I had crossed the globe twice in the run up- yes, we'd traipsed through county towns and chinese markets on the neverending search for the elusive perfect gift (x10), and yes, my Dad did indeed say at some point, 'I have 36 hours, can I fit in a trip to France?' in all sincerity. But this is my house, and things were actually, to us at least, going pretty smoothly.

But right now, half my wonderful new things, my not quite worn out old things and my collections of sales returns are sort of drifting in the etha of mess that is my room, along, I am sure, with my misplaced sense of duty to my exam revision, which, right on cue, I am beginning to panic about. So what do I decide to do? Update my blog of course!

Because if there's one thing the season to be jolly is also about, and really should be about- a dickensian philosophy in a nutshell- it's about giving. Not of course that I would hubristically suggest my writing this blog is some sort of gift- I know I know, to most it's a chore, but heck, it's the thought that counts right? And at least with this I'm not going to add a nudge and a wink and mumble that I got it half price (what else could enhance the value of your present?). Seriously though, right now, in this stunned haze of post celebration and preparation for the next, everyone here has become pretty impassive. 'Right, thank whatever gods may be that's over- now where could she have left the receipt? Will Tescos be open on boxing day?' As piles of gifts are hurriedly shoved into an assortment of gift bags and plastic bags and eco friendly ones, it appears that we've, well, lost some of the spirit of the season- and by that I don't mean severely moralizing ghosts. Maybe it's nostalgia on my part, a pyschotically would-be cheerful nature or way too many disney films, but I think it would be nice if we could keep up that giving feeling for just a few more days. (and please don't take that materialistically, unless you're my dad, in which case, one word= chocolate)

Really though, we're getting to the end of the year- good things have happened (doctor who and merlin anyone, hello?!), and terrible things too- disasters for the planet and it's people which have cast their fair share of shadows. But in so many hundreds of thousands of years of human history, we have to eventually accept the dark with the light- however painful it may be. And we've made it- we're here, we've got past the christmas chaos, and maybe we're all pretty exhausted, but this is another milestone in our lives and our history, and we've got a choice. We can drift in passivity amongst leftover sprouts, we can sob over items that didn't quite make it from the wish list to reality (a real lightsaber, etc), or we can pull ourselves up, plaster one more universal botox-esque grin on our faces and leave the year with a bang, and sense of giving something to one another in return for just a little more cheer to keep us going. Say whatever you will,but it's fair to say (however cliched it may be) that life is a journey- time is a sequence of events that we think we perceive, and whatever may come at the end, it's worth enjoying each milestone, because it's not about how many grey hairs you think you have, how many kids, how many cars, how many boyfriends, how much money...It's about the time you've spent and the sensations and experiences you've partaken in. Thinking of it that way, I hope- however your year has turned out, you can find a little joie de vivre left inside you for the penultimate day of the newest milestone to wake up and grin, and give just a little more of yourself. You'll be surprised by the rewards.

Oh God O'clock

Imagine- the sky is a nondescript grey, mysterious, as if a veil of fog has been pasted to the atmosphere to further delude the prophets crying out global warming. Even the birds haven't yet woken up to sing, the trees are silent, as if, deep in their core, they too slumber. The sun is hiding somewhere down Australia way, and the frost still permeates the air like a choking icy ghost.

"Time to get up!!"

A grunt, which with my limited dictionary I can translate as,

"What time is it?"

There's a pause. A tug of an ear lobe. Rub of the neck. And then, an uneasy, half closed mouth mumble...

"six...AM."

Silence. You know, like when there's silence right before a typhoon. Or a bushfire. Or a tidal wave. Or the ever more hyped up apocalypse. Apparently, when she's 6000 miles from home, severely jet lagged, almost as cold as Captain Oats when he popped out for a walk and utterly exhausted, it's not acceptable to wake your mother up at Oh God O'Clock. On her birthday.

Note to self. Remember that.

Still, at least this time I wasn't the root of the problem. Actually, it was my brother's zealous obsession with rugby, and the fact that actually, his teams quite good. Add a dash of parental pride, a lack of semi normal regular familial activities and hope for a birthday try, and we find ourselves in the above situation. They won, but the try eluded him, though there was a close shave in which my mother became near hysteric. Honestly, even the slightly disproportionate team chihuahua's eyes weren't quite so wide, or voice quite so high, as she suddenly realised something really good might actually happen on her birthday.

That's sad isn't it? I mean, it's supposed to be a wonderful day- the celebration of one of life's mysteries in which we actively participate, the marking of a loved one's coming into the world- a philosophical sign post indicating logically this is when we may conclude this person came to exist. (though since it's philosophy, please free to include obligatory 'maybe/perhaps/probably/none of the above'.)

And yet, here she was, freezing her toes off on a muddy field in the North, wrapped up in at least three coats to protect her from our glorious weather having woken up at six o'clock, travelled four hours and not even had breakfast in bed- fanatically egging him on in the hope of something more to celebrate.

It's sadder still that my family actually have various codes for these particularly torturous obstacles in our lives in which we are required to wake up at such damned witching hours and travel, groggily, for hours with nothing but directions from a printout and a flask of coffee to fuel us. These include the afore-mentioned 'Oh God O'Clock', and just 'get some sleep', said in certain tones to indicate the meaning, much like numerous eastern dialects. Forget Captain Cook- we are the intrepid explorers of HavenBaulk lane, the code breakers of the school provided directions, the heroes who soldier on with barely a welcome break pork pie to go on- those messy haired, halfway dressed nomads who stumble onto the pitch and wait for the wind to give them an adrenaline rush where caffeine couldn't.

You know the best thing? It's late afternoon, and neither I, nor they, care any longer. The past is the past, to state the long gone obvious. It no longer exists and there's no point lamenting it. A goal was set, it was achieved, we came back together- for an hour or two we seemed like a normal family (ignoring the fact we were discussing the varying difficulty of bartering with chinese stall owners depending on geographic location, and where to best find full cream goat's milk for your father/in-law.) And that's all that counts. We pick which memories we remember, often without even consciously considering the action. We block out the pain of waking up at such forsaken hours much like we decide- in general outside of our sentient knowledge- to breathe or use a hyphen (woops).

So if I look back on my school trip to Rome, I'll remember acrobatic dogs, disturbing cryptic postcards (and by that I mean gems dealing with photos of crypts because the british postal service doesn't have enough to deal with.) I'll remember west country lads picking up irish accents and how to say 'nun' in cantonese. I'll generally be ignorant on reflection of the blister to defeat all blisters, and my english teacher's cheerful chirp of a 'short walk', where his piece of string stretches several miles and ours some desperate metres.

And Mum, I hope, when she looks back on today, will remember being at home, and knowing that we love her. And yes, that's unbelievably soppy, and no, I'm not sure any of us has the guts to put it into words and show that, shock horror, we have emotions, but the sentiments exists. And if it's possible for someone to perceive a negative sentiment where there is none, then there must also on occasion be a positive sentiment which lies unseen, but exists nonetheless. Maybe some deity or greater force exists, maybe it/he/she doesn't- but there is something in which we can have faith, especially as we get closer to christmas.

If nothing else, if only for a moment, trust in the goodwill of humanity. Because from someone, somewhere, even at Oh God O'clock, it's there.