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.

WARNING: May contain nuts...

My current room mate likes birthdays. I mean, really really really likes them. As in, waking up at 6.30 on hers and questioning the night before if anyone's going to send her a midnight message. It also means sneaking about 6 litres of fizzy drink onto the geography trip bus for a friend turning seventeen, and having an entire draw dedicated to birthday gifts.

She also has a bizarre aversion to nuts (absolutely no euphemism intended for anyone with their mind in the gutter) not that I can blame her, I'm the same. Still- she can go to the extent of taking a bite of a chocolate bar and being able to tell within seconds whether there was peanut oil on the packaging machine. No- I didn't think Marshmallows tasted anything like peanuts either, but heck, there you go- there is no escape from the monkey manna monster- even in icing sugar and gelatin.

It's funny isn't it? How previously held conceptions can so easily be proven wrong- and how some people go through life convinced they will be. (not that I'm ever one of the perpetrators.) Like- travelling four hours to London to visit a gallery for school when your in your teens will ever be even remotely enjoyable. I mean, there's the bus journey (How many bottles can possibly fit on the metaphorical wall?!); cold tandoori chicken sandwich (it tasted awful when it was cooked...); and of course, the galleries themselves ( is that a security guard or a dinosaur?).

I've never been more glad to be proved wrong. Eating chicken and avocado sandwiches, chilling on the grass in trafalgar square before checking out some michelangelo's and notebooks written by Leonardo da Vinci- as well as seeing what Raphael would consider a first draft, and I can only say is jaw dropping- well, it wasn't a walk in the park, but it was surprisingly- at risk of sounding 'nerdy'- fun.

Then there's the guy on the bus who wanted to be a rock star and secretly reads poetry (ok, maybe not too surprising), the musician would-be archaeologist and the girl who loves pink and can make any calculation on demand, in spite of her pretty girl persona. I love it- and I've mentioned it before, but I just want to say it again. People aren't just multi-dimensional, or multi-faceted. They don't have to be suffering from schizophrenia to have multiple personalities- and nor do they need to be a genius to be brilliant. Being human is enough- and yes, sometimes it seems like you just met the dullest person on Earth- and it's possible if they say 'one more thing' one more time you'll call it a day and fall asleep. But then, they might suddenly mention the day they met a sea monster- and poof- just like that you're wide awake. (story courtesy of Martin Hesp if you want to ask)

You've got to dig- you've got to be patients, you've got to go through a full draw of small print, but eventually, out of nowhere, you find marshmallow's containing nuts, and the world is no longer quite so normal. It's just a bit more fun- got a bit of garnish on it's rough, bumbling surface, and it makes you think- lets not say the seas polluted and grey and howling like a dying leviathan. Lets just say it looks like sapphire, and today the sun's pouring gold onto the surface and there's nothing more beautiful.

There is nothing on this planet that is not stunning- it is the only thing most of us will experience and we have to figure that out. Yes- there is pain and cruelty and darkness- but you have to get your head round the fact that something, somewhere, will have catalysed it- and it will have been incredible, and odd, and surprising, and laughable- just for a second. And that's what makes it worth it.

Angels, Cereal and wasting time.

I think perhaps the greatest loss of my relatively short life is my sudden disregard for cereal. Once- recently in fact- cereal was as god to my morning routine- I was infamously unconscious, and frequently still in bedclothes as I stumbled towards my manna- the stuff which somehow made monday mornings bearable. Chocolate flavour, weetabix, fruit studded, honeyed- you name it, I devoured it as I dragged myself out of my dreams- contemplating each spoon before savouring it in private bliss.

Sadly- I've forsaken this. I'm afraid the temptation of my duvet overcame my cat like love of milk in my breakfast- and now its fallen to the bottom of the priority list. This all came together when, after several attempts at trying to wake me- with light, hairdryers and strawberry laces (or so I'm told) my roommate proclaimed my likeness to a brick and gave up. Blearily, half an hour later I rolled out of my bed's embrace, and realised I had five minutes to get ready. Not good. What was worse was realising that it was Thursday, not Wednesday. No- this did not happen straightaway- in fact, it took a double lesson of french grammar stabbing superlatives into my sleep muddled mind for me to catch the glare my teacher was giving me. Because I missed my mandarin lesson. Because I thought it was Wednesday. Ever been glared at by a french professor? Because honestly- that particular breed of educator has honed it to an art. Still- it made me wonder, had I been having my regular installment of some cardboard wrapped wonder, I would have paid attention to the day of the week. That way I would've known when I would be able to get some more. Maybe- this whole missing breakfast thing was even worse than I'd first imagined.

Then I remembered that I rarely knew the day of the week, and promptly forgot. Even if I'd had any further doubts, in the chapel that morning our chaplain proudly announced we had a new angel in school, and everything was alright again. Cue doubletake. I mean- everything was a bit new- but angels? Was that going to be part of the establishment confessed oddity of routine? Within seconds my gaze was drawn, with the dozens around me- as if by a collective magnet, to the back of the chapel where the chaplain was pointing proudly. I felt my heart sink. A somewhat 'abstract' angel- which was less conceptual or philosophical than a traditional angel shape made in white painted squares of balsa wood, hung at a precarious angle from the whitewashed wall. Well- so much for heavenly host- it was more discount at B&Q. I mean, I know Angels/Christianity should be to do with humility, building up wealth in heaven rather than on earth- but this looked like something taken from a scrapyard, lacking even that rough redeeming charm.

As the week went on- my disappointment began to change into something else, and it all started with time wasting.

We had a talk- as promising adolescents, on how to spend time doing the right things to get into ever more competitive universities. We were told not to worry- our social life would not be sacrificed, but our freedom would. Or rather our free periods should be spent under the college's academic watch. Having just read 1984- this thought already gave me an irrational shudder, and when the biology teacher went on to combine the elements of a timetable with molluscs (no I still don't comprehend how) this transformed to full on horror. Organising my time? Knowing the day of the week?! Giving up my free period chocolate??? Horror of horrors- let it not be so. But all this came afterwards, and even now only lingers at the surface of my consciousness- mixed up with merlin, myth, strawberry laces and straps, and chocolate. All things important- but then, underneath it all- the honest stuff. The stuff that you know makes you who and what you are- be it a chemical cocktail, a bias of external opinions, or something some people would call a soul.

There was one thing that the biology teacher said that really stuck with me. 'Let your time be spent, not wasted.' A bit cliched yes- but ponder it a second whilst I go on a relevant tangent. Angels, according to Saint Thomas Aquinas- are semi-contingent. They have a beginning, but no end, they are immortal. For an angel- maybe even for our odd little balsa fellow, time should be spent wisely. It is, one would suppose, the reason for their existence.

On the other hand, returning to the point post haste- can human beings waste time? Please don't point out the obvious, 'if you have an exam/commitment/job/time to wake up you can't spend time chilling/eating/ sleeping- or my personal favorite, 'whatever it is you lot do these days'.

Really- our days are numbered, fair enough. Our experience throughout this life is limited- every choice we make closes as many doors as it opens. But when we get to those last few seconds, afterlife or not- surely our lives have been worth every second? Surely then we can realise that? Because no passing fad- be that a job or an education (ha! such useless things) can define our perception of the times of our lives. We have lived them- and surely that's the key. That in each of those seconds- be they spent in sleep, study, invention or indulgence- we have spent them. We have breathed the air around us, our hearts have beat to the dance of our emotions- we have seen, not seen- felt, not felt- experienced life and time and the earth around us. In that sense, though time may be used wastefully, it is never wasted- always spent as we progress through our lives, and let every moment- consciously or not, shape who we are.

There's no need to worry about the loss of cereal epiphanies or vengeful french teachers with chinese as a side- no need to panic about which day you've reached. You reached it- you lived it- you spent the time as yourself. Let the angels worry about wasting time. They're far less likely to slip up.

Even at the End of the Road-

You can't find Cafe Java. You can find Sea Gypsies, shark teeth, tsunami escape routes and golden buddhas- but the elusive cafe likes to switch cities, and is, as a result, impossible to find- even if you spend two hours searching for it last thing at night in the back streets of Thailand. But hey! I guess that's life.

On the other hand, at least neither I or my hypothetical ox were killed horribly by a curse from the vengeful half buried buddha we visited- maybe it's because of my brand new protection charm. Maybe it's because the buddha decided to take a vacation. Either way as of yet I have not yet fallen into terminal illness after the inexplicable appearance of a piece of gold leaf (normally put on the buddhas as a sign of worship) on my thumb. I'm sure that's some kind of omen- I'm hoping it's a good one, because as the days before I get my gcse results dwindle away painfully slowly, I'm developing a sort of bipolar disorder.

One minute I'm hiding in my bed till midday feeling sick every time I check the date on my possibly waterproof watch. The next, I'm laughing madly whilst flying down zipwires 50 feet above a jungle canopy. Maybe it's just me- but really, these examiners seem to have devised the perfect slow torture for the hordes of normally indifferent teens- it's like payback for all those years of missing half the lesson because of a lie in- or just savouring a chocolate bar- or once talking to my headmaster having dinner with my parents in Hong Kong. What can I say? Time is immaterial to me- it brings neither snow, strawberries, yorkshire puddings, bubbles or puppies when I want them. Why should I obey it's namby pamby laws?

Ok, scratch that- it's impossible not to, but it doesn't mean I have to pay attention to the fact.

Regardless- time is most certainly at a standstill when you're having a fish spa. This quaint custom involves you putting your feet in a tank full of fish for a period of the afore mentioned T word and having your feet nibbled and groomed by several dozen small fish. Yes, I am incredibly ticklish, yes, I went through with the fish spa, yes, I screamed and laughed like an idiot for the first ten mintues- and no, I'm not entirely sure it's a good thing that these fish are being raised on human flesh. But it's an experience I can scratch off my 'bucket list'. (The list of things you want to do before you die, nicked from the excellent film by the same name.)

If only time stretched the same way whilst I'm lying with a cocktail, 'far from the madding crowd', and the azure ocean stretching out before me whilst lying on a sun lounger on a beach in the sun. Really dislike me yet? (apparently hates a strong word- incidentally, what does that make love?)

I suppose it doesn't matter the situation, circumstance, country or gibbon reserve- time and monsoon rain will carry on regardless. You don't have to pretend to pay any attention to it (I doubt I ever will), but sometimes, maybe- it's best to make the most of it. After all, no one ever knows how much 'time' they have left- but nor do they often realise any 'time' they have is infinite- and therefore, to steal a cliche, full of endless possibility.

There are fish in the sea;

God is a saxophonist who goes by the alias of Morgan Freeman; and in the end, everything comes back to Uncle Howard.

It's funny, the things you learn from people. Whether that involves sailing a sixty five metre long ship, or taking a friend wakeboarding, our fellow human beings can be some of our closest friends- and still remain a mystery.

I mean, I get each one of us is an individual- or at least I try to comprehend 6 billion different chances for a new imagination, opinion, spirit and mind. But really- from a fear of fish and cats to the dangers of cursing someone with a wart up the nose, sometimes, though I find it fascinating, I am presented with the most impossibly bewildering pieces of nonsense even I can not begin to comprehend in my own dotty mind.

It could just be me- I'll accept that, I've heard that daydreaming every few seconds and putting the book you just bought back on the shelf in the second hand bookstore you just bought it from is supposed to be a sign you're losing touch. Also, talking to yourself and craving chocolate- though I know that's far less unusual. (In fact, I consider chocolate cravings positively healthy- I mean, a cocoa bean is a vegetable/fruit/berry- whatever the real category is.)

But I try my best to find out about normal people- I watch them on TV, and read about them in books. (We haven't yet wired up the broadband to my hermit cave, but we're working on it. The satellite man will be the first guest in years, and I've cleared out all the pythons for him.)

Seriously- I have a terrible sense of humour, even I don't understand it. I have a friend who may never get above a C in an exam, and still remains one of the most intelligent, diligent people I've ever met- I know the most decent gentleman in the world, who at late thirty something is still happy to be openly promiscuous with every female he comes across. I look at reality, then flip back to the one Jacqueline Wilson book I ever read- and I don't get it- I mean, am I missing something?

In the immortal words of Sue Sylvester- "Is it me?"

Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I expect my ever so slightly skewed perception of everything from my brother to floating blue beach balls belonging to white haired chinese men may be somewhat responsible for the apparent oddity of even the most sensible people I come across.

However, I'm fairly sure it's possible it's them too. I cannot imagine sharing every experience, every spoken word, lesson learned, book read and dream or nightmare dreamt with even one other human being. Biology and genetics aside- can you imagine the multicolor mess of experiences that build each human being?

I mean, I'm sure it's easy enough to consider from time to time- to let it flash across your mind, but if you really think about it, really make yourself try and imagine that many scenes- the acting out of a liftetime, and then multiply it by six billion, the result will make the amount of stars in the sky seem numerable.

On the Star ferry, crossing Victoria harbour, or on the parade of sail in Antwerp, or the sailing festival in Aalborg- one thing repeatedly struck me.

My Mum used to say to me that beaches are graveyards- fantastic, beautiful, halfway points, the cemeteries of the sea. I realised, suddenly, that cities are the beaches for human beings and their oddities.

It sounds bizarre, but give me a moment to explain- beaches are what's left of 'la fruit de la mer'- the 'peoples' and wildlife of the oceans, the objects they've constructed, and given their lives to- to have as shelters, birth places, and opportunities for exhibition.

So a collection of buildings, on occasion so cluttered they seem to be overflowing, inhabited by hundreds of thousands of people, who live there and leave their mark and build their heritage upon the foundations of their homes; a collection of buildings that are often as different in shape and size as a daisy and a rose; a collection of buildings made for shelter, exhibition, safety.... Are the two really that different?

How many stories lie in a building? Even a boring old apartment block will have hundreds- and each one will be the result of an individual personality, an individual set of emotions and experiences, some of which will have been played out inside all four walls.

You can look at a city like Hong Kong, or London, or Paris- and you can consider those six billion epic stories- about anyone, from a janitor to a Duke- each dotted and flavored by preference: Uncle Howards; not leaving New Shoe's on table; an inherited love of the ocean- and maybe you'll start to realize, as I'm trying to, with the proof right before your eyes, that the human race- though faulted, predictable, and often primitive- is just as varied, and brilliant as the universe it inhabits.