Do vets treat fish?

Piscine emergency this weekend.

Returned home from a haircut (which subsequently did not get noticed much amongst the drama) to the news that Claude was swimming oddly and had an unpleasant looking red gash by one of his gills.

After careful observation (and the passing thought that staring into fishbowls on a Saturday afternoon was not the ideal way to spend what precious little is left of my twenties), a telephone consultation with Mr Kenny (he who knows about fish) and suitable documentation (photos of injury and video of unusual swimming motion), I wandered down to the fish emporium in Crystal Palace to secure suitable medication i.e. disturbingly-coloured stuff that gets measured out in drops per gallon of water or something equally precise that I didn't really follow. While there I also (finally) discovered what species the twins are - Calico Fantails for anyone who's interested.

As of yesterday the odd swimming seems to have abated but the red gash is only minimally improved. I fear the danger is not yet fully past.

X-Men 4; The Wrath of Lakshmi

Tried telling the boys at work about my potential magnetic/radioactive superpower. They were not supportive at all, reacting mostly by laughing derisively and suggesting that time probably just seems slower around me since my stories are long and dull.

The fools will pay for their insolence. When my powers reach full strength, they'll be the first ones I vaporise.

Retail therapy?

While I know I have a varied, diverse and generally interesting personality, I thought a list of my material purchases from the last week or so might provide Lakshmi-novices with valuable insight into just what they're getting for their money:

• Brown leather Coccinelle handbag (was on sale, how could I say no?)
• Disturbed's latest album (annihilation will be unavoidable)
• 11 P.G. Wodehouse books (10 Penguin edition, 1 Vintage)
• A Terry's Chocolate Orange (round, but not round for long)
• Seasons 3 and 4 of Entourage
• Travel insurance (despite no solid plans for any trips in the near future)
• Clean Cotton scented Yankee Doodle candle (went out, meant to buy lunch, bought a candle instead. As you do.)
• Greatest Hits of Erasure CD

Try as I might, I can't discern a pattern...

We are the champions

Went to (and won) pub quiz at the Commercial last night - leaving my Herne Hill pub quizzing record at an unblemished 100%.

Very gratifying to win, despite the relatively meagre prize, but very disturbing to note that my only real contribution towards our success was knowledge of bad 90's music - I correctly identified a Peter Andre song (can't believe I just admitted that in writing) and knew what country Ace of Base were from.

The shame of it.

Celebrity spots in London so far

• Lucy Liu at the Rodin exhibition at the Royal Academy of Art, looking at sculptures and being accompanied by a very tall man. As all very short women inevitably are
• Howard from Take That at the Hospital member's club in Covent Garden, looking for the bar. Presumably to drown his sorrows, as Take That had not had their renaissance yet and he was, at that time, just another washed-up ex-member of a 90's boyband
• Laura something or other who is currently one of the favourites on this year's X Factor* walking down the street in Covent Garden. Until and unless she wins and actually goes on to have a singing career, we might have to award her only temporary/pseudo/British-standard** celebrity status for now
• Sir Derek Jacobi buying some sort of unidentifiable thingummy at a special effects/theatrical make-up shop in Covent Garden.

Looks like Covent Garden is a clear winner for potential celebrity activity but think the quality or at least recognisability of the contenders could do with some improvement...

*Singing-based reality TV contest, similar to Pop Idol, American Idol and countless others, to which I am hopelessly addicted against my will

**It doesn't take much to become famous in Britain. Really it doesn't.

YES WE CAN!

What a momentous week this has been for world history - some might argue it's really more about American history but considering the 'leader of the free world' makes decisions that impact all our lives these days, I think we've all had enough of a stake in the recent US elections to celebrate at the result.

After months of preparation (mostly consisting of soaking up relevant media articles, watching episodes of the West Wing and reading The Audacity of Hope), Gareth and I stocked ourself with pizza, Pepsi, pretzels and pudding (the election was obviously brought to us by the letter P) and settled down to watch the entire night of US election results from 11.00pm to 6.00am. In practice, this consisted mostly of several hours of dull talking heads commentary from random people whose insight was no better than my own, briefly punctuated with amusing moments such as when Gore Vidal (who appeared to be drunk) told the BBC correspondant he (BBC man) shouldn't ask any him (GV) questions since he (GV) didn't know who he (BBC man) was.

Our patience and resilience was rewarded when Barack Obama emerged the clear winner and Sarah Palin's hopes of murdering John McCain and usurping the presidency amounted to nothing.

In a cynical and largely charmless world, it's nice to feel so strongly united with so many people, regardless of race, gender, creed, geography or age and feel like we've all been witness to a historical event.

A change we need indeed!

How to spot people at the airport who have just got off a flight from Dubai

They're the ones wearing sunglasses.

Indoors.

At 9.00pm.

In England.

Uh-oh...

Gareth walked into one of the spider webs the other day.

The mind boggles to think what hideous retribution awaits.

Things male friends talk to me about

• Curtains
• Cleaning products
• The relative merits of beards

Any glamour I may once have exercised is clearly gone.

Things my cab driver thought I might be interested to hear his views on

Discussed during a 15 minute journey to Heathrow:

• Gloria Estefan
• Driving in Windsor
• Volvos
• Asian cab companies
• Advertising on the radio
• Maintaining the right attitude during an economic downturn

All, as I'm sure you'd agree, worth knowing about.

Everybody needs good neighbours

There are, not one, not two but three fairly large spiderwebs right outside my front door, playing home to what appears to be West Dulwich's native species of arachnid.

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this state of affairs - my attitude towards spiders generally being that they're welcome to exist in an abstract sense, but not share my home - after all, they're TECHNICALLY outside and not attempting to interact with me in any significant fashion. That said, it's only a matter of time before winter sets in and they start looking around for more hospitable environments and when they do, it will surely not escape their attention that our home is within spitting distance of theirs, providing all the convenience of staying in the neighbourhood without having to foot the cost of ever-increasing energy bills. Plus, it's obviously only a matter of time before I come home late one evening, fumble for my keys in the relative darkness of our doorstep, inadvertently stumble right into the murky depths of at least one of the webs and incur the wrath of its occupant. And one shudders to think what the upshot of that kind of thing might be.

Gareth takes the view that they're 'interesting looking' (I maintain that he needs to re-think his idea of what is worth observation and what isn't) and they have not actually made much effort to get to know us, so as neighbours go, they're better than some. As such, we are leaving them alone for the moment.

We are, after all, not here to fuck spiders.

Please don't stop the music

Some days, you unknowingly pick exactly the right song.

Each step times perfectly with the beat and the walk to the station actually improves your mood, despite the fact that you're on your way to work at an ungodly hour of the day when even the sun hasn't made it out of bed yet.

Today is going to be a good day.

Going for gold

So another Olympics has come and gone, set to return when the fields are white with daisies.

I generally tend to avoid paying attention to the Olympics - after all, if some people take pleasure in flinging themselves a centimetre further into a sand pit than others or hurling a javelin about for no good reason, then they may feel free to do so but I decline to encourage them in these excesses. This year, however, I found myself surprisingly interested in the whole thing - meaning that I didn't switch to another channel if I happened to stumble upon it on TV. With world records being broken on all sides, Beijing 2008 struck me as an excellent example of the kind of strength and determination human beings can exhibit when they think someone might be watching.

Am going for my own record at the moment, having moved out of my fourth flat in two years. Although I'm not sure whether I should go for the record of largest number of house moves within the Greater London area in the shortest amount of time or whether the champagne should pop when I manage to live in any one place for longer than six months.

I would say thoughts and comments to the usual address but somehow that seems flippant...

Wuv... twue wuv..

Day 3 of life with the Sony Walkman and I've realised that my girlish dalliance with the iPod were merely a fanciful distraction. This is true love

Walk the line

I thought when I gave up driving, some of the travel-related annoyances in my life would, by default, disappear. Apparently not. It appears people who don't let you merge into the highway when you're coming off an exit have been replaced with people who step on your flip-flops when you're walking.

On the tube, where intimacy and proximity are unwanted but understandable, I'd be more forgiving, but if you're stepping (essentially) on the back of my foot while we're walking, YOU'RE TOO CLOSE!

The Shoes of Salvation

Not sure anyone remembers (or cares about) the boots that defined my life's philosophy.

In a nutshell, I went to incredible pains to hunt down a pair of boots I fell in love with some years ago, when on holiday in the UK. I had little success, despite combing every outlet of Office (shoe store) that I could find over the course of my visit and being told nonsensical tales by shop assistants throughout. Turns out when I got home to Dubai, KY had a pair of said boots that didn't fit her particularly well, which she then gave me. All in all, this experience made me think of the larger picture meaning of life and I concluded that if things are meant for you, they'll find you.

Turns out the boots hurt like sin and I am shortly about to donate them to Jamila who will give them a kind and loving home, so I had to wonder what this meant for my earlier philosophical conclusion. Surely if something is meant for you, you shouldn't have to give it up? Having given this some thought (and I really did), I worked out my other life's philosophy, which is that (although if things are meant for you, they'll find you) sometimes things aren't meant for you after all, no matter how much you wish they were and perhaps there's no way to learn that but to have them, love them and still lose them.

No wonder women love shoes - they teach you so much about life.

Bring me a real challenge

In an attempt to start the long, doubtless painful process of fitting back into my clothes, I waddled along to the gym last night and, among other things, had a stint on the Power Plate - a fairly strange contraption which vibrates under your feet as you go about the business of doing lunges, squats, push-ups and other unpleasant sounding (and feeling) exercises.

Have to admit I'm not convinced how much I believe in this vibrating muscle theory, having studied for years at the school of thought which dictates that if it isn't hideous, it can't be good for you. Other lessons I learned during that time include 'if it tastes like crap it's probably low calorie' and 'those shoes may make your feet bleed but they look great'.

Still, if it's good enough for Madonna, it must be good enough for me, right? Now all I need is a red string bracelet, a career in show business, an adopted child that technically has a parent and Guy Ritchie. Easy.

4 days to Bruce!

Down Under in Sarf London

Following a reminder from KY that I was not averse to his music I trotted along to a Pete Murray gig the other night. Pete Murray being some sort of all-Australian homespun hero musician guy, the crowd consisted of some 3000 Australians who all knew the words to the songs, (a few of whom did bad shuffling dancing in my personal space) me and Rachel.

The Carling Brixton Academy is an odd sort of place, with Greco-Roman stylings in a part of London that surely not so long ago would have Elvis crooning songs about the plight of the underprivileged. But a great concert venue nonetheless, despite their odd security policies. Upon arriving, we were asked to show the security guards our handbags, which implied a nice sense of sartorial interest so I obliged. When the security folk asked if I had a gun, I did think it was a bit more direct than any other questions I'd been asked recently, but I admired their directness so I answered their question frankly and forthrightly in the negative. (Did seem a rather odd question either way you look at it really - either they was being careful of everyone, as Australian rock singers were likely to attract the pistol-packing troublemaker element (a fact I don't believe to be backed up by any significant or credible statistics) or she felt I looked likely to be a member of said p-p'ing t.m element and likely to incite violence at the slightest provocation. Which is surely on par with the airport worker who checked my flip flops for shoe bombs, when it comes to racial stereotyping?)

Anyway, turns out they were asking if I had any GUM - which struck me as an even stranger security precaution than not letting us taking bottlecaps into the Chris Rock performance at the O2 a week earlier. However, as I was in Brixton and already living life as far on the edge as I have done since my early 20s, I was in a devilish mood - I told them I didn't, even though I did. Bwa-ha-ha!

Fortunately Pete Murray was very, very good, so I forgave him the following:
-A hairstyle that made him look like a character out of some of the classic British 70s sitcoms
-A t-shirt and waistcoat combo straight out of Jason Priestley's Beverly Hills 90210 collection circa 1992
-Back up musicians who have clearly been to Rockstar Behaviour 101 and were keen to enact every cliche they'd ever studied

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of nothingness and bad TV - which, the older I get, gets closer and closer to my idea of perfection.

Catching up

Well, it's been too long and I've long since forgotten what I've been up to in the last few months so suffice it to say, I moved house, I turned 28, my favourite won American Idol and that's all I have to say about that.

Things it has (apparently) taken me 28 years to realise

• Foods you fall in love with when you're on holiday are never as good when you bring them home and try to recreate the excellent meals you had in other countries (am sure there's a metaphor for relationships in here somewhere, but I'm going to ignore it for now). Examples include rye crackers from Finland, Genovese pesto from Italy and chorizo from Spain
• The taste and appeal of said foods drop exponentially when you forget you bought them, realise months later that you should probably eat them and then find, after the first mouthful (naturally), that they have been past their expiry dates for quite a while

Less unpleasant revelations to follow soon.

Tip for younger players...

If your motorbike still has the learner plates on it, don't wear a bright red Ferrari racing jacket.

It makes you look like a twat.

Pretty and popular again

Has it really been that long since we were last here? Tsk, Tut and other reproving noises.

After what seemed like a slow start to this London gig, it feels like life really is starting to pick up speed. Perhaps not yet the break-neck variety but certainly a definite amount of liveliness has manifested itself into my calendar lately.

Since it's been nearly six months (and we all know what a detrimental effect the moving gods think that sort of stability can have on the fragile human psyche) it will come as a suprise to almost nobody that I'm shortly about to change addresses again. Fortunately not by much - this round is only a short one, as Lakshmi descends from the lofty heights of Flat 4 to the majestic lows of Flat 1 in the same building. On the plus side, the new place is completely freshly redecorated and furnished. On the down side it is a ground floor flat so (much as the English enjoy frolicing amongst the local wildlife) I might once more be subjected to the nameless horrors of possibly finding a snail inside the house. Still, you have to take the goods with the bads and stay as cool as some cucumbers. Or so the man said.

Speaking of cool, recent travel has taken me away from the cold spell that appears to have gripped these isles and is refusing to let go without a fight. Spain was actually quite cold in the shade but the sunshine did make up for it. It seems quite novel to be praising and seeking out the sunshine after years of assiduous avoidance. Such is life, I suppose.

Despite being numpty enough to not visit the Sagrada Familia, I did see a few sights in Barcelona, including the Gothic quarter and Parc Guell. While Gaudi had a fascinating sense of colour and pattern, I have to say some of his work struck me as belonging to the cheese-before-bedtime school of architecture.

A few jaunts around seaside town Sitges, a couple of Mandarina Duck purchases and several good Spanish meals (which, let's face it, is the real reason I went anywhere near the place) rounded out the rest of my trip.

As I have no significant travel planned for the very near future, I'm resting my hopes for international contact on potential visits from Emily (the other prettiest, most popular girl at IU in the early 2000s) and Matt B (who, on careful consideration of the situation, appears to be the only Matt I know who isn't married). Hurrah for airplanes bearing long lost friends and carbon footprints be damned! (Ok, not really. Well, maybe a little.)

With about 3 significant players in the Lakshmi game of Life turning 30 this year, I'm not getting many sympathetic audiences for my woes at turning 28 soon. Self-involved bastards, the lot of them. There had better be cake and presents to make up for this cruel and unnecessary behaviour in a month's time...

2008 and beyond

Happy new year, one and all.

My but it has come round quickly hasn't it? Seems like only yesterday I was in Cardiff, scaring Jasper with loud noises and seeing in 2007. So it goes.

The end of December saw me off to the sandlands for a short, almost restful holiday. Hurrah for getting my nails done after a hiatus of 6 or so months. Hurrah for SensAsia. Hurrah for carrot cake at the Lime Tree. However, eventually, hurrah for coming home to London.

Following an awkward moment in the tube the other day, when a man offered me his seat - presumably because he thought I was with child* - the diet of death is back on and exercise is playing a displeasingly large part in my calendar planning of January. Although I suppose with my credit card bill being what it is, I can't afford food or socialising anyway, so it's just as well.

(However, as I simply never learn, have booked myself on another holiday - in a mere 14 days I shall be temporarily quitting these shores and heading for gay Barcelona. Not sure yet how I plan to pay for this, but as with all matters of finance, I intend to address that concern when I get to it.)

In other news, a couple of colleagues and I wiped the dust of the office from our feet for half an hour today and wandered down to the Tate Modern to cock an eye or two at Doris Salcedo's Shibboleth installation. For those who aren't as cultured as myself, this is it - http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/dorissalcedo/default.shtm . Yes, that's right, it's a crack in the ground, albeit an unusually sizeable one. Expecting my usual levels of cynicism to have gauged the situation correctly, I found myself pleasantly surprised at how engaging a crack in the ground can be. For the people who have reportedly fallen into it (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7037536.stm) I have little or no sympathy. I mean, if you trek out to a gallery for the express purpose of looking at a crack in the ground, you should at least have the good sense not to fall into said crack. (Well here I am, all set to look at a whacking great big crack; hang on, I've tripped on this giant bloody crack - who put that there?)

(Now, since I've used it so many times in that last paragraph, the word crack has lost all meaning. Crack? Crack! Crack. Crack...)

Finally, after years of swinging between political apathy and rage, I have found myself interested in the US elections and have been keeping reasonably well-informed about the race for the Democratic candidacy (if that is indeed a word). The mud-slinging has begun and I am finding it all quite diverting. The thought, however, that my horse might not win does warrant a shudder or two.

The threat of a visit from Guri (and the amount of energy that requires) looms darkly on the horizon. Have tried not to succumb to its evil influence but no doubt when Friday arrives I will be as dust beneath the wheels of Fate and powerless to resist.

*For those who don't know, in London's public transport circles it is de rigeur to offer your seat to those more in need of it, such as older folks, disabled folks and pregnant ladies.