The poo has hit the fan: at Paul's house

It is official! I have a “date” with the X-man on Saturday, well, soon as I reply. After a few more rounds of Olympic email ping-pong, Mr X has finally bitten the bullet and asked me out. Hooray!? The past few emails were spent discussing writing, whereby he mentioned his passion for poetry, especially of the visual variety. Visual poetry sounds like the modest term for a gyrating gigolo, but he has assured me he is not one of these incredible fellows! Shame really.

If you remember from the first article, Mr X proposed to write something, which turned out to be nothing more than a dull questionnaire. Well, he has written another piece (of this visual poetry). Aesthetically resembling a poem my laptop has regurgitated, after attempting to shove a box of Crayola crayons into the CD-Rom drive.

Dollar $igns for the letter S, OdDly plAceD upPeR aNd LowEr CasE LetteRs (reminding me of a 14 year olds myspace profile), random green words, strikethroughs, underlining of certain letters, b(rack)ets, *asterisks* and more pink lettering. All incorporated into a poem called: Is my point crystal clear to ($)ee? The pink letters vertically scattered spell ‘for you natasha’ and below the poem is a mobile number. Presumably his own, and not the gyrating gigolo! Again, shame.

The email asks if I am doing anything on Saturday and if I care to ‘break a world record with him?’ This is completely verbatim and quite a bold statement to make. I am honestly very interested by this comment, without a doubt making me more the fucking fool.

Should I fear for my life? Or figure out what shoes to wear? I think I'm going to text tomorrow. At midnight. To officially mark the beginning of my Cyber-rella fantasy.

Natasha x

Red Moon

The worst part about the occasional 'what if I am pregnant' thought (not that I have ever had sex, but we must NEVER rule out immaculate conception), is the same thought that harrows every person ever to have watched Eastenders circa Natalie Cassidy resembling the love-child of Mr. Blobby and a Pygmy Hippo. The greatest fear that you're secretly pregnant and will basically end up giving birth on the loo, a la Sonia.

I can just imagine this bastard baby hanging from the umbilical chord, flapping in and out of the toilet water. It scares me to death, so much so I now have to use the bathroom to reassure myself it will not happen.

Gumtree playing Cupid (whom I can imagine, throws BBMs rather than arrows)

When I spent the night drinking Brazilian cocktails and attempting to samba to an unnaturally quick beat, in Guanabara one Friday, the last thing I ever expected to see was a message aimed at me on Gumtree’s infamous ‘Missed Connections’.

Writing for Gumtree, I am always perusing for a story or angle, and undeniably I had found one. The post title read: ‘Guanabara - Friday - Natalie (ok, not quite my name but a close second’. Very intrigued and a wee bit apprehensive, I clicked on the post title and up popped a short message from the person (hereinafter referred to as Mr. X). The message read: ‘you’re a writer from South London, met you outside Guanabara on Friday night. I have something of yours’. Truth be told, I was slightly disappointed the message wasn’t “juicer”!

I debated for a whole three-and-a-half seconds whether to reply, concluding I’d be a fool not to. I messaged back a quick: ‘You have what of mine’. One day elapsed. The next day, I loaded up my hotmail and waited for my emails to emerge. There it was! Mr. X had replied, and golly-gosh it was an elaborate one.

To cut an extensive email short, Mr. X explained his shock at his endeavour actually working, especially considering he had used the wrong name. He apologised for the unusual method of contact and expressed how extremely contrite he was, for the rowdy bunch of morons (I mean, friends) who kept badgering me for my telephone number and my bloody facebook. Mr. X explained he had our little encounter on his mind for the rest of the weekend, he had found me “intriguing” and that I came across as the sort of woman who appreciated an approach a little off the beaten track (well, most enjoy a little BDSM, don’t they?).

He gave me his name on facebook and told me to add him. The main message said he would not ask for my number, but for me to allow him to write me something. If I liked it, then ‘maybe we could chat’. I felt a bit like Queen Victoria by this point. I agreed. Two days elapsed. Suffice to say, I found an email from Mr. X. The piece he had decided upon writing was less of an attempt at a handsome piece of cleverly-written prose and more just a questionnaire. Ten pseudo-insightful questions he could Freud all over. I reluctantly filled them in. Over the next week a few more emails, four free tickets to a BBC comedy show in Putney (he gave me the tickets, we didn't go together) and even more emailing.

I found the whole experience quite flattering with undertones of randomness. I’ve always been quite intrigued by ‘Missed Connections’ and continuously wondered if anybody had sought and found a specific person using the service. I do recommend more people use it, it is strangely remarkable and it’s free. Plus, it’s quite an interesting story to tell the grandchildren. Or not.

If adventures begin and perpetual emails cease, with Mr. X, you’ll all be notified.

Natasha. x

Who defines my line?

I consider myself a spontaneous person. I prefer living in the present, enjoying everything currently happening, as opposed to dwelling on the past or shaping a future. Though saying that, I am attending university for a reason. I've been called spontaneous by many different people, which slowly turned into impulsive (foolish!), which made me restrain my SPONTANEITY a little, or at least think them through a little more.

Anyway, I think to most the aforementioned sounds relatively positive. But, when I change spontaneous to impulsive, it becomes a negative trait. So, why is the former positive and the latter, not so. I do not consider myself impulsive, but can I be one and not be the other?

Probably should look for exact definitions for both, although I am sure they are reasonably similar in description and meaning. Give me a second to dictionary.reference.com both..

spon⋅ta⋅ne⋅ous – adjective

1. coming or resulting from a natural impulse or tendency; without effort or premeditation; natural and unconstrained; unplanned: a spontaneous burst of applause.

2. (of a person) given to acting upon sudden impulses.

3. (of natural phenomena) arising from internal forces or causes; independent of external agencies; self-acting.

4. growing naturally or without cultivation, as plants and fruits; indigenous.

5. produced by natural

process.im⋅pul⋅sive – adjective

1. actuated or swayed by emotional or involuntary impulses: an impulsive child.

2. having the power or effect of impelling; characterized by impulsion: impulsive forces.

3. inciting to action: the impulsive effects of a revolutionary idea.

4. Mechanics. (of forces) acting momentarily; not continuous.

Both are similar. However, impulsive seems to suggest impulses forced by power or emotion, whereas spontaneity is more natural. So, when an impulsive person becomes impulsive they find it hard to cease their impulses, which can sometimes become destructive and negative. Like a gambler? A spontanoues person seeks adventure and change. Like me?

I was once told by a woman named Ruth that I enjoy adrenaline-full situations, change and novelty, excitement and difference. But, find salvation in calmness and contendness. From situations I have experienced in my life, the product was the feeling of the unknown, which released adrenaline and set the excitement bar high. So, in my every day life I act spontaneously to fulfill my barometer of fun, because without them I would feel incredibly bored and probably be dull as fuck.

BB10 - what a load of bollocks - Part II

As per request, I am writing a second vicious rant at 'you-know-who'.

Since last post, somebody has left. I cannot remember who, so they must not have been terribly important. Not to suggest any are of any importance anyway. I presume within a month of writing this and the collapse of the Big Brother regime, said person will bring out a fitness dvd and will start dating some badly-dressed, sponging nobody. They'll become a unit and eventually one person, consisting of the prefix of one name and suffix of another. Bringing their total IQ to the sum of 10. Oh, and it's a fact you need fucking 50 to even be able to breathe.

What I find terribly confusing (and misleading!) about Big Brother is the people. They see the same ugly faces every single day, they see the same bioresonate chair everyday, nothing changes and everything is always the same, apart from Big Brother having the ability to control what they wear. Thankfully, Big Brother has them dressing like pricks.

So, in a house SO mundane and tedious, with boredom smeared over everything, like a plague, you would think the housemates would endeavour to entertain themselves (through striking fear of slipping into a coma, or death via boredom). It's certainly what I would do! Entertain myself, or at the least, talk people into doing the most dangerous yet certifyingly entertaining acts. There's a whole myraid of ridiculous acts available. I sympathise Big Brother has ruined their minds, they've lost the ability to think for themselves. Which is why they should strap them to a chair, hold there eyes open with tooth picks and make them watch Dirty Sanchez on re-run. Then we can smuggly sit back and watch these retards run into the diary room door, head first! Or attempt to throw the contents of the house outside of the Big Brother garden perimeter, but because the furniture is obviously heavier than themself, crushes them on the return to the ground. Surely they would entertain themselves, and surely entertain us. But, no.

Instead, let's put the Queen into the house. And, a fake one too. I actually feel sorry for Rodrigo, he must have felt like the biggest cunt. A bit like being in the cinema, walking up to your seat and tripping over. Though, to make it easier on my heart I like to remember Rodrigo isn't in fact real. He's Pinocchio's long lost brother. And presumably, fucking Big Brother voice is the Geppetto.






Lately, there has been more arguing, thank God. It sounds like Halfwit is making it his business to use 'fuck' after every word, but because he speaks so slowly, makes it seem very odd and makes me terribly uncomfortable with his voice. Bea - she is seriously grating now. She, like Halfwit, manages two whole words per minute. And, what is with the word 'negative'. Freddie thinks your negative. Marcus, Siavash and Freddie keep calling me negative. I'm not being negative. You've been very negative. You are emitting negative vibes. Negative negative. Do they think they'll win if they can mention the word negative enough times, it loses meaning?

Bea isn't negative!... She's just fucking annoying. And has a face like a maris piper. She keeps banging on about not wanting to talk about an argument between herself and Marcus, so instead of just bitching and shouting about Marcus, she'd rather MOAN about not wanting to TALK about it instead. Yeh, good move, we certainly won't vote you out you pointless, potato-face.

The rest have been doing nothing this week. I think they might have died. Meh, shit happens!

Until next time. Natasha. x

BB10 - what a load of bollocks - Part I

You would think containing 15 or so retards in one confined space would be sadistically entertaining, but I don't think I've ever seen anything as sad or unentertaining. Yes, they are a bunch of retards and for some reason insist on using words like 'yous' and sentences like 'yuh know whort aaa meen?', when most of the time nobody has a clue what they fucking mean.

While the BB retards are asleep, BB should replace the water in the pool with acid, so the first person to swim dies a gruesome death of boils and erosion. It should be captured similarly to the scene in the Terminator where Arnie dissolves in that witches' broth. And they should keep repeating this processes of 'abbbbsolute errrlimination' (broadcasted around the BB house in an Arnie 'I'll be back' voice) until a winner remains. Now, that is exciting? The slogan for BB11 should be: 'If you don't wish to die? Then don't apply. Cunt'

To win: None, they're all aboslute fucking retards. Well, maybe Rodrigo. To say he is straightforward is a outright lie, he just seems to talk a little more sense then the rest. Also, he has a cute haircut and looks like a Brazilian orphan who has several pet monkeys and secretly dances in his bedroom. Or new bloke: Kenneth. He is such a massive tosspot, he's entertaining. Tom (the toff) looks like a swollen, bloated Ken doll. He looks like he needs to be popped, maybe that new gay housemate (the Vivienne Westwood one) could use his dick. Marcus needs a shave. The blonde with the massive tits needs a good square meal. Noirin needs a humble pie smashed in her face. And the rest, well they are all nameless vessels, we can call them furniture.

Word to the wise

All my good life I have spelled/spelt 'definitely' in the correct fashion. While the numbnuts around me spelled/spelt it 'definately, definetely and definatley'. I was being exposed more regularly, to misspelled variations of the word definitely, that eventually these poor renditions permeated my sense of spelling, and the misspellings integrated into my once correct, lexicon. So, if I have ever sent the word 'definatley' to you, I'm sorry, its not my fault, blame everybody around me, the fucking retards.

Gravy train goes kaboom!

Below is the full list of the MP's allowances and claims, and it's not just Gordon's backbenchers doing the dirty, all the fuckers were at it (but mainly Labours and the Torys). The worst claims are the husband/wife double claims, each spouse claiming thousands for the same, shared second home.

Malik, Shahid £185,421
Byrne, Liam £178,116
Ryan, Joan £173,691
Norris, Dan £172,733
Farron, Tim £172,327
Doran, Frank £171,836
MacNeil, Angus £169,971
Levitt, Tom £168,660
Salmond, Alex £166,814
Mundell, David £166,598
Joyce, Eric £164,180
Gwynne, Andrew £164,110
Devine, Jim £163,402
McDonagh, Siobhain £163,226
Hesford, Stephen £162,850
Johnson, Diana R £162,584
Milburn, Alan £160,888
Taylor, Matthew £160,831
Gardiner, Barry £160,464
Rogerson, Dan £160,440
George, Andrew £160,379
Flello, Robert £159,548
Sarwar, Mohammad £159,341
Taylor, Dari £159,178
Willis, Phil £159,147
Reed, Jamie £159,088
Bruce, Malcolm £158,580
Robertson, Angus £158,151
Grogan, John £158,013
Connarty, Michael £157,769
Donohoe, Brian H. £157,663
Butler, Dawn £157,311
Carmichael, Alistair £157,184
Alexander, Danny £157,153
Balls, Ed £157,076
To name but a few.

On this note, I honestly believe if people like Sacha Baron Cohen, Peter Kay and Ricky Gervais ran the country, we wouldn't be having these issues. There probably wouldn't even be war. Also, one of the MPs is called Ed Balls, with a name like that, you really wouldn't want to draw even more attention to yourself... Mate, it's called strategy yeh.

Sometimes a half-truth can be more pernicious then a complete falsehood. The MP's shouldnt spacegoat their "confusion over expenses" on the speaker for the House of Commons. Fine, the speaker should resign, but his resignation is not tantamount to the regulation of MP's expenses. Taking advantage of a system, means one knowingly took the piss. If it exists and you have no qualms about milking it - then you will?! They shouldn't attempt to absolve themselves by shouting at the speaker or asking him for his resignation date as; a) it's not entirely his fault; and b) the fella looks like he might go into cardiac arrest at any minute.

I am not anything, and
Yet, I am everything.

We are simple creatures, and yet, we complicate our lives. In our own self importance, we glorify and exaggerate the insignificant particulars in life (which remind us we are alive and DO remind us, we are only human). Our ego allows us to believe the complicated is the most likely.

Although hard to heed, take a look at everything around you. Being more aware of those people, situations and things around you, will allow you to be more self aware, and in comparison, happier, or at least more content.

Once you begin to acknowledge and understand everything around you, you may begin to understand your life isn't so complicated nor difficult. It is you that complicates it. Complex needn't be your adjective of choice. The same way, complicated, need not be your way of life.

Please put aside the cliché in the example I am about to give, but, do use it as a core comparison. Thousands of children in some of the poorest parts of the world live without parents, a roof over their heads, without food to eat or even safe drinking water. These people lead complicated lives, complicated that without necessity, they could die. Are the complexities [which you cast upon yourself] killing you? No.

What you hold is perfectly fine, maybe you are just spoilt. Spoilt to such a degree, mollycoddled into such a level of comfort that you forget the basic, fundamental aspects of life. By becoming so entangled in your own bollocks, so far gone in your own egocentric mind - you've lost reality. Even though you believe you are firmly living in it.

I beg you: get a grip, be grateful, stop over-complicating something that could (and should) be very simple, and just be a little happier? A smile in the street or giving way to another car is enough.

By Natasha x

Adventures of a not-so reluctant girl, two friends and a Messiah.

Currently listening to some Indi-ambient, new age CD called Vale's Nirvana Lounge has evoked feelings and memories from my magical embark to a land known as India-the-almighty (or maybe the memories were fresh in my mind, and I am wholly unable to let go, [re]living India through a blog, just as good, right?!).

Vale's Nirvana Lounge is just one of a thousand pieces of India I brought back (not including cigarettes, as that turns 'thousands' into millions... and that would give you the wrong idea, you may think I actually bought something for you in my Indian fit of passion!). I did bring many of you sand though (as you asked for...!!) It's safe - in my trainers and remnants remain on my flip flops, do not anguish!

After a ten hour flight, sat next to a little girl with fingers like flora (wine stained t-shirt to prove it!) I began this journey in Mumbai - or Bombay. As Michaela (lovely lady I travelled with) pointed out; it is a dirtier, smellier, much hotter version of London.



Mumbai is bustling. It is a hubbub of rickshaws, beeping cars and stray animals (dogs, cows... you name it!). Indian's seemingly endure life in a completely different manner, a much more content, modest mode of life. People with priorities in proper places. And they seem happier for it too. With 35 degree weather, cramped spacing and perpetual noise, the vast comparison was essentially overwhelming, many a rickshaw ride spent in speechless silence, as I tried to take in everything around me and tried to understand it... And take photographs.

Michaela and I were fortunate enough to have a strapping, hunky, flowery-bag carrying gentleman by the name of Ameya to show us the ropes and take us around.

The legend that is Ameya.

As a rule of thumb, breakfast consisted of a Kingfisher beer and several packets of crisps. Which soon set as Lay's - American style, sour cream and chive variety. They're absolutely bangin'. After settling in to our "cosy" hotel room, bang in the centre of the Mumbai red-light district, we set off for the Elephanta Caves. Located on Elephanta Island in the Arabian Sea. A short ferry ride away, we took a few pictures at the port and paid the mere 200 rupees for a ticket and sat ourselves on the top deck, straw hats on head and camera/beer(s) in hand.




To reach the Elephanta Caves we had to climb a mile worth of steps, made only more interesting by the streams of multicoloured stalls and gleaming sterling silver masking the sides of the ascension and the asthma-attack style breathing transpiring from Ameya and Michaela. Hearts-beating and slightly light-headed, the climb is made worth it. After trying to beg (and given a hearty fuck off) local entry rates to enter the caves, we paid the foreigners fees and found ourselves on the very pinnacle of the cliffs overlooking the wonder that is Mumbai. As we walked around the dusty, grassy cliffs, I noticed enormous, stone dwellings (which turned out to be the caves!) formed thousands of years ago. The caves were home to monumental sculptures and depicted enormous Shivas, Ardhanarishvara, Brahma and Vishnu. After being made aware, by Ameya, that there were bats in all the caves (although I never saw or heard one, Ameya..) we made our way from cave to cave, awing at the intricacy of designs etched into stone and the sheer magnitude of these carvings. The dark caves maintained an atmosphere of echoey silence, apart from the 'chk-chk' of our cameras.



After being harassed for money by four, vehemently angry Indian women (nothing like an Indian woman scorned!) for taking photographs and not paying them (they decided to stand in front of us and pose for the camera, then demand money after we had taken a few photos!)


And averting the vicious, aggressive monkeys... (Don't be fooled by the baby monkey!)


Later that evening, Ameya, Michaela and I were taken to a randomly exquisite hotel in Mumbai (not far from the horrendous November attacks). We lavished in course after course of delicious CHINESE dumplings, pak choy-this and Szechuan-that before continuing our usual night of drink, dance and bubble, Mumbai-styley. The club (no name, sorry) was medium sized and up numerous flights of stairs. It is home to several bars and a 70's inspired, multicoloured-tiled, "nightfever-esque" dance floor. The club is a proportionate balance of male and female. The ladies dressed in teeny-tiny skirts and dresses, mirroring something out of Bollywood and the men are shirted, shoed and dancing like red snappers out of water. No stranger to the night world, I had never seen anything so surreal, the dancing was a dodgy two-step and nauseating jumping - up and down, up and down. A little like a child's birthday with adults. Although, they seemed to be having fun, we were B-52'd up and the night was young.



(And yes that dude is wearing a shiny, silky, gold shirt. Whatta' cunt.)

After our stint in Mumbai and a quick farewell to young Saint Ameya the Fantastic (above, left of goldy) we headed back to the Airport for a 'Spicejet' flight to Goa. Landing within an hour of departure, we found ourselves in the soaring heat of Goa. We headed north from the Airport to our home in Candolim for the next few days. Driving past much shrubbery, we eventually made it to lots of little towns, broken up by large roads and bridges. Our resort and thief-of-credit-card was remarkably different to our lodging in Mumbai, but a welcomed change. And no brothels or whorehouses in proximity!


Our first night in Goa was spent at a local restaurant (The Stone House) where we were personally serenaded ('this is dedicated to Divya, Michaela and Sasha...' by an old Goan man singing Johnny Cash and Van Morrison. We indulged in murgh masala, aloo gobi, parathas and butter chicken. Very delicious Indian = very unhappy bowl.


The next day was spent upon Candolim Beach, a short walk from our resort but never too short of wandering strays and leery men calling us "birdies". We partook in some serious "self-baking", sifting through the sarongs and jewellery bestowed upon us by little girls and boys. One in particular took my attention. A little lady named Sunita. Sunita is nine-years old; she travels around the beach with her friend in search of tourists to sell old jewellery and brightly coloured accesories to. I found Sunita's eagerness to sell, her willingness to help and innocent smile very endearing, and I ended up parting with my rupees and buying things I hadn't quite wanted. Next, a highly vicious and painful jet ski ride by the misogynist pigs who felt they had to impress us by proving their manliness against the Indian Ocean. They had us violently crashing into waves and almost breaking our necks. Alas, my salvation showed herself. In the beautiful form of Ms. beach side masseuse. For less than a tenner each, Michaela and I received an hour worth of deep rubbing, thorough kneading and serious oiling. Heavaaaaaaaan.




The next days was spent at a beautiful, secluded beach by the name of Baga. The only noise to be heard was the calm crashing of the waves: this tranquil beach became an agreed favourite.


After being highly recommended by the resort barman Ollie, we travelled north of Candolim to Anjuna beach. Anjuna is home to a precession of fascinating stalls, creating one enormous market. The wafting sounds of ambient trance can be heard from all over the market, the people are all very eager to sell and the stalls are home to all types of spices and herbs, cigarettes, music, eclectic clothing, shiny jewellery and treasure boxes, mosaic mirrors and little trinkets. After spending hours meandering the astounding market, we make our way down to the beach. Upon hearing 'Natarsha! Natarrrsha!!' being shouted behind me, the voice sounding familiar, I recognise the innocence and joy. I turn around and find Sunita waving frantically at me! She accompanies us to a spot on Anjuna beach, where we make rest and continue our voyage of self-baking.

Sunita.




After our driver goes missing; Michaela, Divya and I catch a taxi back to Candolim with sand, silver and cigarettes in tow. Our next day remains one of my most memorable in Goa, the breathtaking visit to Dudhsagar Falls, east of Candolim. In a 4x4, we drive through aquamarine lagoons and endless jungle to a winding, rocky path of boulders.





We climb from boulder to boulder, up and up. Although somewhat treacherous, the climb is exhilarating and encapsulates the beauty of nature. It is my idea of perfection. Stumbling and sliding we make our way up the gorge of rocks, along with hundreds of other locals and tourists wanting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Mid-climb, our tour guide stops and allows us to marvel at the sight before us. Directly above us is a beautiful, blue cascading waterfall, intersected by rocky edges and surrounded by blooming trees. The guide explains the Konkan Railway travels over the waterfall and makes for a beautiful scene.


Eventually we climb to the foot of the waterfall; a large lagoon of crystal, clear water. We cast our clothing aside and edge ourselves into the chillingly refreshing, spring water. We immerse ourselves deeper into the water, swimming towards the the cascading mouth of the waterfall. The calmness and coldness of the water, almost purge the mind, body and spirit. I have an overwhelming feeling of freedom and being at one with nature, devoid of my usual London thoughts and occupied only with images before me and water surrounding me.



From Dudhsagar Falls, we are taken to a outdoor cafe by our driver. The menu comprises Pepsi, limca, paneer sandwiches and elephant rides. We opt for a Pepsi and an elephant ride. The elephants are beautifully strong, walking with a firm yet slow gentleness. The skin is a light charcoal, soft and wrinkly under the fingers. Michaela and I take our seat upon the elephant; he is made to walk a pre-made course. Although much fun, the idea of a magnificent animal being chained up in the searing sun removes a bit of pleasure from the experience. My slight apprehension at first (as you can see!), soon turned into mesmerising fun. I confirmed to Michaela I must have been an elephant racer in my past life!


We set back to Candomlim, packed our crap as the next morning we set off for Palolem. Palolem is south of Candolim, so after a tedious two and half our journey we find ourselves in Palolem. Quickly arranging some accommodation and downing a few beers, we drop our bags off and make haste to the highly recommended Palolem beach.



The roads of Palolem, much like Candolim, are paved with rainbow coloured markets selling all sorts of touristic goods. There are numerous restaurants and cafes offering traditional Goan delights like curried fish. We emerge on a serene and clean sandy Palolem beach, grab ourselves some sun loungers and indulge in more "self baking". The smell of salty water and ayurvedic massage oils permeate the air. Later that evening, we dine at a beach front restaurant. With only the moon and candle flames for light, we (plus a Mr. Nick aka the self-confessed Messiah, that I befriended on the beach) eat our way through murgh masalas and dahl mahkinis. The next few days are spent shopping, being deeply massaged and lounging in bars with beds. The Turtle Lounge on Agonda beach, in particular. This bar is a surreal fusion of India, Ibiza and paradise. The bar overlooks a peacefully secluded beach and contains minimalistic black hessian beds and sofas, picturesque palm trees and boasts a feng shui honed to perfection. Nodding in and out of tetris sleep, I feel very content and relaxed.

We make way to another amazingly situated bar and enjoy a few cocktails during the sunset.



From Palolem beach, my travels take an unexpected turn and I find myself with a ticket to Chennai. Formerly known as Madras, in the south of India, Chennai is scorching hot and only slightly less crowded then Mumbai, standardly reaching temperatures of 40 degree, cars hooting, people buzzing and hubbub galore. Contrastingly different to Goa, it takes me a day to adapt to the busier way of life, again.

Fortunately, I manage to stay in Mr Nick's beachside fortress for the next week. Equipped with air conditioning, Vogue/Hindu Times, a spacious pool and two sexing dragonflies, I retreat by the pool in an effort to not die.


Like Mumbai, I find Chennai strangely charming, devoid of pretentiousness and rife with life. The people are friendly and humble, hard working and happy. The hustle and bustle occupies the city.

I manage to visit an extremely religious Hindu temple in Chennai, although not dressed for the occasion (little shorts and strap top...!) I bare footedly meander through the temple, inspired by the determination and spirituality of a civilisation to have erected such grand statues and shrines.




From Hinduism to Catholicism, I travel to a pristine cathedral in Chennai. The air filled with chanting and a vague smell of holy water, the people in the cathedral walk around in a trance like manner. I buy some gifts, make a few donations and light a few candles then make for an exit. My inappropriate attire does not bode well with the locals.


Next on the schedule is a few days in Pondicherry or 'Puducherry', further south of Chennai. Once a French colony, Pondicherry is a madman mashup of seventeenth century French architecture and Indian lifestyle. The main languages of Pondicherry, one of the main enclaves of the Tamil Nadu state, are French and Tamil. Nick taught me 'nandri', meaning thank you. And that there is no word for 'please' in the Tamil language. Nandri Nick?!!

The roads of Pondicherry are romantically named 'Rue de blah-blah-blah', the white walls, simple lines and free-flowing fuchsia flowers are nostalgically European.



I just like this...


This...


And this...


After a few more days spent falling in love with Pondicherry, the Messiah and I miss our coach as we wait in the wrong bus station. We have to take a rickshaw to a first coach, for the first coach to take us to a second coach, for the second coach to not stop where we asked. Then we have to sit as pillion passengers on a motorbike. Quite an ordeal, lots of fun. A few more shopping trips in Chennai and living as a lady of leisure (...I'll explain that to you one day, maybe... lol) and I reluctantly have to leave India.

India was nothing how I expected it to be, but everything I would want to expect. I didn't bank on having the experiences and amount of fun I did, but I'm glad I took the opportunity and had them.

YEAHHH BWOY!!!!!