Just finished reading Holy Cow by Sarah Something or the other. There’s much to be caustic about, but I won’t, for the following reasons:
1. I’ve decided to dial down the causticity generally for fear of turning into a malevolent old bat, instead of a sweet old lady
2. On the whole, I enjoyed the book
3. It’s the first India book I’ve read that actually goes to my very own Whitefield, and that forgives it much
4. It is – in my limited field of erudition – the most entertaining catalogue of India’s religions
So I would say: read it – after all, it is about one person’s opinions based on one person’s experiences, so you can’t really argue or judge, just absorb.
Though you’d think an ex-journalist would think twice before going the old caricature route to – oops, caustic comment nearly got through. Out, damned bat!
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Blog branching out
Someone recently dismissed my blog as self-indulgent. I was very pissed off until I realised that it is. And that that's what it's there for. So that was alright in the end and I'm still friends with the critic (on a "more to be pitied than censured" basis).
But it got me thinking and I decided to bring some focus to bear. So my prattlings have been divided (quite neatly, if I may say so) into three distinct blogs. The links to the other two appear here, lest anybody miss a single drop of self indulgence.
But it got me thinking and I decided to bring some focus to bear. So my prattlings have been divided (quite neatly, if I may say so) into three distinct blogs. The links to the other two appear here, lest anybody miss a single drop of self indulgence.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Railroad lady, a little bit shady...
My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing,
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.
As the poet says, the conflict between wanting to spend time with loved ones and wanting to set out on the open road – or railroad, in this case – is unresolvable.
Travelling 6000 miles to meet precious people and then taking two days to travel from one to another seems like a wanton waste of time. But then, flying over it seems like a wanton waste of the Rockies. The Rockies and the loved ones tied in first place, my office lost and my holiday got extended by two days.
I’m going to look for America for the first time and I don’t think America’s in the airports. So I’m travelling across the country by rail. I still don’t know if I’ll get a visa, my ticket out of here is yet to be bought, but I know exactly where I’m going to sleep on that train.
In between buying my Amtrak ticket, I scrolled in indulgent amusement through various sites with rail travel tips that nobody who’s grown up in India needs. I suddenly stumbled on two things that brought me up short. One was a caution about walking long distances to get to your coach. The second was someone’s funny account of running desperately for an open door, any open door, as the train started to move.
The butterflies exploded in my stomach and I watched helplessly as the hard won adulthood disappeared as if it never was, at the thought of doing that on my own. The painful surge of adrenaline as the train pulls in, the dreadful urgency of that brief, chaotic time, the panic of not knowing how long two minutes actually is, the certainty that you’re going to drop something important – like your ticket – in the gap. (It never happened. The ticket would have had to crawl out of a zipper and tear through solid leather to do that.)
My cursor paused on the last part of the booking process as the doubts got out of control. No brothers to ensure that I get to the station well in time. No fathers who know which part of the station to go to. Planes are easy, I thought. I’ve always flown on my own. Airports are specifically designed for idiots…
So I looked at pictures of the train to put off making the decision. With each picture, the adulthood receded even further, as more forgotten feelings returned.
The excitement of seeing the engine far ahead when the railroad curves. That distant whistle that makes you want to follow wherever it leads. The sensation of gliding through air when you go over a railway bridge. The weird echo when you go over a mountain that you don’t so much hear, as sense. The fairytale quality that a landscape has when you see it through a train window. Two children bouncing along the side of a goods train, on either side of their father, learning why trains can’t brake like cars, catching his own enthusiasm.
I knew what “coupling”, “siding”, “broad gauge” and “metre gauge” meant almost before I could say the words. I used to know what the different types of whistles stood for (well, mostly I just knew that they stood for different things). I’ve ridden in the cab of a diesel engine – and being in the cockpit of an aircraft is equally exciting, but they don’t let you toot the horn.
I’ve balanced on a suitcase, eyes straining past restraining arms for the first sight of the engine as it entered the station – always a giant iron genie who had in its gift places I couldn’t imagine and things I was too young to know.
I will be in Union Station, Chicago, Illinois, at 1:00 pm on the 10th of July. I may be a little late. I will probably be standing in the wrong place. I will certainly have my usual few seconds of panic. But I will board the California Zephyr anyway, because I always do. I’m going to collect my gift.
Also published on Whistlestop by Amtrak
And better friends I'll not be knowing,
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.
As the poet says, the conflict between wanting to spend time with loved ones and wanting to set out on the open road – or railroad, in this case – is unresolvable.
Travelling 6000 miles to meet precious people and then taking two days to travel from one to another seems like a wanton waste of time. But then, flying over it seems like a wanton waste of the Rockies. The Rockies and the loved ones tied in first place, my office lost and my holiday got extended by two days.
I’m going to look for America for the first time and I don’t think America’s in the airports. So I’m travelling across the country by rail. I still don’t know if I’ll get a visa, my ticket out of here is yet to be bought, but I know exactly where I’m going to sleep on that train.
In between buying my Amtrak ticket, I scrolled in indulgent amusement through various sites with rail travel tips that nobody who’s grown up in India needs. I suddenly stumbled on two things that brought me up short. One was a caution about walking long distances to get to your coach. The second was someone’s funny account of running desperately for an open door, any open door, as the train started to move.
The butterflies exploded in my stomach and I watched helplessly as the hard won adulthood disappeared as if it never was, at the thought of doing that on my own. The painful surge of adrenaline as the train pulls in, the dreadful urgency of that brief, chaotic time, the panic of not knowing how long two minutes actually is, the certainty that you’re going to drop something important – like your ticket – in the gap. (It never happened. The ticket would have had to crawl out of a zipper and tear through solid leather to do that.)
My cursor paused on the last part of the booking process as the doubts got out of control. No brothers to ensure that I get to the station well in time. No fathers who know which part of the station to go to. Planes are easy, I thought. I’ve always flown on my own. Airports are specifically designed for idiots…
So I looked at pictures of the train to put off making the decision. With each picture, the adulthood receded even further, as more forgotten feelings returned.
The excitement of seeing the engine far ahead when the railroad curves. That distant whistle that makes you want to follow wherever it leads. The sensation of gliding through air when you go over a railway bridge. The weird echo when you go over a mountain that you don’t so much hear, as sense. The fairytale quality that a landscape has when you see it through a train window. Two children bouncing along the side of a goods train, on either side of their father, learning why trains can’t brake like cars, catching his own enthusiasm.
I knew what “coupling”, “siding”, “broad gauge” and “metre gauge” meant almost before I could say the words. I used to know what the different types of whistles stood for (well, mostly I just knew that they stood for different things). I’ve ridden in the cab of a diesel engine – and being in the cockpit of an aircraft is equally exciting, but they don’t let you toot the horn.
I’ve balanced on a suitcase, eyes straining past restraining arms for the first sight of the engine as it entered the station – always a giant iron genie who had in its gift places I couldn’t imagine and things I was too young to know.
I will be in Union Station, Chicago, Illinois, at 1:00 pm on the 10th of July. I may be a little late. I will probably be standing in the wrong place. I will certainly have my usual few seconds of panic. But I will board the California Zephyr anyway, because I always do. I’m going to collect my gift.
Also published on Whistlestop by Amtrak
Thursday, April 26, 2007
How many cooks?
Once upon a time, my friend used to do restaurant reviews and I got free meals in some really nice places.
The meals were ordered and eaten incognito. But after paying the bill we usually threw off our disguises and revealed ourselves with a merry ha-ha, because we needed to interview the chef.
We loved the chefs, each one uniquely gifted and equally cuckoo. We called them serial killers in awe and affection. Well, I’ve just finished Kitchen Confidential and I realise they are.
Some of them were geniuses. Some, sublime. A few were copywriters who could cook. I remember a particularly unsatisfactory pasta, preceded by a spectacularly disappointing appetiser. The chef’s “philosophy” on this one sounded like back-of-pack copy on fancy flavoured tea. You know the stuff tastes like dirty rainwater because you’ve tried it before, but the copy is so full of promise, you try it again – because perhaps last time you were just not sophisticated enough to understand. It’s still rainwater. Or you’re still unsophisticated. It all comes to the same thing in the end.
Kitchen Confidential also turned out to be an unexpected instruction manual that came just in time. It tells you all you need to know but were afraid to ask about leadership of a psycho team working in high-stress conditions.
Now that I've finally been told how to manage my “line cooks”, we'll all live happily ever after.
The meals were ordered and eaten incognito. But after paying the bill we usually threw off our disguises and revealed ourselves with a merry ha-ha, because we needed to interview the chef.
We loved the chefs, each one uniquely gifted and equally cuckoo. We called them serial killers in awe and affection. Well, I’ve just finished Kitchen Confidential and I realise they are.
Some of them were geniuses. Some, sublime. A few were copywriters who could cook. I remember a particularly unsatisfactory pasta, preceded by a spectacularly disappointing appetiser. The chef’s “philosophy” on this one sounded like back-of-pack copy on fancy flavoured tea. You know the stuff tastes like dirty rainwater because you’ve tried it before, but the copy is so full of promise, you try it again – because perhaps last time you were just not sophisticated enough to understand. It’s still rainwater. Or you’re still unsophisticated. It all comes to the same thing in the end.
Kitchen Confidential also turned out to be an unexpected instruction manual that came just in time. It tells you all you need to know but were afraid to ask about leadership of a psycho team working in high-stress conditions.
Now that I've finally been told how to manage my “line cooks”, we'll all live happily ever after.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The road is calling - again
In 10 days it will be eight years since I left home.
It seems like last month that I landed at Seeb International Airport in the middle of the night, enthusiastic and curious. Looking back, my blitheness looks like extreme ditziness: my flight was eight hours late, I had just 30 rials to my name and not one address or phone number, not even my employer’s. I think I just assumed I would be met because I’d never not been met in my life. Sure enough, I was met – a little late – by my boss and his girlfriend. (I remember thinking in the car that there were problems between them. As we now know, they had just picked up another one.)
But it also feels like eras have passed. The world turned, so much happened and I’m somebody else entirely now.
Well, a little bit anyway. I can still see myself arriving somewhere unprepared, Shanghai perhaps, with 200 yuan to my name and not a word of Mandarin, enthusiastic and curious, smoking a leisurely cigarette in the nearest coffee shop, miming “carrot cake” to the waitress, instead of “Yellow Pages”.
I wish I was.
It seems like last month that I landed at Seeb International Airport in the middle of the night, enthusiastic and curious. Looking back, my blitheness looks like extreme ditziness: my flight was eight hours late, I had just 30 rials to my name and not one address or phone number, not even my employer’s. I think I just assumed I would be met because I’d never not been met in my life. Sure enough, I was met – a little late – by my boss and his girlfriend. (I remember thinking in the car that there were problems between them. As we now know, they had just picked up another one.)
But it also feels like eras have passed. The world turned, so much happened and I’m somebody else entirely now.
Well, a little bit anyway. I can still see myself arriving somewhere unprepared, Shanghai perhaps, with 200 yuan to my name and not a word of Mandarin, enthusiastic and curious, smoking a leisurely cigarette in the nearest coffee shop, miming “carrot cake” to the waitress, instead of “Yellow Pages”.
I wish I was.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Scarlet ribbons
It all good, they imply, there’s an easy way out (or in, depending on your point of view). Whenever you’re ready, they say. Just say the word and the genie will appear bearing fairy tales. The genie goes by several names in many languages, but the basic story is the same: register, leave it to the deus ex machina and live happily ever after.
But there’s an invisible stair in this easy three-step guide, an innocuous little box you have to tick to signify that you have read and accepted the fine print. You lie and tick it anyway.
Here be the fine print:
Create a carefully worded profile. Tell some friends and family (maybe subconsciously hoping somebody will stop you, but they will only tell you success stories – because everyone knows one, including yourself). Get a million responses. Put your life on hold while you sift through them. Feel more and more confused and pressured as the responses increase and your time/sense of control decrease.
Lose some sleep over any email “relationship” you start. Lose even more wondering whether the word “relationship” can appropriately be applied to the situation. Obsess over each word, phrase and punctuation mark in the said situation/relationship. Lose all sense of proportion. Abandon all normalcy in your dealings with fellow human beings.
Struggle against a growing sense of injustice and self pity. Try to ignore the creeping sense of ignominy. Get used to living with the echoes of your previous strong (and highly perceptive) protests against this sort of thing.
Start to dread your email. Greet long meetings with relief because the greedy genie cannot reach you there. Spend the greater part of these meetings thinking “Why me?”. Take revenge on the friends and family by passing on the responsibility of making judgements for you.
Fight the knowledge that any loneliness you may have felt before was probably an illusion, because now you’re really alone. Outside, in the dark, when it’s raining, quite abandoned by the responsible adult who was supposed to be in charge of you – yourself.
Did I mention that you have to pay the genie for this privilege? Perhaps you go insane in the effort to cope and so finally find peace in an institution where you’re denied access to a computer. That would be worth the money.
But there’s an invisible stair in this easy three-step guide, an innocuous little box you have to tick to signify that you have read and accepted the fine print. You lie and tick it anyway.
Here be the fine print:
Create a carefully worded profile. Tell some friends and family (maybe subconsciously hoping somebody will stop you, but they will only tell you success stories – because everyone knows one, including yourself). Get a million responses. Put your life on hold while you sift through them. Feel more and more confused and pressured as the responses increase and your time/sense of control decrease.
Lose some sleep over any email “relationship” you start. Lose even more wondering whether the word “relationship” can appropriately be applied to the situation. Obsess over each word, phrase and punctuation mark in the said situation/relationship. Lose all sense of proportion. Abandon all normalcy in your dealings with fellow human beings.
Struggle against a growing sense of injustice and self pity. Try to ignore the creeping sense of ignominy. Get used to living with the echoes of your previous strong (and highly perceptive) protests against this sort of thing.
Start to dread your email. Greet long meetings with relief because the greedy genie cannot reach you there. Spend the greater part of these meetings thinking “Why me?”. Take revenge on the friends and family by passing on the responsibility of making judgements for you.
Fight the knowledge that any loneliness you may have felt before was probably an illusion, because now you’re really alone. Outside, in the dark, when it’s raining, quite abandoned by the responsible adult who was supposed to be in charge of you – yourself.
Did I mention that you have to pay the genie for this privilege? Perhaps you go insane in the effort to cope and so finally find peace in an institution where you’re denied access to a computer. That would be worth the money.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Don't cry for me Beirut
Lebanon is burning again, but my client is going ahead with his promotional parties, complete with gifts and games, for the crowds in the ski resorts. I’m told there are crowds in the ski resorts – sporting freshly styled hair to match designer winter gear and having the kind of good time previously only achieved by frat parties and the carnival in Rio.
They tell me there are other crowds in the small bars, the large coffee shops, houses and classrooms, and they’re all having a good time too. The country has apparently gone into default mode and is once again fighting abuse with arak, shelling with shisha. Perhaps it’s the supreme victory, to just not acknowledge adversity.
But I remember my Lebanese colleagues in Dubai during the recent battering from Israel. The TV in the lounge was on all day, turned to the news, punctuated by phone calls from home. Someone's grandparents evacuated just in time. Yet another shelter hit, a brother still on the road. Someone's mother is in a stranger’s car because hers is buried in rubble. A wife and child are nearly at the Syrian border but the bridge has just gone so they're taking a detour. A sister has reached the French embassy in Achrafieh. And then 5 minutes later, on the news, they've just bombed Achrafieh.
On the TV, they saw places they recognised and used to live in being destroyed. Bus stops, schools, friends’ houses, cafes, shops. And they desperately cared. But they just carried on – wrote briefs, sent out artworks, designed logos, met clients, raised invoices, sported freshly styled hair to match the designer fall collections. It was not a dramatic show of bravery, it just was.
Visiting almost exactly a year before this, my first impression of the country was a stoic silence that enveloped me when I stepped out of the airport, bubbly Lebanese friend notwithstanding. It rose from the streets, the mountains, even the sea, and sat there impassively behind the chaos of Beirut’s roads, the high drama that is any Lebanese interaction. The people were going to great lengths to forget, but the land remembered.
But these are fanciful conclusions by someone whose besetting sin is seeing pathos where there is none. What do I know of war, civil or otherwise? I’ve never been woken by an air raid siren or heard a gun shot in the night (or day). No tanks rolled down the streets of my town and the only curfew that marred my impressionable years was of the parental variety.
The Lebanese probably have it right. When they’re ringing your curtain down, demand to be buried like Eva Peron. Make your exit like a star, dancing out across the tables under sparkling chandeliers, singing at the top of your voice: “You can’t take my spirit, it’s my dreams you take”.
They tell me there are other crowds in the small bars, the large coffee shops, houses and classrooms, and they’re all having a good time too. The country has apparently gone into default mode and is once again fighting abuse with arak, shelling with shisha. Perhaps it’s the supreme victory, to just not acknowledge adversity.
But I remember my Lebanese colleagues in Dubai during the recent battering from Israel. The TV in the lounge was on all day, turned to the news, punctuated by phone calls from home. Someone's grandparents evacuated just in time. Yet another shelter hit, a brother still on the road. Someone's mother is in a stranger’s car because hers is buried in rubble. A wife and child are nearly at the Syrian border but the bridge has just gone so they're taking a detour. A sister has reached the French embassy in Achrafieh. And then 5 minutes later, on the news, they've just bombed Achrafieh.
On the TV, they saw places they recognised and used to live in being destroyed. Bus stops, schools, friends’ houses, cafes, shops. And they desperately cared. But they just carried on – wrote briefs, sent out artworks, designed logos, met clients, raised invoices, sported freshly styled hair to match the designer fall collections. It was not a dramatic show of bravery, it just was.
Visiting almost exactly a year before this, my first impression of the country was a stoic silence that enveloped me when I stepped out of the airport, bubbly Lebanese friend notwithstanding. It rose from the streets, the mountains, even the sea, and sat there impassively behind the chaos of Beirut’s roads, the high drama that is any Lebanese interaction. The people were going to great lengths to forget, but the land remembered.
But these are fanciful conclusions by someone whose besetting sin is seeing pathos where there is none. What do I know of war, civil or otherwise? I’ve never been woken by an air raid siren or heard a gun shot in the night (or day). No tanks rolled down the streets of my town and the only curfew that marred my impressionable years was of the parental variety.
The Lebanese probably have it right. When they’re ringing your curtain down, demand to be buried like Eva Peron. Make your exit like a star, dancing out across the tables under sparkling chandeliers, singing at the top of your voice: “You can’t take my spirit, it’s my dreams you take”.
Friday, January 26, 2007
A singing map of the US?
Sweet Home Alabama Lynyrd Skynyrd
Road to Alaska Bee Gees
There Is No Arizona Jamie O'Neal
The Hills of Arkansas Black Oak Arkansas
California Dreaming Mamas and Papas
Bound For Colorado Jackson Browne
Connecticut: None
Hello, I'm In Delaware Dallas Green
Mainline Florida Eric Clapton
Georgia On My Mind Ray Charles
Blue Hawaii Bing Crosby
Idaho Nerina Pallot
Illinois, I’m Your Boy Dan Fogelberg
Goin' Back to Indiana The Jackson 5
Hills of Iowa Dar Williams
Kansas City Fats Domino
Kentucky Woman Neil Diamond
Louisiana Bayou Dave Matthews Band
Maine: None
Maryland I’m Coming Home Vonda Shepard
Going Back to Massachusetts Bee Gees
Especially In Michigan Red Hot Chili Peppers
The Biggest Ball Of Twine In Minnesota Weird Al Yankovic
Roll On Mississippi Charlie Pride
The Wide Missouri Bob Dylan
Wild Montana Sky John Denver
Nebraska Steve Earle
Sands of Nevada Mark Knopfler
New Hampshire: None
Sometimes, New Jersey Saves The Day
New Mexico Hank Williams Jr
New York, New York Frank Sinatra
Just A Little Bit South Of North Carolina Dean Martin (both of them are featured here so it counts as two)
The Boys From North Dakota Lyle Lovett
Four Dead In Ohio Crosby Stills Nash & Young
Oklahoma Hills Woody Guthrie
Portland Oregon Loretta Lynn
You've Got A Friend In Pennsylvania A New Found Glory
Rhode Island Is Famous For You Shining Down
South Dakota: None
Memphis Tennessee Chuck Berry
Luckenbach, Texas Willie Nelson
Utah features in “My Elusive Dreams”
Moonlight in Vermont Ella Fitzgerald
Virginia Tori Amos
Christmas in Washington Steve Earle
West Virginia features in “Country Roads”
Wisconsin: None
Song of Wyoming John Denver
The ones I had to google: Delaware, Idaho, Minnesota, New Jersey, Rhode Island and Illinois.
Of course New York, Washington and the two rivers are actually cheating (with "The Wide Missourie" cheating doubly). Even so, it's a lot of states covered.
Road to Alaska Bee Gees
There Is No Arizona Jamie O'Neal
The Hills of Arkansas Black Oak Arkansas
California Dreaming Mamas and Papas
Bound For Colorado Jackson Browne
Connecticut: None
Hello, I'm In Delaware Dallas Green
Mainline Florida Eric Clapton
Georgia On My Mind Ray Charles
Blue Hawaii Bing Crosby
Idaho Nerina Pallot
Illinois, I’m Your Boy Dan Fogelberg
Goin' Back to Indiana The Jackson 5
Hills of Iowa Dar Williams
Kansas City Fats Domino
Kentucky Woman Neil Diamond
Louisiana Bayou Dave Matthews Band
Maine: None
Maryland I’m Coming Home Vonda Shepard
Going Back to Massachusetts Bee Gees
Especially In Michigan Red Hot Chili Peppers
The Biggest Ball Of Twine In Minnesota Weird Al Yankovic
Roll On Mississippi Charlie Pride
The Wide Missouri Bob Dylan
Wild Montana Sky John Denver
Nebraska Steve Earle
Sands of Nevada Mark Knopfler
New Hampshire: None
Sometimes, New Jersey Saves The Day
New Mexico Hank Williams Jr
New York, New York Frank Sinatra
Just A Little Bit South Of North Carolina Dean Martin (both of them are featured here so it counts as two)
The Boys From North Dakota Lyle Lovett
Four Dead In Ohio Crosby Stills Nash & Young
Oklahoma Hills Woody Guthrie
Portland Oregon Loretta Lynn
You've Got A Friend In Pennsylvania A New Found Glory
Rhode Island Is Famous For You Shining Down
South Dakota: None
Memphis Tennessee Chuck Berry
Luckenbach, Texas Willie Nelson
Utah features in “My Elusive Dreams”
Moonlight in Vermont Ella Fitzgerald
Virginia Tori Amos
Christmas in Washington Steve Earle
West Virginia features in “Country Roads”
Wisconsin: None
Song of Wyoming John Denver
The ones I had to google: Delaware, Idaho, Minnesota, New Jersey, Rhode Island and Illinois.
Of course New York, Washington and the two rivers are actually cheating (with "The Wide Missourie" cheating doubly). Even so, it's a lot of states covered.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
And there shone a bright new star
For a while now my favourite rant has been about private diary writers who’ve gone public on the Internet and so believe that their every thought and opinion counts. Including myself.
Having misspent the entire afternoon looking up blogs and blogging, I’ve been disarmed. There are as many blogs as there are stars in the sky. You might as well be writing privately in a book on your desk in your room with the door closed.
And the afternoon wasn’t entirely misspent either. It was a great exercise in re-sizing my picture of myself, as is reading the Economist Style Guide or New York Times columnists. An intimidating number of the bloggers are erudite, incredibly well-informed and update daily (almost hourly, in some cases). At least half of them must have regular, unrelated jobs – where do they get the time? What sort of jobs are these? And how does one get one of those?
It’s also a bad idea to invite friends and relatives to your blog – they know that if you have the time to update, you bloody well have the time to reply to their emails. In my defence, I say to them, I’ve done a lot worse to you. And anyway it’s in the mail.
Having misspent the entire afternoon looking up blogs and blogging, I’ve been disarmed. There are as many blogs as there are stars in the sky. You might as well be writing privately in a book on your desk in your room with the door closed.
And the afternoon wasn’t entirely misspent either. It was a great exercise in re-sizing my picture of myself, as is reading the Economist Style Guide or New York Times columnists. An intimidating number of the bloggers are erudite, incredibly well-informed and update daily (almost hourly, in some cases). At least half of them must have regular, unrelated jobs – where do they get the time? What sort of jobs are these? And how does one get one of those?
It’s also a bad idea to invite friends and relatives to your blog – they know that if you have the time to update, you bloody well have the time to reply to their emails. In my defence, I say to them, I’ve done a lot worse to you. And anyway it’s in the mail.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Post New Year Syndromes…
Time Zone Fatigue: Email is wonderful. Friends and relatives can be anywhere in the world but you can all still meet and talk. So conversations begin when I’m asleep, end when I’m in a meeting and there’s just the sound of even breathing when I’m bright-eyed and ready to talk over lunch. (It reminds me of the time lag that long-distance phone calls used to have. Anything you said was greeted with unnerving silence. When the reply came, it was just a little too late for the exercise to become a dialogue. It would have felt less awkward to say “over” after each sentence.)
Different Weekend Fatigue: A corollary condition of TZF that comes of living in the Middle East. When I return to my computer on Sunday, I often find that subjects under discussion have progressed greatly without my contribution and that new ones have been added. It’s like having to join an animated group at a party – always a scary prospect.
Brand Plan Fatigue: It starts in the third quarter of every year. They start talking of next year’s plans and target numbers, which then rapidly develops into an all-consuming obsession for the rest of the year. By December you’re not sure if you’re in 2006, 2007 or 2008, and are left with the suspicion that whatever happened in the last three months of the year doesn’t count, or indeed, exist. Which is a problem when your birthday is in December.
Transit Lounge Trauma: When you live in Dubai, you have to get used to saying goodbye too often and too soon. People leave just as you get to know them. Parties end just as they become fun. Colleagues change just as you come to terms with them.
Different Weekend Fatigue: A corollary condition of TZF that comes of living in the Middle East. When I return to my computer on Sunday, I often find that subjects under discussion have progressed greatly without my contribution and that new ones have been added. It’s like having to join an animated group at a party – always a scary prospect.
Brand Plan Fatigue: It starts in the third quarter of every year. They start talking of next year’s plans and target numbers, which then rapidly develops into an all-consuming obsession for the rest of the year. By December you’re not sure if you’re in 2006, 2007 or 2008, and are left with the suspicion that whatever happened in the last three months of the year doesn’t count, or indeed, exist. Which is a problem when your birthday is in December.
Transit Lounge Trauma: When you live in Dubai, you have to get used to saying goodbye too often and too soon. People leave just as you get to know them. Parties end just as they become fun. Colleagues change just as you come to terms with them.
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