Down here with Robbie Williams.

You know, it’s been a transformative time for me… have you read Eat, Pray, Love? Anne bought it for me in Singapore and it has become a bedtime prayer, as KK prays with purpose and properly. 

It’s about a woman who divorces, falls in love, falls out of love (that bit isn’t relevant to me), and travels… moves to another part of the world to find herself (and a lot of pizza). Anne hit it on the head by buying me the book – it really struck a nerve (much like my dentist) but has done me the world of good.

Many friends of mine, new and old, have assumed that because I’ve been going through so much change, that I’m negative, defeated and lost. It’s like I’m toxic and need to be avoided. The simple line ‘you’ll be fine’ is the most irritating disloyal, disinterested line you can use if you call yourself a friend.

This is not a barbed post, nor is it negative, it’s a reflection on the simple fact that as my good friend Richard reminded me, there are friends, and there are people you know. This time has been good for me because the former have proved themselves and the latter, remain, well the latter.

I’m excited, I’m passionate, I’m evolving and I’m actually more energized, more determined and more positive than I may have been in a year or so. The trials that I’ve been through and the challengesI’m working on (I don’t mean to sound like a focus group moderator, it’s just they are not all bad)  are making me THINK and DO and that’s been incredibly positive.

I finally now know who I am, what I want and I’ve learnt to deal with every day as it arrives – why worry about tomorrow when you can leave it to, err,  tomorrow?

Teeth.

Your body works with you. That’s always been my belief. That’s a lie, it became my belief when almost all the other constituents of my life felt like they were crumbling away. At that point, my body whispered in my ear ‘hey fatty it’s time to get real’. And the millions of times my mother had told me to ‘put my health first’ seemed to finally sink in.

Your mouth frames your words and your teeth are the keys of your vocal piano – I hadn’t seen to my keys for a number of years (5+) and to be honest my vocal piano was out of tune (enough of the piano already)… So I started being treated at Tribeca Dental Clinique (I have no idea why they didn’t settle on clinic, it’s a bit like ‘Niteclub’ isn’t it?

If you have never experienced dental scaling and scraping, image someone stapling your lips back to your face and being pulled face down tied to a truck along a roughly asphalted road. It’s a bit like that.

The man who performed this act of torture, up there with water-boarding, really infuriated me the first time by absolutely ignoring any attempt to be social, instead waiting for the 24 litres of lidocaine to work whilst snapping on his latex gloves. I thought it was the most impolite of manners, and glared at him whilst he raped my teeth.

At the end of the experience, which lasted a good 4 days, when at the checkout – welcome to healthcare 2009 – I looked across to him and realised why he didn’t make friends with me. It’s that thing where hostages fall in love with their captors. If I started to like him, following his torturous acts, I might fall in love with him and when I fall in love with you, it’s like being hit by a sherman tank with no brakes. He was saving himself.

More importantly he was saving my teeth – and my pride. I’m delighted that I managed to see this through. My heart is lighter, my teeth are lighter and most telling – my wallet is floating.

The two extremes of cuisine.

So on arrival at Anne’s (I know I digress a bit) imagine my delight at seeing that not only is her place attached to a mall (Plaza Singapura) but within that mall there is both a ‘Markses’ and a Carrefour.

Now, apart from being reminded of some dorks at Euro RSCG whenever I hear Carrefour (which if pronounced correctly sounds like Pierre Lecosse clearing his throat) this Carrefour is a mecca to the homemaker shopper that I am. It took everything I had not to stock up on Glad wrap and plastic storage (did I tell you I’m watching Top Chef over here?) but what I did find was the precise exact same ramen that Ratchat had bought in K town a couple of weeks ago. So I promptly bought 6.

Now, the old me wouldn’t DREAM of having noodles, dried fish, salted eggs or other such delights pre lunch, but the NEW ME adores it. So this ramen was not only a connection home – it was an  ‘all-day  me moment’ as we’d say when we were all titting about for Nescafe.

At the other end of the scale KK had put into my little black book the address for a seafood restaurant called ‘No Signboard’. Apparently named because the founder, when he opened it, could not afford a signboard. Today, that no signboard signboard is laser cut from aluminium, much like the service skills of the authoritarian, panicked, yet simultaneously lazy waitstaff. Anne and I HAD to go. They do great buns (and trust me, I love a nice bun).

On arrival under the durian, we sat and gazed at the construction hell that is the new ‘integrated resort’ – that’s Singaporean for ‘casino’. A purgatory of a place that’s sure to bring in no end of trouble. Anyway, if they want it and can manage it (which I’m sure they can) there’s no doubt the economy will benefit.

The star of the show here is Chill Crab. A dish so Singaporean it will walk slowly through a mall in front of you – ensuring that no matter where you intend to walk, it’s always in the way… but unlike so called Singaporean Mall Dweebs, it’s delicious to look at – and to eat. Well, when I say to eat, you’ve kind of got to be into E.R. and Silent Witness to get through it. It can be quite daunting.

cf. Back of shot – friend buns. Cooked to order, little orgasms of dough deep fried and then dipped into the sauce. Delicious. I had one – as I am a grown up.

This dish doesn’t take any prisoners, you have to hammer, beat, tear and pull to get to the succulent meat within, but fuck me it’s worth it. It’s devine. We have one chilli crab and one white pepper crab – and I loved them both equally.

My only concern would be that it’s not THAT spicy. But the view was incredible, the buns were tight and Anne’s face lit up as I became her personal mortician and extracted the seafoody goodness from within.

I think it must be a mandatory stop for anyone into ripping crabs apart. Which should be everyone.

Bringing the Sling, back.

So there I was, at Vivo City (the largest mall in Singapore) ingratiating myself with the locals – in Starbucks and struggling to get online. It’s remarkable that to even use the ‘free’ internet in this wonderful town you have to give your passport number and cell phone. Finally, after a struggle and some calming words from KK I managed to connect.

So it was no real surprise when I started receiving promotional text messages from the state a little later on. Probably wasn’t a good idea to reply to them, following my two beers and glass (or two) of wine over dinner. Hey – ho. If I wake up rendered (as in illegally moved as opposed to fried until the fat drops off me) that will be why.

I had some time to kill, Anne, who appears to be single-handedly running one of the biggest clients in town, was ‘up against it’ so I was chilling with my students at Starbucks.

The dedication to learn here is nothing short of impressive, nor is the Singaporean students cunning/front in ensuring they can learn in comfort and with technology.

As I sat in the Bucks with my palm sizes Asus, 4 students came in, congregated around one table, pulled out an adaptor and plugged their four Dell laptops into the Starbucks grid (the blenders slowed a little bit and somewhere in someone’s HDB the lights went out). One of them proceeded to buy one short drink between the four, and as God is my witness, when I returned (after leaving) some 3 hours later – they were all still there.

Ratchat says often they will all go to the airport to take advantage of the free internet. Smart and economical.

So, anyway, there I was, homesick, lovesick and a littlen bored and suddenly it hit me – I had a Slingbox. Thanks to my lovely little sister (who is 24 and probably detests being called little) who had bought one as a total surprise for me.

So I logged in, and lo and behold in 3 minutes I was watching Top Chef. The only thing that was missing was the arctic New York weather, an airbus in the Hudson and the loving arms of KK around me. Heck. I’ll take what I can get here in the tropics. It was a little touch of home and love and it warmed me up no end.

Jonathan, the sausage jockey hits the Clubhouse.

So, connecting to a Singapore Airlines flight, I was a little confused whether I should go landside to check in (as I had online but didn’t get a boarding pass – tip – as soon as you’ve got a BP it’s hard to change seats). and use the Virgin Arrivals lounge – or if I could get a shower in the clubhouse. I went for the latter.

Checking in for SQ at Heathrow is not entirely pleasant. As a gold card VS man I hit the Suites check-in (I was on the ugliest yet most wonderful aircraft – the A380) and the brine faced woman told me that my status wasn’t in the booking. Now, as I’m slowly realising that materialism doesn’t really matter – I went easy on her. However, I wish I’d remembered to make her put priority tags on my bag; more on that later.

At the Nirvana that is the Clubhouse (that’s probably an offensive overstatement) I settled down to experience something I really haven’t found a comparison for in New York… it’s this;

And FMOSB it was proper ‘ansome. I loved the sausages most. Really moist, meaty and succulent. Close to the quality of a good Thai sausage, but not quite.

Then my evil plan was hatched. Because vinegar tits at check-in clearly thought I was trying to pull a fast one, I loosed my top, showed some cleavage and sauntered over to the Silver Kris lounge. The dragon on the desk was a love and I begged for an upper deck window seat (you see they have the little storage bins by the seat so more space and no need to get up)… she couldn’t confirm but I think my cleavage and gold card helped. I was assured of one pretty soon and proudly returned to the Clubhouse with my UPPER DECK stamped BP.

Boarding was a dream. Last row before last exit (so still in front of about 4 rows) but meant I could recline my seat through the journey. The 12 hour journey.

My seat mate arrived and promptly slept for the next 12 hours. She was 50ft high (so it seemed – odd that all my seat mates were very tall – or had I inexplicably shrunk in a hot-wash over night?).

Off we went. A take-off roll that felt like it took up half the 12 hours and we were airborn, oh not before being given hot cloth towels and menu’s and amenity kits. This aint no cheap meat flight.

Look, I won’t go on about the flight, suffice to say the last time I was on an SQ A380 I was up front, but there was nothing to complain about with this flight. Constantly brilliant service, great technology and I had 2 seasons of Family Guy on my ipod and Lunesta, so time flew (thankfully).

Arrival!

The long night and longer flight.

As per usual I had forgotten to eat for most of the day, so the trip from the apartment to the airport was puncuated by finding a dust covered piece of chewing gum, the sound of my stomach and the infurating yet constant dropping of calls on the journey to the airport (sorry Cindy!)…

But we arrived, checked-in and headed to the lounge – oh, after securing and exit row seat. Imagine my annoyance as after settling into the window exit row (which has a huge unnecessary obstruction in front – the exit door that is) and planning to shift to the aisle, Miss ‘Oh so smiley and helpful but probably wouldn’t be to you Mr. Gold Card Holder Who Never Get’s Good Service Ex-USA on Virgin’ decides to bring to Hagrid size, Little Britain characters up to sit in the other two seats.

After I calm myself down (KK said to ‘listen to my breathing’, imagine hearing Black Beauty after a canter across a beach type breathing was being heard) I realise that this is the beginning of a long journey and there’s no point being picky knickers.

Words simply cannot describe the discomfort I suffered in this Guantanemo inspired stress position – but it was the ONLY position as Andy and Lou next to me were convinced that I did actually want one of their belly’s exposed from their t-shirts and warmly pressing against my side like a damp human leech.

And the food. Holy moly. You’d need divine intervention to stomach it. I have never been served a meal that was entirely grey in my entire life. I’m not sure how Virgin are able to make their meals so unpalatable – there  must be an award they could win for it (I expect with Paul Charles as their head of PR it’s entirely possible they have).
I did sleep for a little while. There was nothing else to do really. Oh, and when I unfolded my tray table it was wet – and smelt like a student’s 4 days damp in the washing machine/dried too quickly on a flaky radiator’s cords.   Nice.

Arrival could not come soon enough – and with a  strong wind behind us (always preferable) we landed bang on time.

To the salvation that is the Virgin Clubhouse! Don’t spare the horses!

The Norma Desmond of Blogging.

OK. So I’m having a come-back. I can’t help it. So much is happening that I feel I need the comfort blanket of my blog. Someone to talk to who won’t answer back, and somewhere to capture what has become one of the most exhilarating weeks of my life.

Now, those of you who know (which seems to be an omni-present statement around this joint) will know that Barack and me have the same goals. No, not to shake hands with the world’s worst Bush (and that includes Naomi’s) next week, but for change. Change that I can believe in.

So here I am in Singapore. The EntrePot of the East, the diverse throbbing hub of the Orient. And my home for ten days.

It was late on Thursday night last week when Ratchat and I faced the fact that if there was to be change I needed to make it happen. And I needed to book a flight. Clearly the former was an easy decision, the latter led me to spending a good 18 hours online (expedia, expertflyer, ITA, Kayak and my other regular travel tools) to find the perfect flight.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered I could fly via London the next evening for about the same cost as the GDP of Zimbabwe (ie. not a lot) and  a ticket was booked.

So I’ll break the story down into days, I believe we call that ‘a diary’ of events and as I’m loathed to long stories, I’ll cut my career driven cake into easy to eat slices.

We’re off! 24 hours of travel beckons as I step gingerly (did I tell you I’m ginger) into my Dial 7 taxi on an ice-cold New York evening, Singapore bound!

Not much of a cliff hanger there – so here’s another one…

Mac attack.

I’ve cracked it. Today during an insane tidy/dump/clear session (coupled with the most productive work day on record) I’ve managed to resuscitate my old iMac (the white one but not the round one) that has been ‘broke’ for a year or so. 

Ben had suggested fixing it or chucking it and I hadn’t bothered to do either. So I gave it one more shot today. And bingo bango bongo the bloody thing works! Now has latest mac OS upon it and is in the coolest place in town.

I’ve put it in the bedroom on the shelves over the bed. Wireless keyboard and mouse. Netflix subscription and speakers. It’s comput-tainment!

Coupled with the ability to log into it from the living room – which adds the benefit of spying on the bedroom. NICE WORK.

I also got my WIFI radio working (such a busy day) – prompted to me by Sean on Skype for an hour (which was majestic) and now have Brit, Thai, Sing and US stations on call.

Our bedroom is now a ‘media’ room – fact. I’m waiting for Extreme Makeover to burst through the door at any moment.

Moral of this story – don’t give up.

What’s wrong with this picture?

For 4 years I thought I was the only one. You’ve read before (if you read often) that my pride and joy is my Doxa SUB 750T watch. It was THE watch that I’d waited all my life for. It’s unique orange face smiling at me when I sat down in First Class on a British Airways flight back from an exhausting trip to Mumbai.

 

It was the cover star of an aptly titled Watch magazine – and as soon as I landed I had pretty much ordered one on the spot. It wasn’t cheap (but it wasn’t silly money either) but that wasn’t important. It was special and I’d waited all my life for a lovely watch – and this orange beacon of uniqueness smiled at me when I first unravelled it from it’s wrapping – fresh from Switzerland.

 

Doxa is pilloried by many Swiss watch makers, never mind that it dates back to and was connected to the Rolex movement – never mind that the brand was resuscitated but retained the orginal designs and casings; the reason why it’s hated by the Swiss time people is that they were the first Swiss Watch Co to sell direct on the internet. Dear God.

 

Anyway, so I’m on the couch with Ratchat the other night, watching Iron Chef (like you do) and then Diners, Drive Ins and Dives comes on. It’s presented by Guy Fieri – a larger than life (and thankfully larger than me) chef with bleached blond hair and a bleached sense of humour. The food he talks about is what I call ‘death food’ but he has charm. I nearly spat out my home made Chai Latte when I saw this:

 

I don’t know how to respond. I mean this is the FIRST other person I’ve ever seen wearing the watch. There’s no anger, or poncey annoyance, I’m just REALLY surprised. And surprised that in the venn of watch buying (cost, looks, size) myself and Guy seem to match.

Stasis, ebaying the chairs on the Titanic

It’s at times like these when you suddenly realise that so many things are unimportant – or at least appear to be. I’m working on the next stage of me and as I sit here waiting for the right next move or idea or action to fall into my brain I suddenly realise that almost everything else becomes rather folly.

 

It’s easy to forget that once you’ve hit your ambitions you’re left wondering where to go – or what the next ambition is. And it is even easier to allow it to turn your world an insipid shade of grey. So you have to work hard to occupy yourself, prime and rest for the next move.

 

I suppose what I’m saying is, as Aron would bluntly say, I’m waiting for my next ‘Fall-Up’. The next thing to happen. I have my ducks neatly lined up. I know I’m good at what I do, and now I have the added benefit of being able to think just about me – I don’t have to be in New York – I don’t have to be in ‘PR’. In fact, having had a great Thanksgiving and meeting a former air stewardess I almost signed up to be  cabin crew.

 

It’s probably the change you experience when you realise that, of course, work is a critical part of who you are (whether you like it or not) and of course you can’t just give up and go live with Mum (although…) but the subtle shift that happens when you slowly realise you may have focussed to much on the work and not enough on the life. Let’s be clear, this doesn’t mean Sanch is slacking off – quite the opposite, it’s about realigning priorities to make sure the next stage works well and better than the previous.

 

So therefore, rearranging glassware on the coffee table seems rather pointless. So I’ve stopped.

Things you need to get by after bye-bye

This has been a long time coming. I drafted this not long after I separated from Ben; who I am proud to say has remained a friend and someone I care for deeply. It’s hard work – but it’s worth it. But people often talk about how they ‘get through’ and I kind of wrote this in possibly a dodgy emotional state, with no purpose, and then left it well alone until now – when I feel strong enough to post it. No proofing, no subbing, just a bit raw. No other reason than to just put it here, other than this blog has done more for me than I ever thought possible. No comments required, or requested. 7 years is a long time and one worth remembering.

—–

 

It was just before my 34^th birthday that I became single -  after 7 years of togetherness. The why’s and how’s aren’t relevant (although they are important) but the main thing learning to be single again is almost a recovery programme, rehab for the confidence. I’m no expert at this as I have not had the relationship success that I suppose others have, you know, more long term partners – but maybe that’s an oxymoron; who knows? What I do know is that there are a number of  items, processes, things that help and are helping me move on and move forward, I thought I’d take a moment to share some of them.

 

1. Hotels.

As soon as ‘it’ happened we both realized that to stay together in the same shared space was just not really an  option. We had a place rented on Fire Island, but as beautiful as it is, catching a 6am ferry to Long Island and the subsequent travel hell on LIRR was out of the question. My friends told me that if there was one time in my life for true self-indulgence, this was it. I capitulated and began a journey of hotels in Manhattan that protected me, offered comfort and care and great movies on demand. Psychologically I think staying in hotels (a real passion of mine and incredibly decadent when in one’s own home town) helped me focus on me and what I wanted and needed a well as giving me the ability to have friends come round, to stay awake all night if I wanted and to order some pretty amazing breakfasts. So thanks go to The London, The Gild Hall Hotel and the Millennium Hilton (who offered me a top floor room with sweeping views over ground zero).

 

2. The gym.

The gym is a brilliant distraction and outlet for tension, sadness, anger and fat. I have a feeling there’s a television program in men in the gym getting therapy from personal/mental trainers who get their bodies and minds fit in tandem. Now, my trainer Chris, was in the middle of life change himself – by that I mean he was preparing for a marriage, god bless him. But during the immediate aftermath he excelled in dignity, care and actually pushing me really hard. It’s not always easy to talk about what’s happening in your life when you’re doing circuit training, but believe me it helps. You can also focus on the thing that you control – your body and create an upside almost, a reward for what you’re going through. It’s no surprise – but it is delightful – that my blood pressure is back to normal and I’ve not just kept off the 30 pounds I’ve dropped, but dropped more.

 

3. The internet.

No better way to communicate with everyone who needs to know what’s happened than the trilogy of iPhone, Facebook and Email. It’s a landmark moment when you change that relationship status on Face book – and one which gave me considerable torment — I just couldn’t face changing it, but I knew that it was part of the process. I understand that some have said that I live out too much of my life online, but this is where the new community is – this is where my  oh so wonderful family can catch up with me – keep tabs on me and send me love and support. It was telling that within moments of changing that status I seemed to receive a flood of incredibly kind messages from many friends-  and colleagues. Oh, if you’re going to do that it’s best to prune your friends list first – I did and do often. The iPhone helps because whilst I was looking for Richard and Zoe (dear dear friends who sacrificed their first children-less holiday in New York to support me) I was able to use the GPS to find them, the SMS to contact them and the web to look for a new apartment. It became a critical part of the journey. As was email. The ability to communicate one-way (which is REALLY important sometimes, you may not want dialogue, you just might want to say ‘I’m ok’) is incredibly important.

 

4. Pictures.

It takes it  out of you, whether you’re the protagonist or not – when it happens you’re left thinking ‘who am I?’ it’s hard to realize your value, to see what you mean, who you are and how you look. This is where I got into using Photobooth on my iMac. This time is a time to build confidence, I literally re-taught myself to appreciate who I was – in the most baseline way, how I looked, and to do that I took a picture a day. And I used those pictures. They became profile pics, they were on the fridge door  of my internet life. My backgrounds and screensavers focused on ME. I know, arrogant, egotistical – whatever – I needed to overcook my opinion on my looks to rebuild my confidence as a single person. Close friends got this, they understood that it was out of character – but they let me do it, and it helped rewire who I was and my opinion of myself – two things that end up being compromised into any relationship; because that’s how they work.

5. I’m still working on.

Top 10 favourite non-living things:

10. Stemless wine glasses – never thought I would like them, but actually, they rock.

9. Globes – I love seeing the world as a whole, underpins my passion for travel.

8. Bose QC2 headphones – there’s nothing finer to cut out irritants (other than DDT).

7. BA Gold membership – it is far superior to Virgin’s and allows you access to almost any lounge.

6. White things – confidence in no colour is sexy.

5. The Cathay cabanas at Hong Kong airport – who knew you could bathe in an airport?

4. Laab – the Thai chicken dish which hits your pallet like a cluster bomb.

3. China – a country which instills magic, potential and paradox.

2. Skulls – especially on cufflinks (see Richard Kelly for details)

1. Aqua Di Parma – a fragrance that will always make me happy.

 

The world needs more of this.

 

I don’t get out much. Which is remarkable given my so called scintillating career. It’s just not me. Since Rachael taught me to enter “liquor, liquor” as first and last name for the nearest wine store, the advent of Seamless Web and filtered water on tap, I just think in is the new out (kind of like belly buttons where in will never go out of fashion).

So to be invited to a dinner party of 10 people at Cindy Gallop’s simply stunning living space was both exciting and terrifying.

Naturally having spent the day on the couch with stomach cramps (LONG story) I pulled it together at 6 and started the prep. The one thing the late and great Peter Estall taught me (he’s the man responsible for the very best light entertainment at the BBC in the 80’s and beyond – and a mentor to me) was to never cancel on a woman, and least of all on a meal. So  having reassured Cindy that come hell or heart-attack I’d be there, I dipped into yet another bath and prepped.

Look, let’s face it, I’m shit on my own. I can’t choose a THING to wear, I need back-up. I nearly called Ratchat, Ben, Mom even Tim Gunn, but I couldn’t be seen to fail; so I literally spent 40 minutes trying on a variety of pants, shirts, ties and even Henley style shorts (what WAS I thinking) and finally ended up looking just the wrong side of interesting.

Maybe like a graduate entertainment lawyer. Although someone did as me if I was a writer at dinner (NOT the look, but impressive none the less).

The journey was quite something. Straight to the local liquor store to buy the biggest bottle of Grey Goose (made with real geese) and into a taxi, via a pot hole in the road the depth of Wookey Hole. My pants (that’s trousers) were soaked, well just on the one leg. What can you do? You do British, and ignore it.

To Cindy’s to the loo to freshen up and work out how to dry my leg and then to the seating area.

I’m not going to go on about her place – Google it or go to www.cindygallop.com – anyway it was designed by Bacchus and the god of Soft-Porn. It’s a total entertainment, living and loving space. She is also, truly, the ultimate Martini maker – delivered in some almost witch-craft looking flask to crisp Gucci glasses. The conversation is warm enough to dry my leg and soon we take to dinner.

William, as ever (well it’s the second time I’ve seen it but I’m assured he does this far too often) has mostly catered, and as we sup from a wine called ‘Bitch’ the stories unfold over a memorable Cottage/Shepherds pie (I always confuse the two).

What made tonight captivating to me was there was none of that ‘where do you work, what do you do  and long chats about the vagueries of marketing. Instead we talked about people, fun, love and past-times and the whole thing was totally cathartic.

Long may it reign – and I hope I’ve done enough to make some new friends as every single one around the table was nothing other than impressive, passionate and captivating.

That moment.

There’s that moment. That moment when I get home, Kitten is here (looking FAB) and there is the faint smell of bleach and Mr. Muscle. There’s that moment when she tells me off for going to the loo in my own bathroom. That moment when she steals a laundry trolley and folds my underwear so perfectly and hangs my clothes up. That moment when she’s saying goodbye and spots a fleck of dust on the floor and picks it up.

 

And then she’s gone. 

 

And then it’s mine. It’s like a whole new flat. That is the moment I’m gifted with twice a week, and now thanks to connections, another family will experience a Kitten moment 3 times a week. I’m delighted for her – and thrilled for them.

People I may know… take a look.

Apologies if you’re named in here – you did put yourself on LinkedIn didn’t cha?

 

Andrew – may YOU know him too?

An homage to Ross.

Ross Weinstein (a very clever friend of mine who works at News Force, an organisation that invited me to be on its advisory board) is prone to photographing his meals. 

So I have today.

I’ve been under the ‘asian spell’ recently and culinary wise that’s come through in my cuisine. Today was seared tuna with Ponzu and Wasabi, grilled scallop with fresh lime served with carrot, sesame and vinegar and salad with ginger dressing.

I’ve really Asian’d the fuck out of this one. And it was completely delicious. Contact me for the recipe (although there’s not much more to it that than). Ponzu is worth finding – we had to go to 3 stores to find it and got the last one in WholeFoods at Columbus Circle, possibly the busiest supermarket in the solar system.

Farewell, Fire Island.

So today was the day I took myself and my very intelligent shadow out to Fire Island to clear out what’s left (what’s mine) and make sure we’d made good. Ben had been out a couple of weeks ago and had clearly had a really good tidy up – which was really helpful and much appreciated.

Up at 6.30 to catch the train to Bayshore, and a lovely journey out in bright blue skies – a little sad thinking of the recent memories, you know, the seperation and all – but I felt like I had real emotional support all around me.

You simply can’t be sad on Fire Island, well – I’m sure come January the year-rounders (Nancy and co) will want to shoot themselves right in the head (as my little sister and I love saying) but for the casual day-tripper; hang on, why ‘the casual day-tripper’ is there such a thing as a ‘formal day-tripper?’. It’s like when people say ‘practicing homosexual’ – actually I stopped practicing years ago.

The house was the same as it was when I was last there, although it felt happier – and an hour later, all packed and fast asleep. Awoken to the owner turning up to check out our checking out – and he wasn’t best pleased to find the place inhabited. In fact he was a bit rude – which, much like the garlic risotto that I’d consumed having failed to find anything breakfast like – left a bad taste in my mouth.

However, soon recovered – back to the ferry and home.

Fire Island is so special to me. It was the place I came to when I knew no-one in the city and Nancy was my only friend in the world (or so it felt – Manhattan can be a very lonely place). It was where we went to switch-off, escape the city (and although that sounds so contrived, you try relaxing in the city when it’s close to 100 degrees F and the place stinks)….

It was the place where we discovered that you could live without television (not much) and you could eat from a freezer through winter and still feel like it was gourmet food.

It was the place where my mom and I had the most horrible moment, which was immediately devastating and for which I may never forgive myself – but we’re closer for it.

It was the place where I got my body confidence back and learned to take my shirt off on the beach.

It was the place where there was no judgement, no anger, no politic and no problems.

And it was the place where I said goodbye to a powerful, life changing relationship to protect an as powerful friendship.

A part of me thinks it will never be the same again, and moreover that it may have to be a long time before I can go back. Most of me feels that today closed a chapter and my mind, soul and body will be better for it. All of me will never forget its magic, its beauty and its nature.

The crime of over-promising due to good intentions.

I know that I do this, and I’m not proud of it. Now let’s be clear, I don’t do it professionally (oddly enough) but I still seem to do it personally and I know it annoys, upsets and frankly pisses off a lot of people I care about.

I think this comes from a inner need in me to never disappoint, to not let people down and to be there, wherever, whenever I can so as not to disappoint. What I do is, to be more specific) promise to call someone, be somewhere, turn up, email, write, fight and then don’t. I mean, I don’t stand up people at dinner (that would be inexcusable and very cruel) but I seem to get stuck in the ‘let’s pencil that’ and then never ‘ink’ it.

But I can see the damage it causes. It’s never meant to be malicious, and it truly isn’t done with any intent other than to try and please people – immediately. I suppose I’m a bit of a cake now, jam later type person – I want everyone to be happy as quickly as possible.

Sometimes it’s just impossible to deliver on those promises I make, sometimes I know, privately, that I will be in a meeting, a client event, or, say, even asleep but at the precise moment I’m being asked – I just hate to say no.

God has had his revenge on me because I now seem to be suffering from quite a cold and a big old sore throat. That puts me in good stead for this 8 hour flight back to New York.

I know this is an area I have to work on.

Live from 28a

I’m on board Virgin Atlantic flight 46 to London Heathrow, it takes off in 35 minutes. Well, when I say take off I mean  trundle down to join the queue to depart – if you know New York you’ll know that getting any flight out of here to take off within  90 minutes of its departure time of an evening is about as likely as getting a mortgage right now.

What makes this moment quite good is that I’m typing this on a brand spanking new Asus EE PC 901, using a cellular card thingy to be on the interweb. A few moments ago, over a shrimp salad I engaged in a video conversation with a clever clever man. And it all worked very well indeed.

What makes this remarkable is that I was completely convinced I’d need the new aluminium MacBook – but I’ve ended up spending 1/3 of the money for something infinitely more ‘right’ for who I am and what I do. Namely someone who writes a lot, surfs a lot and travels alot.

This little powerhorse makes me want to review it like Jeremy Clarkson would talk up a BMW (would he? I have  no bloody idea).

It’s fast, shiny and beautiful, much like this 747 I’m sitting on right now.

One of the best emails EVER.

 

I received this tonight:

 

HOT TUB OUT OF SERVICE TILL WEDNESDAY 10/15This E-mail was sent via the BuildingLink Address Book by Bldg Mgmt: Malby Almonte.

 

 

Nice.

Welcome to my Home-tel

There is nothing quite like living in a serviced apartment. Fact. It’s been 36 hours and to be frank every one of those hours has been paradise. Including, but not limited to:

 

1. Tearing the place apart to try and find the switch to turn on the central air conditioning (corner apartments that face West get a LOT of sunshine). Then asking quite innocently with the concierge and having Joe, the uniformed handyman fix it in 8 seconds.

2. Discovering my fridge has both an icemaker AND a chilled water dispenser (holy shit, that’s the stuff that built the American Dream is it not?)

3. A spa bath, deeper than my knee and box shaped – and fuck it, just HAVING A BATH TUB.

4. A separate bedroom – yes, you can fry fish and not sleep with it.

5. Having a man open the door for you. Everytime.

6. A digital mailroom – you know what you’ve got before you even get to it.

Oh I could go on. But what made it really special was Kitten the cleaner, who’d been round a few times whilst I was in Bali and unpacked lots of stuff, and filled the fridge with the things she knows I love (Fiji Water, Babybel and ham)… god BLESS her.

And finally, a chance to take a new portfolio of pictures. I’ve been snap happy – and here’s my favourite – right now:

Hong Kong.

Hong Kong., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

Tanned or what? Speeding on 2 double expresso’s and toying with an
electrical purchase.

This lounge (The Pier) is actually brilliant. Table service, silver service, linens, laptops and the care you only get from an airline like Cathay.

And so it begins.

The long journey home. I’m in the ‘Premium Lounge’ in, Denpasar which is actually not bad. Good food and I’m sitting looking at the runway. Which is nice. If you’re me.

I think this has been my longest time ‘away’ for a very long time. 2 whole weeks of Indonesian climate, culture and kindness. That’s the over-riding memory I’m taking with me – kindness. There’s no doubt it’s frustrating when you’re here for a technology conference and they can’t get the internet to work (we ended up using smoke signals, but they got intercepted and it now appears we’ve elected Whitney Houston as the new Pope). 

But all issues like that, of internet and infrastructure, of long traffic delays and longer waits for room service sort of (just sort of, one step at a time Sanchez) float away when greeting with a genuine smile and passion to help. It’s enchanting.

As was the Martini Bar at the Ritz Carlton last night, with new friends and old, in shifts in fact as they departed to the airport to … depart, we sat, sipped martini’s and watched the sun go down on this stunning island. As you well know we’ve been searching for martini nirvana – and I think we cracked it last night. Which must be a fucking relief to the Ritz Carlton Martini Bar, or they’ll be up against trading standards won’t they?

 

This morning, a lazy breakfast of shared nasi goreng and babi goreng (which resembles fried pigs ear and tastes precisely like you’d imagine such porcine offal to taste) a hot bath and preparation to depart, and off to the airport.

When you next hear from me I’ll be in Hong Kong.  Toodle Pip!

Found: the perfect Balinese martini.

It’s been somewhat of an adventure in taste; Cindy Gallop’s desperate attempts to locate a martini just dry enough, with just the right twist, at the right temperature and served promptly.

 

At the Damai we had martinis the same size as an Optrex eyebath with olives. Not good.

At Ku De Ta we had martinis that were initially served with lime, and then remade with lemon. Good size. Too wet.

At the lobby at the Bali Hyatt we had martinis served with olives when we asked for lemon. Too warm, not right.

And last night, at the Salsa bar – overlooking the ocean and resort – a bar SO exclusive that we had failed to find it – and clearly as had the rest of the hotel given it’s rattling emptiness.

However, even though when I said twist of lemon they said lime, I said lemon, they said lime – when they arrived they were, as oat expert Goldilocks would say ‘just right’.

I never thought a part of the upside of the iMedia Asia conference would be to become a martini afficionado – but QED.

A landmark moment.

I have been waiting for this moment for some time. Following the morning of the conference (in which Brad Jakeman presented a simply brilliant keynote) I decided to hit the gym and work out. So, 15 mins of running on incline, 6 machines, 3 sets each on arms, chest, shoulders, legs etc. and 10 lengths in the pool. Nice work.

 

Following that a shower (after working out I always shower like a victim – you know, from the Gentle Touch or Juliet Bravo – scrubbing myself and wincing with pain as my arms freeze) and over to the scales.

 

Well blow me if I haven’t dropped below 190 pounds. My goal is 180 – but I’ve been stuck at 192/5 for a couple of weeks. I’ll be checking tomorrow to make sure it’s not a dodgy set of scales – but this is a special moment for me – down from nearly 230 pounds just 6 months ago!

Enough trumpet blowing. But I wanted to note the moment.

Lamp. Repositioned.

Lamp. Repositioned., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

This is not the title of some Dreamworks SKG kack short film featuring
birds on a telegraph wire (you know who you are).

It is the delightfully stylish standard lamp that I have had to patriate to
my bedroom. Seeing as it has no artificial light source at all.

If this is a standard lamp, does that mean there is a sub-standard lamp?
Would that be a shorter desk lamp? Or just contain more Chinese melamine?

Cindy and I arrived home to our seperate quarters to discover 2 huge
triffid size plants in our bedrooms. Bath towell all over the floor and
dirty plates left here – but its ok, as we know have 2 plants that will
rape us in our sleep and we’ll only notice when all leaves fall out in
Autumn.

Today I finished my first book and truly loved and relished having my
fingers on pages. Even after I’d swam 50 lengths to see a rivulet of water
traverse my page post departing from my hot brow was captivating.

But not as much as my new diet.

We will call it the Cindy. It goes like this:

Breakfast- eggs boiled, 2 of. 1 grilled tomato. A fresh fruit plate,
coffee. 30 minutes of horizon staring.

Lunch – nada, nothing,niet. Apart from the oh so subtle bubbling of my
flesh as it bonds with the sun lounger.

Dinner – a 3 course meal, which here is verging on microscopic which we
both agree is a GOOD THING.

Starter: more of an amuse bouche (do you think ‘water-boarding’ would sound
nicer if it was in French? Or ‘bail out package’ I always thought that
was a gay man’s first action in the sauna)… Tuna, raw, rolled in
peppercorns with wasabi.

Main course: fish or lamb. No carbs. This was the My Little Pony of lambs
tonight.

Dessert: always persuaded by Cindy and never let down. Although I’m not
quite down with so much sauce art on the plate (you know those squeezies
that make great food look like an epileptic lose of bowel rodent has been
trapped under the cloche.).

Coffee. Pondering. Laughter and a bit, just a teensy eensy bit of ‘look at
this powerpoint’….

No fucking sign of Richard on the email for a gad about now; so sleep
beckons. The plan for tomorrow – same as… The storm of iMedia fast
approaching!

Tomorrow: what Sarah Palin did for me yesterday (and its a little racy)…

Schlafen sie gut in das bed (love ya Seany!)

Luddites Unite.

Luddites Unite., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

Naturally, being in the middle of nowhere (the very north of Bali) we are
pretty much sans technology here.

We are in the most stunning of ‘Presidential Villas’ that I have ever
stayed in — and having travelled the world with Jerry Hall, I’ve
experienced quite a few (including the one she demanded to leave when she
saw a sound engineer leave her room exclaiming to me ‘he could have been
sniffing my underwear’)…

Its a Virgin Villa (how contrary given its occupants) and has never been
slept in before, nor the pool dipped in nor minibar tampered with: I didn’t
mean it was owned by that bearded pillock that manages 30 planes whilst
damming BA for their intended merger as only a real global airline could
do. VS is their flight code = Very Small.

I digress, there is no wifi, limited cell phone activity and it takes a
good half an hour to get a chilli martini (an oxymoron should by chilli I
meant chilly – they have turned up warm so far).

It got to a point where Cindy and I, having travelled in a minivan for what
felt like 60 days, then sank into the infinity pool, lounged in the bale in
the sun, ate a fresh fruit platter and sipped fresh cocktails whilst firmly
esconced in brand new waffle cotton robes exclaimed our absolute contempt
for the lack of connectivity.

We both instinctively took a glance at each other and a big step back;
this, we reckon, is bliss.

Apologies for the bad pic. Its blackberry all the way. I also can’t keep
the camera still as there is either a bird that sounds like a man farting
in the tree opposite, or there’s a man farting in the tree opposite.

This dream had better not come true.

So I’m obviously having a great time in Bali. Not doing a whole lot right now (until the conference starts) but I did get to go to a bar called Mixxwell in Kuta last night. And by night I mean morning, as apparently not one person worth any cool points ventures out before midnight. 

That worked perfectly for me because as a man entering my twilight years (that’s certainly the understanding here in Young Bali) I could nap. And I did. For 5 hours. From 7pm to midnight.

There then followed the obligatory realisation that, much like Richard’s wife, I had screwed up the packing algorithm and bought with me about 34 tops and no bottoms. So following an intense debate with myself I settled on the two oldest and most tired things in my wardrobe (it’s ok – Seigfreid and Roy came out of the closet decades ago – I meant shorts and a polo).

If you’re booking a taxi in Bali, make it Blue Bird cars. Safe, sedate with an accent that will grate; but with drivers who will get you there pretty much before you leave, it’s the Concord of charabancs.

To the bar now. Settled in, packet of Marlboro Lights in hand – but actually, wait, you don’t need to smoke in Indonesian bars – because everyone else is! I reckon I’d smoked enough to sound like E.T. before I even got to my white melamine chair.

The drag acts at this bar are a sight to behold. Perfect word for word duplication of every Whitney sound known to mankind – without actually singing one single word. They are illuminated by a crew of boys dressed like they man the pit-stops at the Singapore Formula One: white pants, black shirts with checkered collars and 2 colossal, light-house sized hand lamps pointed right at the pile of Avon and synthetic hair – that if you closed your eyes, ears, and every other sense – was just like Whitney (probably in her more ‘Bobby, can you role me  a joint’ period that the ‘I will always love you’ era.

Anyway, my ‘colleagues’ and I danced the night away, well they danced I sat and nibbled my finger nail (it seemed like the safest snack). 

To bed, and in closing, I have to tell you of the most bizarre dream I think I’ve ever had. Basically I’m instructing a legion of students in a large lecture theater. I ask them to watch the screen and learn and I play a video.

The video is of me talking to camera about how nice Kim Kardashian is, and I’m exceptionally drunk. I’m also, for some obscure reason, wearing surgical gloves and am chain-smoking. I then direct viewers to a small tv screen next to me to demonstrate how Kim has come off the rails.

The clip plays and it’s of Kim being chased by penguins in the Arctic (I know, you don’t get penguins in the Arctic, because Polar bears can’t get the wrapper off etc.).

I would have told you how this all ‘panned out’ but I was then awoken via a scam call to my villa asking me if I wanted to know what prize I’d won. I said no, and hung up – bitchy words and snipey comments excused for humour about – I actually had a brilliant night and didn’t need a 2 hour timeshare pitch to spoil it.

6 inches that make ALL the difference.

So I’ve just landed into Hong Kong. And I’m at The Wing, the Cathay Pacific First Class lounge. You are NOT going to believe where I am writing this very post… here:

 

Yes in  a BATH TUB. Can you sodding well believe it? I thought Terminal 5 rocked, but here thanks to those smart people at Cathay Pacific, you get a ‘cabana’ with bath, seperate shower, lounging area (with pebble filled lake/water features) sinks, potions and unctions and even Earl Grey served in your room.

 

I’m a little bit over fucking impressed to be honest. 

 

So how was the flight I hear you ask? It was long. 5 hours to Vancouver, one hour on the ground and then 13 hours to Hong Kong.  But I’ve discovered something about their business class seating. On the upper deck you get an extra 6 inches! It’s true – it’s like  booking a queen and getting a king (hospitality wise).

 

So now I”m going to soak, shave, prepare. Put on my new Ralph Lauren Polo shirt (in Racing Green) and then kick back before the last leg to Bali.

 

Sweet joy!

The Power of One.

I can’t help it, but I think I’m going through a bit of a selfish phase and by that I mean putting me first. I’m not being all nasty and me me me; but for the first time in a while all I have to consider when I do stuff or want something or would like a particular outcome is, well, me.

That’s obviously a far cry from the past, when you’re with someone of COURSE you consider the implications on a decision for both of you – isn’t that how relationships rrrrrrrrrrroll? So to go from ‘us’ to ‘me’ from ‘we’ to ‘I’ is significant. It’s also a little scary, and you find yourself both verbally and mentally correcting what you say and think.

From the other side, I suppose that’s the excitement, the change that you go through when you, well, go through what I’m, er, going through.

There’s no self help book I particularly want to read, or indeed think I need. But my self-help isn’t self-less, it comes from the people who love me, my family, my dear dear friends, Ben’s family and colleagues at work. Each has a role to play and so far in this piece of life theatre (I seem to be the lead act i) – it’s working well. 

I once considered writing a self-help book on weight loss, given that I’ve shed about a head’s worth of fat in the past 5 months. It would run to 300 pages and printed neatly in the centre of every empty page would be two words; ‘EAT LESS’. Sometimes the best help you need is the simplest. I have no intention of finding out what colour my umbrella is, nor do I wish to ‘feel the fear’ – I’m just learning how to be and ‘I’ again.

Is there anything left to buy?

So Marie and Julian are here. That’s Ben’s Sister and her husband. And they’re a big part of my family. It’s Julian’s first visit to New York and I have to say his wit is really refreshing; as is his addiction to shirt buying. In effect we are both shirt-lifters – albeit in different areas… as it were.

Marie looks amazing – she really has lost a lot of weight (not that it was at all necessary)  and she radiates in her brand spanking new Uniqlo adjusted-for-free jeans. Ben, meanwhile adjusted the fragrance shelf once more with more Tom Ford. It smells good on him, you’d think given that he’s told me countless times he’d drop me in a heatbeat for Mr. Ford I’d be against it – but I’m not.

And me? Well I’ve got into pants. That’s American for trousers.

With having lost nearly 24 pounds in the past 3 months (don’t ask me how – I just ate less) I was overjoyed to find trousers in The Gap of all places, that fitted and looked quite nice… Clearly my recent adult life has been based in the small cul-de-sac’d town of ‘Low-Self Esteem’, twinned with ‘does my head look big in this?’… so to enjoy being in a changing room was quite some moment.

So we’ve actually been ’shopping’ for 7 hours. 7 hours. Can you Adam and Eve it? And you know what? It was FUN. A lot of fun. That’s me saying I enjoyed shopping. As Shaun would say ‘well shit in your hat and punch it’.

Anyhoo. We’re back home now. I’m sipping beer and and we’re preparing for a last-night dinner at BoBo – in the West Village, it’s tres tres

More later.