Wednesday, October 08, 2014

Cuts Nails, Badly

Yesterday evening, Woman asked me to cut Sprocket's nails. Her fingers are tiny, nails tinier.

But oh, how they scratch... when she swipes her cheeks or my face, they  gouge and every other morning we discover the thin and bloody lines she has inflicted upon herself the previous night.

So it seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do on a Monday evening after work... Daddy would neatly cut Sprocket's nails and file them for safety. Instead of the usual baby scissors that Woman uses, I got my nail clippers and wielded them with aplomb, despite a telling 'take care' look from She-Who-Is-Baby-Expert.

Clip, clip and one nail was done
Clip, clip and the next one was done.
Clip, clip and I managed to lop off a chunk of baby skin... Sprocket broke into a loud wail and a drop of blood popped up and stained her white baby dress.Blood and tiny tears flowed freely as Woman and I stood stricken with terror... to inflict a wound on this innocent little lamb of a sprocket and to see her scream in agony was not in The Plan and there I was, having done exactly that.

Woman immediately took charge, soothed Sprocket down, while I hunted around with bated breath for a little band-aid and we managed to get that on. Woman then wrapped up her hand in a glove so that she wouldnt suck on the bandage at night... oh the terror of it all.

Man retreated into a frustrated desperate stormcloud of a mood and had to put up with the agony of hearing whimpers through the night as Sprocket tried to figure out how to suck her hand as she usually does but couldn't.

That has been ManSNAFU #1.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Friday Focus

On a sunlit Friday morning, after wrapping up a meeting about the arcane mechanics of conjoint analysis and the importance of the Q3 campaign for greater mankind, you find yourself staring out of your office window into the living room of an apartment next to a bridge, where a lady is arranging flowers into a vase. Unhurriedly.

You switch back for 10 seconds to an article on your screen by an ex-London consultant on the evolution of the television business, who now works for a venture capital fund in California, predicting trends and analysing the uptake of wearable technology.

And then you switch back and notice that the lady has picked up a toddler who is missing a mitten. Why is s/he wearing a mitten indoors... why aren't they outside in the sun running around in circles next to the water. What makes them choose this vector of life and not any other. Why, you wonder, have you chosen this life, this woman, this home, this country and not any other... why these purposeful or accidental conflagration of choices that have placed you this instant in time on this Swedish chair, of all the infinite matrices of the universe.

Focus, you tell yourself, does your life, your work, your sanity depend on it?
Focus, you tell yourself, but sometimes you musn't and you don't.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Home.Stock.Holm

Intense cardio session at Frisky and Sweaty gym at Fridhelmsplan. Elliptical-check. Treadmill-check. On rowing machine. At 35 calories on a target of 70. Woman calls. Wonder if everything is ok with sprocket. And with her. Wonder if we've lost in our first attempt at Sweden's arcane house buying/ bidding process and therefore the chance to buy the only decent house we've seen in all the viewings we've had.

W: "Hi, hon, how are you getting on"
M: "Not too bad, babe, at the gym... will wrap up soon and be home. How was your day?"
W: "All right, a bit tired, about to cook dinner"
M: "Sounds lovely, I'll be home soon"
W: "Sure... oh and by the way, we won the bidding"

Says my understated Welsh woman. And just like that, on a cold Stockholm evening, with sweat pouring off my forehead, amidst huffing and puffing Swedes of all sizes, shapes and ages, with a little yelp-grunt of delight, we're home owners.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

London Is The Place For Me

Back in London or rather in Zone 9 which isn't exactly London but you get the point. Good old marmiteandbakedbeansland. Summer is around, which in mushypeasland means you need to sport two layers, a raincoat and grumpy frown every day.

So priorities are, (after the 3 week recovery from jet lag) in no particular order, to find a job within 1.5 months, to find a home to rent, to stash away some money for a house deposit in the distant future and to take care of Woman. Not extremely challenging but every now and then, one encounters varying degrees of bipolarity with characters (friends/ family/ well-wishers/ strangers) shifting from genial to patronizing in seconds . For example:
X (smiling): So what is it like, to be a house husband/ man of leisure/ to chill at home?
GT (going into defensive martial arts mental crouch): Uh huh, not too bad.
X (smiling): All that free time! Lots of catching up on TV/ reading/ friends/ Facebook?
GT (rattlesnake in the monkey shadow pose): Yeah, sometimes
X (sunshiney smile suddenly becomes Serious Double Wrinkle Of Concern): And what happened to your interviews/ job search/ resumes? I saw some options in The Guardian/ The Times/ The Metro/ The Daily Mail yesterday... did you? Should I send it to you? Always good to make a start somewhere, no?
GT: (mental backflip from edge of the flat universe into dangerous unknown) So how is YOUR job coming along?

I do exaggerate but you get the point.

Woman, meantime, is going through her set of issues which include confused direct reports who launch into panic attacks and do nothing or everything, traveling to many countries that her position requires her to cover, the annoyance of having Man at home fluttering around doing too much or too little, and of course, the near perpetual cloud. Ah, me wee poor lass. Occasionally the claws peek out, like when I was checking train timings for her to reach a 9am meeting and she says what flirty text are you typing now. And comes over for a look. At such moments, one must set aside the momentary loud shriek-claws-come-out-I-am-Wolverine urge, remember that she is going through a tough phase and respond with something benign like "Hon, to make it to your meeting tomorrow, you'll have to catch the 7.32 or 7.48 " and wait until she cuddles up and says sorry. Or doesn't. But it's all fine when she buys you two fab T-shirts in the middle of an intense trip and shares updates about L'Sprocket from Italy or Switzerland or Uganda or wherever she is at the moment and gets into a rant about the sugar levels in "every bloody cereal". Until then, deep breaths, mutter "this too shall pass" and keep moving.

Such, the life of a house-husband/ man of leisure/ chiller at home.

PS: Did I mention being educated and entertained by no less than Sarah Bakewell on Montaigne, Alexander McCall Smith on Scottish poetry and Modern Family on the apparent meaninglessness of American family life... all at the same time. I could roll over and die in pleasure from such incessant intellectual tickling but I have a job to find.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

The Song of Achilles













Achilles to Hector in The Song of Achilles


'There are no bargains between lions and men.I will kill you and eat you raw'


A book that makes you wish you knew enough Greek to soak in the original.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Julian Barnes on Footballers

"You can take Lucas to watch football when he's older", she once told me. Ah, the rheumy-eyed grandpa on the terraces inducting the lad into the mysteries of soccer: how to loathe people wearing different coloured shirts, how to feign injury, how to blow your snot on the patch - See, son, you press hard on one nostril to close it and explode the green stuff out of the other. How to be vain and overpaid and have your best years behind you before you've even understood what life's about. Oh yes, I look forward to taking Lucas to the football.

- The Sense of an Ending, Julian Barnes

Saturday, January 28, 2012

Of such words, books are made...

Jeffrey Eugenides in 'Middlesex':

"I'd never seen a creature with so many freckles before. A Big Bang had occurred, originating at the bridge of her nose and the force of this explosion had sent galaxies of freckles hurtling and drifting to every end of her curved, warm-blooded universe. There were clusters of freckles on her forearms and wrists, an entire Milky Way spreading across her forehead, even a few sputtering quasars thrown into the wormholes of her ears"

Monday, January 16, 2012

Guineapig#2 reporting for battle, suh.

Somehow,somehow out of all the projects in ConsultCo, I had to be assigned to the exact team which G-man is quitting... so we've managed an intercontinental job exchange where G-man goes to my team in London while I join his super-duper team in Dubai...erm... make that Riyadh.

Ah, this lovely era of globalization when such things are possible.

Well, well, at least we're now clear about who'll be guzzling down beer on Thursdays and who'll be sipping Pepsis at 2am.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Of closet writers and their dreams...

Just finished a training course at ConsultCo.

Traces the story of Frank and Katrin. Frank is a high-flier who violates every possible rule of management consulting and client confidentiality... he also dreams of writing a book. Katrin of course is the polar opposite who follows every rule there ever was or ever will be and therefore is the role model for all of us, new bakras at the firm.

Audio signoff at the end of course: "Now Frank has all the time in the world to write the book he wants". Oooooooooooohhhhh... nasty is us.

The Glass Room by Simon Mawer

Went to a book club session about The Glass Room at a cafe at the DIFC; interesting bunch - Muscovite, Britisher, Arab, Serbian, Pakistani, Australian.

Comment of note: "This book opened my eye to the fact that some well heeled Jews made it out of Europe safely with money and family intact and not everyone died in the Holocaust". What?! And for the record, it wasn't an Arab person who made this comment.

Surprised to realize that the Glass Room actually existed... Villa Tugendaut by Mies Van Der Rohe.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Overheard - On Day 2 at work in Dubai

Quotes and conversations on 2nd day of work


  1. "It is not very safe to use taxi drivers in XX location, so we have our own fleet. Some of
    the locals don't like the idea of using consultants, so can be hostile, so please use our
    own fleet always".

  2. "The logistics team doesn't do night club reservations"

  3. "All the support teams have blacklists for you guys; believe me, you'll know it when you're
    one"

  4. Bank a/c opening process:

GT: But I don't want a Super Duper Platinum credit card with $300K limit.


Bank rep: Sorry sir, but it is an all inclusive package. You can choose not to use it.And
please sign this...


GT: Sign a blank cheque in favour of "Stinking Rich Bank" LLC?!


Bank rep: That is standard process; not to worry, we won't encash it (chuckle).


GT: Chuckle?! When do I get it back?


Bank rep: When you close accounts and settle matters.


GT: Settle matters?!Bank rep: Not to worry,sir, standard process"


5. Fellow joinee peeks into support team area and says to Lady #1: Hey, you look like that
Egyptian actress!


GT: (thinks) WTF?!?! Will he get slapped? Reprimanded? Shouted at? Stunned silences?


Lady #2 in support team: Which one?


Lady #3: Wait, wait, let me guess....


Lady #1: (Blush) I know who you're reminded of... it is XYZ.


GT: (silently) Ahem, ahem.

Thursday, January 05, 2012

First day in Dubai

Was received at airport by The Fairmont chauffeur in 7 series Beemer with car gliding in as we walked out. Woman and self much impressed.

Hotel is all right if a bit dated. All lights and smoke and mirrors. Got weary of the super duper breakfast spread, the extensive menu and the concierge service in all of 24 hours.

After refreshing ourselves, Woman and I had lunch. A very big lunch. A very salty lunch. (Dubai Restaurant Reminder #1: Ask for less salad dressing, half portion servings and low salt options. #2: Do not feel guilty about leaving behind food when portions are unwieldy).

Visited M and Baby A in their residence. They live in the Greens, a nice ‘family’ area with plenty of trees, a not so bad view and a decent gym. Baby A is a rock-star, gets friendly but doesn’t grant smiles easily. Quite curious about world at large. My beard in particular. M has put in a word with their concierge for apartments coming up in their building.

Went for a walk by small lake (all water bodies/ gardens in Dubai are artificial, so let’s not get all snotty about the provenance of ‘lake’ now), encountered lady in abaya who gave a smile and said ‘Salaam Aleykum’ but as G would have observed did not move out of the way. Apparently you move out of their way and not vice versa. GT’s cultural adventures… sigh. Sat down at a café and had a Love Juice while Woman had something else tastier. Ordered roast aubergine something. Super salty again. Also bitter. Quickly grab her drink to wash away taste. Ali messages, explaining what happens when certain parts of human anatomy are removed. Can always depend on him to stir up things after bad dinners.

Made mistake of peeking at Baby A who promptly started bawling. Despite Indian-doggy tested tummy tickle and Indian-baby tested coochy-coos, refuses to calm down. So take her and start dancing around. Hunky and bulky Mediterranean man with European girlfriend give strange looks. Woman and M start yakking away happily.

After 20 minutes of see-sawy dancing and walking around to different hums and twitches, Baby A falls asleep. So do my biceps. Manage to fob off sleeping bundle to Woman but bundle comes to life and bawls. Thankfully not in my hands now. Woman does some magic and Baby A goes back to sleepyland in 5 minutes flat. But M says to Woman, ‘Keep holding her. If you try to put her in the pram, she’ll wake up’. Woman says ‘She’s a bit heavy’. M insists, ‘Hold her, its only a short distance and you’ll be fine’. Woman laughs awkwardly. M reassures her, ‘You can do it’. Am I glad I managed to dump bundle onto Woman. Phew.

Back to M’s home and then after besos all round, back to hotel. Promptly fall asleep on arrival. Wake up groggily after 2 hours to say bye to Woman. Go to airport. Wondering what level of body contact would be appropriate. After a while, decide to screw all considerations. It’s bloody sad and sobby farewell, people. Somehow it’s manageable. No sobs, no cries, no loud ululations or lamentations. We manage a decent, dignified ‘see you soon’ with hugs and kisses and tightly grasped hands. Touchy feely score in region of 75%. Keep waving to Woman as she leaves. She unleashes a flying kiss. I return it. Then wonder if security will arrest me. Look around. Two bulky boys in uniform giving me dirty looks. Shivers, shivers. Decide to stick to exuberant and passionate waves, rather than kisses. Wave to her as she crosses security. Wave to her as she wanders towards Departures. And finally, Wave to her as she boards escalator. Such are the mores of global couples. Bah.

Back to hotel and pop in antibiotics and Paracetomol and allow oneself to be knocked out by chemicals, sadness and general fatigue. Welcome to Dubai.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

48 hours in Lyon













Notice fresh-looking scar on ankle, ask her what it is, she says 'winged vampire with tiny wings' and makes motions like a sparrow chick flapping around and gives a series of squeals. A very underfed British vampire, perhaps.

In France, after a litre or two of beer, I insist on speaking French and she insists on replying in Sinhalese. The waiter, sensible man that he was, went with zee English language. I call out to a 6 year old goldilocks next to us and say "Elle est 'opeless". Goldilocks sniggers and hides in her dad's tummy.

She wakes up in the middle of the night with mosquito bites. I do praetorian guard duty, successfully extinguishing the lives of two mosquitosassins. She says she hears a third one buzzing around and goes to sleep. I stay wide awake in the darkness, hearing subliminal buzzes well into the dawn. At breakfast, she looks like she wants to say "why the zombie look?" but sticks to "you look tired". Good girl.

The French waitress at the cafe in vieux Lyon throws up her hands in horror and says "Encore?!" when I ask for my third pain-au-chocolat. I wonder what she'll do when I ask her for ice-cream later. Beaucoup-French-eye-popping sounds ensue 5 minutes later when I ask for 'deux scoops' , blatantly insensitive , IMHO, to the the grave needs of Indian vegetarians for every spare vegetarian protein molecule that can be found in Lyon.

Image from www.mochimochiland.com

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

The delight that The Observer is… on some Sundays

The Observer ran a series two weekends back, where writers chose their favourite short stories and explained why... you can find the article here and The Guardian's done a brilliant job of putting up the podcasts on their books page here.

Anne Enright on Fat by Raymond Carver.

‘A story is something told, it is something that really needs to be said. But though we feel its force and resonance, it is often hard to say what a story means. The most we can say, perhaps, is that a short story is about a moment in life; and after this moment, we realize something has changed’

Philip Pullman on The Beauties by Chekhov

'Chekhov's genius lies in the way he manages to convey with such apparent effortlessness a profound sense of the mystery of beauty, and of the sadness of those who observe and think'

Helen Simpson on The Kitchen Child by Angela Carter

‘The narrators mother, a perfectionist Yorkshire cook in the kitchens of a great country house, is impregnated by an unknown admirer as she bends to place a souffle in the oven (she doesn't turn for fear of spoiling the dish)’

Ali Smith on Conversations With My Father by Grace Paley

‘What happens -funny, sad, infuriating- is that the story won't be corralled any more than life itself will’

Colman Toibin on Music at Annahullion by Eugene McCabe

‘McCabe's genius is to make the piano stand for itself and then to have an extraordinary resonance as it comes to stand for all her hope, and all our hopes’

Jeannette Winterson on The Night Driver by Italo Calvino

‘The tension in the story depends on the unknowing. Soon Calvino imagines a perpetual time, the time out of time of long car journeys where it becomes unnecessary to arrive. You have a lover. You're racing towards him/her. Your lover is racing towards you. You will never meet but meeting is no longer the purpose of the journey.’


In a different section on the same day, Lillian Ross of The New Yorker shared her memories of Salinger... and also, JD Salinger's impression about meeting her month old son, Erik:

" Notes on your son: 1. Is an incomparably fine and lovely person 2. Has beautiful eyes 3. Sleeps in a very good position 4. Has courtly manners 5. Is a very very sweet little boy"

On her writing...

"You're yourself whether you're writing fiction or fact. It's very moving. I mean more than that, but that's my first thought"

Hemingway to a young and unknown JD Salinger commenting on Salinger's unpublished stories: 'First you have a marvellous ear and you write tenderly and lovingly without getting wet... how happy it makes me to read your stories and what a god damned fine writer I think you are'

And Laurie Hutton recalled the origins of Malcolm McLaren's stories:

‘ She (his grandmother Rose) dressed him up as a girl, didn't allow him to go to school until he was 10. He had Shirley Temple sausage curls down to his shoulders held Toby tortoise-shell combs... Ever night he had to sit in the corner if the sitting room on a chamber pot while her sisters read to him from the novels of the Brontes and Dickens... Rose didn't allow him to swim in the sea because fish pee in the sea... He was the best storyteller I ever met, and I've met some in my time. He learned it in that room on the chamber pot’


This is what a good Sunday paper should do, make you read and re-read it through the week, increasing your unreasonable hopes that the weekend is just around the next corner and of course, next Sunday's will be better, with its extracts from Tolstoi and Basho and Homer; will be much better as you slowly read it distracted by the falling snow, milky masala tea, short-bread and crackers... London, my London.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Notes to women...

... who travel with men in France.

  • Yes, it is true… especially in France, waiters are snobbish. We have noted this with great respect and countless nods, your detection of this secret... très très diabolique, these Frenchies, eh. Now, could we get over it... please? French waiters really don't get kicks out of serving you slices of warm wholegrain bread, with flavoured olive oil and 8 varieties of artisan cheese like all your friends said they would. The waiters in the cheap, touristy restaurants that we usually visit get kicks out of 'phhhrrooofing' and saying "Je comprends pas" to English speaking women with fake Louis Vuitton bags.

  • In France, the people speak French. If you don't speak French and they don't speak English, they don't have a problem. You have a problem. Recall previous point about getting used to it, over it, under it, whatever.
  • If you are visiting a town next to the Alps with a chateau on a hill, and also plan to visit the village of Èze located 2000 feet above sea level, it might be a good idea to bring along shoes for walking. Not heels. Not as the only pair you're bringing along because you "pack light and that's soooo cool". Not for a place that has for its main attraction, Le Promenade Des Anglais.

  • If you like the charming, rustic marketplace, you should also like the rustic fruits sold by the charming French farmers. And no, even though us men might know ticket-buy-worthy French, we don't ask "Can you wash this fruit for us, please?". Not to French farmers. Nope. Nada. Non. Especially not after you gave us that "eeeek"sy look when we bit into the ripest, juiciest, tastiest unwashed figs of our lives.

  • Caramelized almonds in a supermarket aisle won't be as fresh as the hot ones we bought for you from a roadside stall run by an unusually, happy Italian grandpa on a cold, windy day. Which you happily ate up after turning up your nose at, to start off with. Declaring this discovery of yours, that they aren't as fresh, doesn't exponentially increase our estimate of your reasoning powers.

  • We find it puzzling when after we've explained what options are there to explore in Town A (which, incidentally, happens to be the town we're in), you suddenly look up after breakfast and go "Let's do Town Z, yaaaaaar"... what exactly does this mean? That you don't like Town A? That you want to visit Town Z? Wander around it? Eat in it? Gamble in it? Dance or sing on its roads? Or is there some deeper Freudian thingy that we've missed here? This puzzling feeling does get exacerbated when we ask you "Uhm... Er...ok, so what's in town Z?" And you say "I don't know" as if that explains everything. However, we are willing to ignore/forgive/move on through such events as we consider the eternal human desire to explore the unknown. Us men get cheap thrills out of such uncalled for forgiving stints.

  • If you like something in a shop window, it might be a good idea to check the price before you ask the shop-keeper for it. And not after she has packed it up for you. And no, at this point, we don't translate "I don't want the thing you packed for me, the one I asked for, because I think it's too expensive, now that you've printed the bill"

  • If you don't like art, it's perfectly OK to say "I am not really interested" when we consider the idea of visiting museums in a region that Van Gogh, Matisse and Chagall breathed, painted and lived. Rather than wondering thrice in 5 minutes about how far the museum is, commenting on the inferior quality of hot chocolate at the museum cafe and finally, at the museum admission, turning away from the lady who says "7 euros, please" to tell us "I think I will go for a haircut rather than do this". As Chagall spins desperately in his grave, we too, are tempted to, right there in front of that very lady.
    PS: At this point, it isn't mightily endearing to raise your eyebrows and say "How long are you going to take at 'this' place?"
    PPS: Maybe it would be a better idea not to declare intentions of getting a "classy French haircut" rather than admitting later that the French charge atrocious rates for haircuts and that discovery kept you away from the salon which you headed to when you found the museum too expensive.
    PPPS: DO NOT ask us why we sob when, after all of the above, you declare that you "just want to leave it all and start an art gallery" in a medieval village in France. It's a man thing, we sob, we suffer... all for art.

  • If you insist on having a conversation on media freedom, the role of regulation in the private sector and the drivers of economic growth in developing countries on a warm sunlit evening in a plaza flanked by a 18th century church as we sip a particularly, pleasant cuvée of the Côtes Du Provence... well, what can we say, let's. But it just might be worth your while to consider briefly before we start, the knowledge you possess on these topics, the sources you gained it from and your ability to remember those sources. Depending on "My uncle said so", "I just know it" and "I don't remember" doesn't count as meaningful evidence. Much as we would like to admit to many meaningless things in the cause of chivalry, this time... no, we can't.

  • Despite being regular fountainheads of stunning wisdom, we really do not know...

- Why French beaches don't have sand

- Whether you should get fake-looking lavender soaps or garish souvenirs with "Produce De Provence" stamped on them for your friends

- Why French roads change names at junctions (Refer to previous point about the deliberately diabolique French)

- Why people don't get electrocuted when they step on tram lines

- Why restaurants don't serve artisanal (that infernal word!) cheese the way Jamie Oliver promised that they always did in the South of France

- Why the pianist who works magic on a rented piano at Place Massena as he floats, crawls, creeps his fingers around the keys, hasn't become famous across the world (but you get brownie points for deep thoughts)

- Why vendors insist that you MUST pick something after you spend 25 minutes quizzing them about prices and tasting free samples.

- Why the modern, anarchic artist has splashed his blood on the canvas and packaged his shit in a jar (but we might be able to give it a decent shot if you let us listen to the audio guide rather than asking us to come with you to the museum shop)

  • Reading 33 pages of a 350 page novel may not quite place you in an optimal position to declare with critical airs that "it's a kind of a slow book". Why spoil a nice sunset on the French Riviera? Let’s not.
    PS: But since it looks like we MUST, please consider the fact that a book that involves 3 grieving Jewish men at the sunset of their lives and has a blurb describing itself as a "funny, furious and unflinching look at friendship, loss and growing older" is unlikely to be fast... It will not accelerate like an Aston Martin, probably doesn't have heaving hearts à la Mills & Boon and may not twist & turn like Jeffrey Archer used to in his pre-prison days. Even if the heavens parted and it did any of that, maybe not in the first 33 pages? Ah, but you beg to differ, don't you... Your point being that it should.
    PPS: Doubtless the idea greatly excites you, but suggesting a "cozy, classy restaurant" that you spot along the Côte D’Azur as a possible venue for our next book reading session doesn't help obliviate our memories of the time that you showed up without reading the book. Oh, sorry, make that "without buying the book".

Now, which part of this is confusing?

NB - Obviously, this is an entirely fictional take on an imaginary trip with impossibly indelicate women. We all know how reasonable ladies usually are in real life. So there.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Finding Stuff.

















Was surprised to find this in an old copy of "The Burden And The Glory" from home.
The devout romantic that a sailor of 6 years was at age 23, in 1970.
A warm find on a cold, rainy London morning.

RIP... Reader, Sailor, Captain, Dad.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

A.E. Housman on the Central Line

For The War Dead

Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.

-A.E.Housman (1859-1936)

Spotted on The Central Line at 0945, 10-Nov-2010; part of the Poems on The Underground series

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Catfish by Henry Joost & Ariel Schulman

Film #8 at The BFI London Film Festival









To try to explain "Catfish" is to give away a surprising story... watch the movie and walk away with the disturbing knowledge of how our virtual worlds can trick but yet hold us in thrall with shards of online humanity.

It was TS Eliot who said about his poetry "against these fragments, I shore my ruins". Catfish reveals how against the fragments of Facebook, a human can shore the regularly rough edges of reality.


Image from BFI site here