Signs

The world is conspiring. Start from the beginning.

Just returned from an evening out with an ecclectic group of grads. Ignoring everyone else, spoke to R, Shoreditch type Guju born and bred in the UK about French cinema and fashion, to JR, half Chink half English globetrotting Oxfordite about (non)conformity, and K, JR's English girlfriend, about the short story form, Kundera, and the evolution of emotions from love to hate. As I mention my recent obsession/fascination with Venice, her eyes go wide and she tells me I must get into contact with her friend, a Venetian with whom she did a family exchange when she was a teen and now keeps in regular contact with.

Today, I receive an email from N, former English teacher now friend/life advisor, about her brother-in-law who left his career to travel and discover his passion and his fiancee, a producer who likes to turn books into film.

Two weeks ago, as I leave Spitalfields market I spot a bag, black waxed leather with wide white stitching, a speck in the mass of colour and people. One of those 'I have to have that now' moments (rare, very rare) only to discover that the guy in the stall designs these bags, having left his job in a city bank to work in fashion in India. And now he designs bag collections in London.

Six weeks ago, a distant aunt of mine comes into my life, she was visiting her cousin who happens to be my closest relation living in the UK. She is currently living as a writer in residence for a small town above the arctic circle in Norway.

Eight weeks ago, I'm standing in a queue to board a plane leaving Delhi and spot a book about Nagaland on a chair. My mother and I wonder who is reading the book and, more importantly, who wrote it. It happens to be a Naga woman living as a writer in residence for a small town above the arctic circle in Norway.