self-righteous misery

Try as I may, I cannot let it go. The issue that has arisen between my flatmate and myself is a disgusting sore that seems to fester and grow as the hours pass. Why can't I just let it go? It's so insignificant. I really really want to forget about it but it seems I've picked up the Ohri stubborness that holds grudges. In fact, I picture myself arguing and rationalising with her, exactly as my dad did with us, making the same gestures, inflicting the same tone of disgust and disappointment like mud in the eye. Obviously I think I'm right. We all have this fucking need to be right even if it makes life absolutely miserable. And all of a sudden that makes me think of Lebanon and Israel right now...okay , so I think about that a lot lately, but you can probably make the mental leap if you're reading this particular blog. I actually had a rant prepared on that one but I decided to cool off and postpone as I'd probably be on the hit list of some crazy-ass group that had convinced themselves I was some sort of anti-semite. And I think I used the word 'fuck' for every other word. I probably would have sounded like a raging drunk. Ha-ha.

...

I have a dull tension headache because I've been annoyed at myself for being pissed off with my flatmate for the past 4 hours. Been thinking about moving flat (again, less than 3 months in this one), flitting from flicking through one-bed flat lettings and BBC coverage of the Lebanon-Israel crisis. At one moment I was pissed off at nomadlife and wanted to sign off my blog with 2 words but then I thought that was too dramatic so I began to read through old postings which were way more interesting than anything I write these days. What happened to that person? So now I've breached another level - quit my job and move to a small village in France, work as a waitress and have morning conversations with my local baker. But now I'm tired.

Taking a breather...and non sequiturs

After several months of self-imposed isolation and antisocial behaviour, things blew up about 3 weeks ago. And since Friday last, it's been non-stop. Champagne in the office, opera in Covent Garden with Raq, singing Rat Pack songs and drinking blueberry martinis until dawn with Mimeks, Pravir and Sophie, tai chi sessions, picnics in the garden downstairs, local London design exhibitions, late night phone calls, re-learning my tennis forehand, arguing football with Rishab... The fatigue began to show on Wednesday when I couldn't understand a friggin' word Stella said to me (granted, she was speaking in German).

So this weekend I slow. But within an hour of returning home on Friday evening, I'm on my knees scrubbing the bathroom floor, indulging that sick sense of satisfaction from cleaning home. After a chat with Ivan, I realise how much I, we, everyone talk about relationships and London and money i.e how it's impossible to have a normal relationship in this city, how so many people are mesmerised by wealth (Christ, how people aspire here!), how this society is totally lacking in any sense of morality.

At this point I would loveto write something way more crass but I've recently discovered my identity has been compromised so I have the choice of 1) continuing with the current blog but in a semi-censored fashion; 2) discontinuing this blog and creating a new totally anonymous one outside of nomadlife; 3) stop writing blogs altogether.

So that last bit was my non sequitur. I blame it on corporate life (and partially to a posting on nomadlife that links my real name to this blog). Someone from my company has been accessing this blog. I have no idea if it is big brother or some nice individual. But I'll be damned if my corporate and private life mix. I've sold enough of myself to the company.

England is out

I'm not an England supporter and I was hoping that Portugal would win. Yet I was gutted when Ronaldo made that penalty kick. Maybe somewhere deep down I was hoping the boys would make it through to the end...