Somewhere In between

'Ay Channaleh, why so late? We're all waiting for you again!' my grandmother said tersely as my mother arrived that morning. But Channah is just one of the many long-lost ghosts from my grandmother's past who now light her journey home. Channaleh was my grandmother's dearly-loved, youngest sister who died shortly after the German invasion of my grandmother's hometown of Lvov in 1941, kicked to death by a gang of teen-aged Ukrainian militia let lose on the unprotected Jewish population.

'It's not Channaleh mum, it's Carole' my mother replied crossly. But although her voice may have been cross, I know that her heart breaks every time my grandmother fails to recognise her or my auntie Junie. Every time she slips back into the silent world that excludes the two daughters who lovingly and selflessly care for her. The daughters who arrive at the nursing home in which my grandmother lives, four days out of every seven, without complaint and loaded down with anything they think might make my grandmother's life just slightly more comfortable. They scrub and polish her small, self-contained flat over and over again, rearrange my grandmother's dishevelled and mismatched clothing, and change the incontinence pads that she needs in her newly child-like state. And for no other reason than the fact that my grandmother is their flesh and blood, and as essential to them as breathing. Despite the fact that they never receive a thank you, and are seldom recognised, they lavish their time and love on the frail old woman who did the same for them without question.

'Is that you Mags? Are we going to the shops Mags? Is it time for dinner Mags?'

'Mags, Mags, Mags, all we get now is bloody Mags! If I hear Mags one more time, I swear I'll throttle her' snaps my mother on the rare occasion when the only way to disguise her grief is through anger. But only my grandmother knows who Mags is, and she's oblivious to either my mother's anger or her grief.

To lose the people you love so dearly is hard; but to lose them and yet still have them so close is almost too much to bear.

But as my grandmother would say .............................. 'Di velt iz ful mit tsores' ......................... the world is full of sorrows.

The Price of Romance

Being a 'romantic' is incredibly hard nowadays.

'I want to spend the rest of my life with you!' has been replaced by 'Why don't we both live in my flat so that we can rent yours out?' And 'Let's go out for a really nice meal on Saturday' has been replaced with 'Shall we get a couple of grams of K for Saturday night, get shit-faced, and have a threeway?'

Romance may not be completely dead, but it's definitely choking on its own vomit, and seems only to live on in its purest form in the hearts of über-wrinkled, hand-holding, octogenarian couples, and the bulging wallets of Hallmark Card executives and florists.

The problem with being a romantic who is neither highly-paid nor 'pushing death' is that you are almost always going to be disappointed in a world where so many people think that leaving the room when you need to fart is a romantic gesture. We've been slowly re-educated, or brain-washed, into believing that 'romance' is something material which involves large amounts of money, happens at very specific times of the year appointed by retailers, and must come from a list of 'authorised' gestures. What's romantic about sending 12 frighteningly over-priced red roses on Valentine's Day? Most people don't have a vase for them, the heads wilt within 24 hours because they're exhausted after their 48-hour flight from Peru, and they were probably picked by under-paid, under-aged children who will almost certainly die from a lung disease caused by the pesticides and fungicides they have to breathe in.

The idea of romance peddled by companies like Hallmark has been horribly distorted into some kind of emotional version of Muzak. A company who create non-existent, but highly romantic occasions, and then cleverly convince us that we should be sending cards with messages like 'Happy Belated Rosh Hashanah To My Beloved Goy-friend', and 'Congratulations! You Got Your Period, Now We Can Have Un-protected Sex Again'.

That's not romance. That consumerism!

I know I'm starting to sound cynical or bitter (or, God forbid, anti-Hallmark!), but that's not the point I'm trying to make. What I'm saying is that real romance is something that we should feel comfortable to demonstrate at any time of the day (or night), and every day of our lives (past and present). It shouldn't be something that is only available to 'couples' to demonstrate the fact that, even though they rarely have sex anymore, they still love the person they're with. We have all been shockingly robbed of the right to feel comfortable being romantic in our everyday lives. We have to go to the cinema and longingly watch it happening fictionally on-screen because, like the 'ginger-gene', it's gradually being bred out of existence.

I want that intimate, 'eyes-across-a-smokey-room' form of romance (even though, thankfully, smokey rooms are a thing of the past). Surely it must still be possible to lock eyes with a complete stranger, and find our hearts palpitating, our palms sweating, and a funny fluttering in our stomachs? Or are our romantic sides so dead that we just put it down to either a minor heart attack, or a bad curry? Despite Hallmark's attempt to turn romance into 'an occasion', and the efforts of the many non-romantics who try to convince me that romance and shagging are the same thing, I know what I want and still belive it's possible.

So come on boys, forget Gaydar, forget your Xbox, get on your white chargers and sweep me (all 80kg of me) off my feet!

Don't you ever let me get like that!

I went to see my grandmother on Saturday, after almost 6 months. I had been putting it off and off and off because my sister went and was really upset. Yes, this is my 'hard-as-nails', council-estate sister (the one who used to pierce her own ears when she was a teenager) ...................upset, yes, actually upset! She's a bit like me, we both disguise feelings with sarcastic humour, so for her to be visibly (and audibly) upset is a huge thing.

My mum and aunt made the decision to move my grandmother into sheltered accommodation towards the end of last year because she had the quite rapid onset of dementia (my grandmother, not my mum). As they were concerned that she wasn't safe being on her own, they found a very nice residential complex where she has her own flat with living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom, but within a warden-controlled complex. This means that the carers check on her in the morning, evening, and several times during the day and deal with any issues or concerns. So, it was a good compromise between making sure she was safe, and not taking away ALL her privacy and independence.
I don't think anyone thought that her dementia would progress so rapidly and within six months she is probably about 5% of her old self.

Anyway, back to Saturday. My mum managed (as usual) to badger, blackmail, and cajole me into going over even though I said I didn't want to go. I had a really anxious feeling about the possibility of seeing my grandmother, but my mum chooses to hear what she wants to hear sometimes. Part of it is a competition she has with my aunt over whose children are the better grandchildren. My cousin is going to visit on Tuesday, so I think my mum was worried that she would be 'out-grandchilded' by my aunt (auntie Junie) because I hadn't been.

The residential home is actually very nice, especially when you look at some residential homes which are just glorified chapels of rest, full of barely-breathing human fossils in various states of decomposition.
But I was actually shocked when I saw my grandmother. To start with she didn't have a clue who I was, even when mum prompted (and prodded) her. I know that her sight and hearing are both going, but she didn't know who I was, even with my mum hollering at 80 decibels in her ear "Do you know who it is? It's Andrew.........Andrew mum! Andrew, your grandson. Do you remember him? Mum? Mum! It's Andrew". But the reality was that she just looked even more dazed and confused as she trued to manoeuvre her walking frame from the bedroom.
She was like a picture of one of the survivors from Bergen-Belsen, tiny, shrunken, stick-thin limbs, with a face that had almost caved in completely. Dark circles under her eyes, and the vacant expression of someone who isn't somewhere else, they just aren't anything or anywhere. It was truly shocking and upsetting and I knew that I shouldn't have gone.

I stayed for about an hour, and during that time, she was lucid for barely a couple of minutes. It's incredibly hard to have a conversation with someone who has no reaction, I felt like an old, gay Sally Field in Steel Magnolias. But instead of talking to a lifeless, but still stunningly beautiful, Shelby, I had a total stranger who used to be my bright, chatty grandmother. She had always been so fastidious about her appearance, her hair was done every week, fingernails manicured, hands moisturised, make-up applied, and smartly-dressed. I've forgotten how many times she ranted about the old people she saw on the street who had 'let 'em selves go'. She used to say 'Don't you ever let me get like that, will ya, you bang me over the 'ed wiv a lump a' wood if I ever lose me marbles'.


And that's just what I could hear in my head as I was sitting there looking at this complete stranger whose only contribution to the conversation was to beg to be taken to the bathroom. 'I wanna go to the toilet, I want to go to the toilet', like a tiny child. That wasn't the woman I'd been looking up to and loving and being loved by for over 40 years, it was someone different, someone I didn't know. And the only recognition for me was something I felt in my heart, somewhere between love and pity.

"Don't you ever let me get like that!"

I can't imagine how hard this is for my mum and my aunt. I spent an hour there, but they spend every Tuesday, most Thursdays, and alternate Saturdays, cleaning, washing, tidying, and chatting to someone who probably only exists in their hearts as well.

China's Penis Restaurant, a perfect analogy!

Thinking of the choice of who to vote for in the up-coming General Election, this old news article from The Times came to mind. A restaurant with a menu where you only have a choice between one type of penis or another.............................a perfect analogy. You look at the menu, and there's just nothing that makes your mouth water, or even sounds remotely palatable. So you pick the least-offensive thing on the menu, and force yourself to eat it.

China's Penis Restaurant
There are several varieties of steamed, roasted and boiled penis at Beijing’s quirkiest diner.

I'm visiting the Guo-li-zhuang restaurant, a specialist penis and testicle emporium that caters mainly to wealthy businessmen and Communist party officials (who, truth be told, are often one and the same).

It offers every conceivable John Thomas you could ever want, which probably isn’t very many. Nonetheless, the menu is both extensive and impressive.
The place looks like a smart kaiseki ryori (Japanese haute cuisine) formal restaurant, complete with underfloor stream, separate secluded dining rooms and hushed, discreet staff. I have come determined to avoid euphemisms - we’re making a current-affairs programme for the BBC - but I’ll admit the temptation is strong.

I ask a chef to show us the preparation of a penis first, so that I can get a feel for the process. He enters holding aloft an eye-wateringly large yak’s knob. It’s about 45cm long, but thin, so thin. It’s been boiled gently and - I can’t believe I’m writing this - peeled, except for a hunk of foreskin still clinging on to the end. He cuts the thing in half lengthways with a pair of scissors.
As he chops through the very tip of this impressive member, I feel an undeniable empathy twitch in my own penis and a bizarre feeling of nausea in my groin. (I didn’t think groins could experience nausea.) I can’t help yelping in sympathy.

He then uses a knife to make hundreds of little snips along the side of the penis and chops the strips into 5cm pieces. When these are dropped into boiling stock, they curl up into little flower shapes that are so incongruous, I can barely believe my eyes.
I ask the chef if he thinks it strange to deal exclusively in genitalia, but he shrugs and doesn’t know what to say. He’s just happy to have a good job, really. His friends don’t take the mickey, his parents are proud of him and he does what he’s told. Okay.

Less taciturn is the female manager of the place, who says that Chinese history is one of famine, poverty, drought and disaster, which is why the Chinese have become used to eating every part of the animal - they have to extract every edible morsel from the food they have.
I ask if this is good communist food, and she proudly says that most of her customers are male Communist party members. Their meal costs an average of two months’ wages for a dumpling-factory worker, and I ask how a conscientious Communist can be seen here (paying up to £250 for the rarer penises) when the average peasant is on the poverty line.
She holds her hands up in the air and tells me that they come for the virility benefits genital-eating offers. Apparently, you can go for hours after eating a good portion of penis.

We try the water-buffalo penis first, in thin shavings. It started long and thin, but someone has shredded this noble old chap on a mandolin. It has the texture of squid and tastes of the mild chilli stock it’s been poached in.

We are given three sauces to dip it into - lemon and soy, chilli and soy, and a sesame-seed paste. It’s good, and the penile nature of the meat lends an undeniable frisson of excitement to the meal. I tell the boss that “it’s the first time I’ve had penis in my mouth, but I like it and I’m going to do more of it”. Well, someone had to say it.

She seems pleased, and pours me some deer-penis juice, which I’m delighted to say is the vilest concoction I’ve ever had the privilege to imbibe. It’s as sour as a smacked lemon and as bitter as neat quinine. My face freezes in an agonising spasm, and Lord knows how I manage to keep from throwing up. Mr Hoo, the driver, asks if I want any more, and when I shake my spasming head, he grins and downs it in one. I pity Mrs Hoo - she’s going to have a busy night.

We try goat’s penis, chicken feet, bull’s penis tip (that’ll keep you up all night too, the boss warns), terrapin leg and all manner of radishes. I’m offered dog’s penis (“The only one with a bone in it”, and served with a glacé cherry placed pointlessly on the tip), but decline.

All the knobs have intriguing, delicate and bizarre textures, although the flavour is mainly of pork braised in hot stock. My favourite dish of all is undoubtedly bull’s perineum – a delicate piece of flesh, the size of a chicken oyster, which has been poached, then slow-fried.
It’s sweet and crispy, with a deep taste of soy and honey.

Yan Yan, my guide, isn’t too keen on penis, but she’s adventurous in the face of adversity, and tries most things with a curled lip. Just before we go, I ask why the girls get off lightly. Why don’t they serve any female genitalia?

The boss bursts into giggly, embarrassed laughter. “That’s a crazy idea - why would anyone want to do that?”
“Well, because it’s protein and you Chinese are renowned for eating everything.”
“Don’t be insane,” she says. Then she remembers that she’s heard of a dish of donkey vulva, but she’s not sure where. She thinks it’s a disgusting idea.

Extracted from 'In the Danger Zone' by Stefan Gates

I'm a receptionist.........................

I'm planning a really relaxing weekend doing absolutely nothing. I've had the most incredibly busy and stressful week, and I'm mentally tired.

You wouldn't imagine that being a receptionist could be stressful, it's not a word people normally associate with reception work. But in my organisation, expectations (and workloads) are extremely high.

Most people's idea of receptionists is that you just sit at a desk in a Miss Selfridge skirt and jacket, smiling, and wondering what colour to paint your nails at lunchtime, Tuscan Sunset, or Cheeky Blush? Do you want to look like a sophisticated slut ? Or just simply like a slut?

You answer the telephone occasionally in a bored, monotone, vacant-sounding sing-songy voice.................'Helloooooooooo, Smith, Smith, and Smith Chartered Accoooooooooooontants how may I help yoooooooooooooooooooooooooooou?'.

Then, after quickly connecting your caller to the wrong number (the ONLY quick thing you do all day), you go back to nail colours and wondering how far the small hand needs to move before you can go to lunch with Cordelia from Jones & Jones Financial Wideboys, and Shazzer from the Royal Bank of Total Wankers (where your colleague Nadira's fiance works). At lunchtime, you meet other well-groomed, 'Fembot-esque' receptionists (or sometimes Admin Assistants or Secretaries) and shuffle around the shopping mall looking at shoes, clothes, and you guessed it.........................make-up!

Sometimes, you invite 'fat' Rachel (pronounced Rashelle because apparently her great-grandfather was French or black or something) who used to work there until she got the job as PA to an old American guy whose wife refused to let him have 'some young dolly' as his PA. So, he employed her because 'nobody in their right mind would fancy her' (except that he actually does because she gives him 'these fucking awesome blow-jobs under the desk after work - and swallows - and let's him pee over her tits in the exec washroom').

'Don't get me wrong babe, she's a really, really nice girl and I love her to bits, but she eats tons of carbs and she's probably a size 14...................and she sort of smells funny' (Yup, that's because she can't get the smell of piss out of her delicates!).

You wile away the afternoon looking at recruitment websites which advertise jobs that you aren't remotely qualified for but that sound like you'd be really good at. Exotic Futures Analyst (that must be about fruit or something), Strategic Offshore Economist EMEA (that one has loads of foreign travel, probably France or maybe America or even New York), Integrated Retail Planning Consultant (well, that's all about shops, isn't it!).

You break up the monotony of the day with a bit of pointless photocopying, usually something personal. But you never use the nearest copier because it's right next to the Legal Department and the Legal Secretaries are 'such a bunch of total bitches who look down their noses at everyone, even Karen and she's got 4 GCSE's! But they're only normal secretaries ............ .................... right?

Instead, you go all the way up to the photocopier on the third floor next to the IT Department where they're pretty much all buff young guys in T.M.Lewin shirts and Armani Exchange jeans. Then you hang around the copier huffing and puffing and looking helpless until Darren, or Terry, or Max (the one you shagged in the spastic toilet at All Bar One after the Christmas party last year) slither over and ask if you need a hand. The conversation is always pretty much the same:

- Awright Sasha, you need a hand?
- Oh I dunno, this stupid copier's not working again! I keep pressing the button but it won't copy and there's no lights on.
- Yeh, we switch it off sometimes because it gets too hot.
- Oh no, oh God, I'm SUCH a total blonde! (true) You must think I'm really thick (true).
- Nah, course not (lie). Do you just want normal copies?
- No, can you get it bigger for me? (you say, innocently raising your 'recently-threaded' eyebrows)
- (Darren raises his eyebrows) Well, never had any complaints so far (lie).

(you both laugh for 2 seconds)

- .....................oh my God, you're so filthy, I can't believe you just said that!
- What? What?? That's just your dirty mind Sasha (true).
- I've got to get back downstairs, the phones are just manic this afternoon (lie) and I left Nadira on her own.
- Is that the Asian girl with the scarf?
- Yes, but she's really nice though (lie - you think she's stuck-up). She's getting married next month, but it's like a normal marriage. It's not arranged or anything (lie - their families arranged it). Her fiance works at the same place as my mate Shazzer and she said he's really nice (lie - Shazzer calls him 'the wacky-paki' behind his back and thinks he a total perv who spends his time staring at her tits even though he's engaged).

- Are you going out for Ellie's leaving drinks on Friday?

- Might do. Are you going?
-Dunno, are you going?
-Probably.
- Awright, I've got to go, Nadira gets really stressed when she's on her own (lie - she's actually really relieved that she doesn't have to listen to your incessant twittering about shoes and make-up and can concentrate on planning her wedding instead).

You get back downstairs just in time to take your afternoon break, which you spend outside on your (pink) mobile phone smoking and telling Shazzer (and then Cordelia) what a perv Darren is and how much you fancy him (whilst Darren is leaning back on his chair upstairs telling Max what a fucking 'bike' you are). Then you tell Shazzer (and then Cordelia) what a bitch Nadira is, and how she never does anything except talk about how much money her fiance earns. At the same time, whilst you and Nadira smile synthetically at each other through the window, she's on the phone to her fiance telling him what a slut you look in the Cheeky Blush nail varnish that you put on at lunchtime while you were with that other awful slut who works at the same place as him, the one whose tits are too big for the small top she wears.