Category Archives: Emma Calin

Clamoroso

Posted on by
Reply



I do wonder about the role of the press. The whole Greek problem with referenda on and off, coalitions coalescing and journalists journalising worked its way up to a frenzy in much the same way as I attack a jar of anchovy stuffed Greek olives. Of course, at last they are all gone and you are in with a frenzy without a cause. Suddenly a cry goes up. Greece is done as a subject. Editors scream for more copy and the circus moves on to Italy. Grave faced reporters report on the seriousness of the problem. A first wave of retired ex-experts are dredged up to talk to camera whilst the crisis is fanned up to a level where real experts can be hired in. The credit rating guys look at the thrashing whirlpool of exciting gloom and put up the interest on everyone who cannot pay, while reducing them for those who can! More experts and retired statesmen are called in and they predict further gloom…..Do I need to go on?


Of course there is nothing new about this. When I was a kid at school I was not that girlie and was entertained by the boys who played fantastic playground games. One game was called “Pile On” and could occur spontaneously at any time. Some kid would be knocked down, perhaps in a fight. A cry would go up “Pile on, pile on!!!” Kids would run to the scene and fling themselves on top in a heap. Teachers would charge to the scrummage and start pulling at the boys who clung to each other in order to resist. The girls would stand about watching, advertising their angelic goodness whilst enjoying the spectacle. One day I’m gonna switch on the TV and see a reporter yelling “Pile on!” I have asked some modern kids about this game and apparently it still exists under the name “Bundle”.


President Sarko is in trouble on account of a frank private conversation with President Obama. This matter has come to my ears as I was writing the above paragraph. Seemingly the Press decided to blab the story and the old “Pile On” game goes on. The same scribblers who denounce in purple prose hypocrisy those caught in the Murdoch phone hacking scandal, quite joyfully report an overheard private exchange. Mind you it was good to see Sarko and Obama in agreement. Guess French Fries might be back on the menu soon. Not so sure about the bagels though.


Are you guys watching what has happened in Greece and Italy since I revealed the CQB index on Sunday? 


I just want to say that there are roses. It does not matter where they are or what they are doing. The Roseness of the rose is there as part of the fabric of existence. The photo is of some supermarket roses that have flooded my heart with roseness every time I have seen them in my hallway this last week. 
                       
Emma thinx: Take off the mike before you take the mickey.

Pick Of The Crop

Posted on by
Reply

Every billboard on every street and on the side of every bus is announcing the Coming. Tomorrow it will be here. Have you got yours yet? I guess you folks all know that MW 3 “Call Of Duty” is launched on Tuesday 8th November. Of course I was aware of all this. Well, I could see that these ads were plastered everywhere and that they looked like they had been stuck up using a bucket of mud. To the horror of the anger management lads on the bus I did not know that this was a deliberate effect and that the product was a computer game for the sex box 360. It’s all about grunge, squalor and violence. I must admit that in a world where films are seen as sensational if you get a full nipple exposure, it astonishes me that “gaming” revels in psychopathic violence seemingly as a celebration and a joy. If you wanna see a clip this is the trailer.


I have no right to pontificate on such matters. The closest I have come to warfare is when my mother took me to the January Sales in Croydon, South London. In those days “The Sales” actually offered bargains. We queued from about 6 am. The plan was to attack the doors as soon as they were unbolted. My mother was going to run flat out for a winter coat. My job was to drop back and obstruct pursuers by running far slower in a zig zag. It worked and ever since I have had a kind of interest in military tactics. However, this was not the master blaster machine gunning engagement of “Call of Duty”. I guess that it was not real war either. But what I want to know is whether proper brave soldiers, serving or vets, want to play these games? Is there a problem when violence is fun and painless? I bet there are all manner of studies and I really would like to know, but there again I’d like to know so many things about human behaviour.


 I mean does anyone have a child and say to themselves “I want to bring this kid up to be kind, modest and honest as a priority”? Should one not say “I want my kid to big themselves up, muscle to the front and get rich/ important /successful/ admired/be a bishop with a palace/martyr/ etc.” I am not a Christian but I have no argument with their outline propositions. In a world where there is no sign of the meek inheriting, to what extent should you influence your kids to be meek? I’ve been a parent and I am a grandparent and I just dunno. Do I say “Go snatch it kids” or do I say “Maybe someone needs it more – hang back and help them.” ? I am a hard line Atheist, Buddhist, lighter of cathedral candles, pinko commie, semi revolutionary property owning hedonist. I have no special insights.


As I passed a run down take-away pizza store tonight in my bus, light spilled out onto the footway. I glanced into the empty shop  to see a large moustachioed man at the counter poised to serve his next hungry customer. Obviously a slice of pepperoni had become lodged up his nostril and he was attempting to gouge it out with what looked like his thumb and several fingers. The meat feast could be a no-no. 


Emma thinx: Don’t solve the problem until the solution gets you noticed. 



Mein Hair

Posted on by
Reply
                                  

                                                                                                           

In the world of high finance around which my life revolves, I am constantly hearing the term “Haircut”. Seemingly this means to write off a portion of a debt owed to you. Unfortunate banks are likely to have to accept major haircuts on loans made to Greece. Luckily, the banks will be “re-capitalised” by governments if it looks like they will fail as a result. So boys and girls – who do you think will end up with the bald eagle hair-do in the end? Um – that’s a tough one. All these affairs of state got me thinking about the hair styles of European leaders and I do believe I have spotted a pattern. Exhaustive research has shown that a tidy haircut leads to financial ruin. Just compare the coiffure quotient bias (known as the cqb amongst insiders) between Angela Merkel of Germany (Solvent) and Silvio Berlusconi of Italy (Indebted and struggling). When you see evidence this profound you will realise that the market rule is “If you don’t want to take a haircut, avoid leaders who obviously know a few hairdressers”. The most startling proof comes when you look at George Papandreou of Greece. Now that’s what I call a haircut. The poor guy has given his all. Dear old Great Britain who kinda stumbles around trying to find the key to the last of the kids money boxes remains afloat while the markets accept the bluff. A quick glance at the Cameron Coiff should steady the exchanges for now while we look for that damn key. By the way girls – can you see how the term “haircut” is dripping with macho don’t give a billion kind of swagger. I’m gonna tell my own creditors that they have won a free re-style.


I’m getting a bit peeved with product pricing. A pack of prawns last week at ASDA was the same price that it had been in March. Hoorah and jolly hockey sticks! The only difference was that the weight had reduced by 100 grammes. This is an enormous increase. I had earlier noted that chicken breast fillets had been similarly reduced in pack weight. So, what is going on? Do they think we don’t notice. Having been out of the UK for a while the jump is obvious. I guess if you just plop the same stuff in your trolley week in week out you may not spot the difference. So come on guys -d’ya fink we’re like stoopid or summink?

Emma thinx: Tosstesterone – the ultimate field event steroid.

Every Child Splatters

Posted on by
1




I suppose we all think we remember what it is like to be a child. I’ve always been a great admirer of writers who can produce stories and characters that grip the attention of children. I often think that some books for very young kids are designed to appeal to parents. Writing for children is a special talent and I’m guessing that you need some element of personality that is still rooted in being a child or younger person. I must admit to wondering if you actually have to like children. Maybe to know children you have to retain some their utter cruelty. Are there any children’s writers out there to tell me?


This topic came to mind as I was sitting in my bus yesterday afternoon. A woman with a little boy of no more than 3 walked past and we made eye contact. I could see she was kind. A few yards ahead was an enormous puddle. The lad looked up at mum who smiled consent to an unasked question. The lad ran in splashing and shrieking with delight. Soon he was soaked and the reality of cold wet clothes overcame his pleasure. I guess that was his first time and I was forced to reflect on how quickly the predators begin to nibble at our innocence. All the same it was one of those little golden moments that will stay with me. She was a lovely mum and no statesman or super star has ever done more.


Once your kids grow up and in my case very quickly become far more serious and sensible than me, you kinda lose touch with a large slice of the world. Luckily, driving a school bus has refilled my account  with all manner youthful cultural currency. I do like to have a little sing and a bop about as I’m waiting for the kids to come out. Yesterday a student took the time to give me a steer to Genki Sudo and a music group named “World Order”. Now, I missed all those protest songs that were spawned by the Vietnam War and the threat/fear of nuclear attack. It is tempting to think of young folk as conditioned and accepting on account of the lack of overt radicalism in politics. This little clip (you may think it goes on a bit) represents some cogent social comment and the yoofs are much more aware than you would think. It is also very troubling to realise than most people are so much more talented, so much younger and so under employed. 


A high powered committee  have named three new elements for the periodic table. Apparently they are super-heavy and fall apart as soon as they are created. Tomorrow I’m gonna send them one of my poor attempts at Quiche pastry. Soon Calinium will be number 113. Immortality at last.


Emma thinx: Youth – your state of mind before your mind’s a state. 



















Absentee Tee Hee

Posted on by
Reply



The best possible thing about being back at work in a real job every day is that I get a FRIDAY feeling. It has also toned my mathematical ability because I can tell you at any time of the day or week how long it is until Friday night. Now, in researching this little matter I clicked on You Tube just to see how many “Friday Night” entries there were. My maths weren’t up to making a full count. Yes- this sense of week-end release from toil has always been a background in my life ever since I can recall. This is one of the reasons why French life has a very different feel to it. Here in the UK I really notice the whole 24 hour culture. It always amused me to see folk buying groceries at the all night gas stations. For security reasons they do not allow shoppers inside but the goods have to be poked out through the little gap left for you to pay. A plastic milk bottle will just bend through but a pack of Cornflakes is a major challenge. I reckon there is a fortune waiting out there for the guy who invents Gas Station retail ergonomics – you know like a hot water bottle of milk, bread rope and a sausage of washing powder.  If any of you lot steal this idea I’m gonna be straight down the Gas Station to hire an inflatable lawyer.


Rain and thunder slowed traffic to a crawl this morning so I was 10 minutes late getting to intercom mom. I thought I’d launch a pre-emptive strike.
“I ‘spect ee’s already dun ‘is teef,” I quipped.
“Nah dear – ee’s not too good an’ ee won’t be in. Can you tell ’em.”
I crawled on to the next client – a lad of about 16. Normally he stands at the bus stop smoking a cigarette. Torrential rain fell and there was no sign of him. I knew his house and went to the door. No answer. I returned to the bus soaked and getting cold. On Friday I can take anything.


At the college I saw my favourite official.(She’s the one who reprimanded me for speaking to a parent about their child’s behaviour when I was not a professional educator). Yesterday she reported me to the bus company for being two minutes early even though she was standing  there. She has to know who comes in. This morning I watched my lot troop past her while she wasn’t paying attention. With anyone else I would have braved the rain and told her she was two short. Important officious people probably think they win the game. I bet her little heart swelled with pride inside her reflective importance jacket as she grassed me up. So – she’s had her tremble of official joy….. 


Emma thinx: Know what the game is before you try to win.



Culcha Vulcha

Posted on by
1



Dear me – I think I’ve been missing something for the past 24 years or so. Once I had realised that I had completely wasted my opportunity to be educated I kinda figured that clever people read clever books and listened to Beethoven, at least until they were ready for Bartók.  Until recently I think I had been becoming more and more SERIOUS. I soon realised that the kids on the bus were not ready for the Shostakovitch cello sonata  . To be honest I’m never been sure if I genuinely like this stuff or not or whether I’m just a bit up myself. Anyway check out that guy doing the Gershwin piano.


But the kids voted out the culcha and it’s been WAVE 105 all the way each and every day. Well, this morning I heard a song that made me feel so happy. I had the kids singing along and cranked it up to full volume. If you were at the traffic lights this morning next to boom box bus with the warbling old Doris at the wheel I don’t care. I rushed home and downloaded “Deleted Scenes From The Cutting Room Floor” by Caro Emerald. This is super album that makes you wanna dance, kiss and wiggle ya waggle. Oh if you like Caro Emerald you’ll like a French singer called ZAZ. This song “je veux” sung in the street in true “Chanteuse” tradition is a joy. If you love Paris and la langue francaise it’s a little gem.


Older people are having more and better sex according to a new survey. Over 70% of males and females over 60 say they’re having more fun than ever. Ho hum – that’s great but should we not be looking at the life style of the consumption driven brat tortured middle-agers who live in a blur of work and tail chasing? For late boomers like me it was possible to dream of saving up your life for later.(Actually I saved it up for a rolling infinite NOW).  As pensions dwindle and opportunities atrophy these younger folk ought to think about having some decent sex TODAY. I wrote a poem about this issue. Check out “Boomer” here.


News on the radio that Dyslexic cops are to receive special notebooks. What I want to know is why every time I’ve been booked for speeding the officer has recorded all my details perfectly leaving no loopholes. Surely once in my life I deserve a dyslexic ticket that allows me to beat the rap. 


Emma thinx: Chill –  there’ll be another NOW along in a while.



Warm Fuzzies – The Sequel.

Posted on by
6



So, this is my second week at the Warm Fuzzies Blogfest. The mission is to give a clue about what we scribes are working on. The above photo will tell you so much about my work in progress that actually it’s hardly worth writing the book. My dear manager Rosina, tells me that there are more than enough books about transvestite stationery salesmen and that the genre is worn out. She is a bit of a tree book nostalgoid to be honest. ( Remember the days when the big six dinosaurs used to rule the world and they ripped down all the trees so that there were only 20 literosaurus wrecks who were allowed to have paper to write on). However, if the book is not what she thinks then you guys are bound to be able to work it out, post your guess in the comments below…


As for inspiration and music whilst writing, my own requirement is actually nothing but silence, some kind of neutral middle distance to stare into and coffee. I need at least an hour to think down to the kind of depth I want to be at. I don’t want any distractions and I can be absolutely horrid to seekers of keys, bicycle pumps, menu suggestions and telephone sales-slaves.  If I’m writing about a kiss I want to be a warm lip. If I’m in the street I want to hear the sounds. When I was a serious poet I used to think for weeks about what my subject was like – you know – what does a meadow mean? 


Dear Oh dear – too much “I am an ARTIST” stuff. I have had far more immediate concerns today – particularly regarding tattooed breasts. Two ladies whom I encounter during my bus driverly duties have tattooed orbs. One of them wears her breasts au sauvage under a low necked vest. I can see that some kind of toothed serpent is rising from somewhere around her nipple and I must confess to an immense curiosity about the rest of the design – I mean is there a basket and a guy with a flute down there somewhere? I really don’t like to stare or ask. The other lady is something of an official figure and wears an important green luminous jacket. On sunny days a smudgy blue bouquet peeks out searching for warmth and photosynthesis. I can’t imagine there is a hidden flower tub or vase can you? 

Now, I know that men would only want me for my mind and soul, but I do wonder if cleavaged tattooed breasted women become offended if males allow their eyes to break away from intellectual and emotional eye contact now and then. A while ago a friend sent me an intriguing photo from Japan. If you can’t bear the thought of the needle and ink but you want to catch the eye, these revolutionary scarves might help. 



Emma thinx: Look up and you can see two thousand stars. Look in and you can see everything beyond.

For Juliana at WFBF: 2 posts on Twitter = 2 points?



The Ghost In The Machine

Posted on by
2



I’m beginning to lose the plot. Not only is it National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and National Author’s day, but also it is the National-blog-everyday-for-a-month Fest (NaBloPoMo!). What I did not know until I went to ASDA was that it is also National Sausage Week here in the UK. Now come on guys, you’ve got to admit that all that literary stuff fades into the background compared to the English Sausage. I’m gonna be taking part in the slog the blog binge since I pump it out every day anyway. Seemingly sausage is now the number one meat choice in the UK. I do wonder if that is because it is relatively cheap. In recent years I have noted the sizzle of the gourmet sausage such as Venison and Tarragon endorsed by Igor Apronifico and similar culinary luminaries. I sometimes wonder how far this kind of kidology could go – maybe François Potagier’s Pheasant and Camomile Chipolatas?  I reckon I know a few gourmo-snobs who would go for it. 

Now – if you look at the above pic you may well wonder what it is. Last night was of course Halloween (La Toussaint). Eventually I heard a noise outside and took a shot with my camera hoping to startle them with the flash. After they had retreated with their haul of sweets I checked out the photograph. Now – perhaps the flash didn’t work or perhaps I was shaking with fear or perhaps……the Unthinkable.  It all looks a bit spooky to me. Could be a whole new genre.


The headline shot today was sent by a friend in France who knows I am temping as a school bus driver. I believe the photo is from Morocco. Now, I know I complain a bit about my lot in life but well, all things are relative. I’m just so pleased that the bosses of the bus company are unlikely to see this image. I bet you there’s some bright shiny young thing with a modern tie and spiky gelled hair who’s just dying to wow them at the next cost cutting brainstorm meeting.


I note that as a foreigner I can’t win any of the NaBloPoMo Blogfest prizes. Well, I do not suppose I would be in the running but come on ….we gave the Fonz an MBE, or rather the Queen did. Next time I take tea with Her Majesty I may well raise the matter, although generally she raises this kind of issue with me first.


I’ve been walking quietly in the soft low sun as if I were still a poet. In the end my poem was one line, but so are we are we not?



Emma thinx: For each fallen leaf there is a branch with a memory.





The Overall Effect

Posted on by
Reply



“Ee’s just doin ‘is teef but the lift’s broke,” came the voice of intercom mom from floor 23 of the concrete sky. We all waited on the bus as the lad made his way down the steps. At last he arrived dressed in the same clothes that he always wears. It’s fashion sport wear and it’s always clean. I think it’s all he possesses. Mom must strip him off as soon as he gets in and poke it in the washing machine. Poverty is relative of course. Seemingly there are now 7 billion of us and the world can no longer feed us. When I see these poor kids and how they cling to the lifeboat of fashion even at the expense of food, I realise that the soul/status/ego/self image of each person is both our joy and our agony. It is a perversity to see the anorexic vision of  catwalk model beauty amidst the plenty and the Fast food/Big Biz/glamour glitz worshipped by the poor.


Yesterday afternoon I watched snatches of the first ever Indian Formula One Grand prix. How lucky they are that the Gods of Guzzle have handed them  the golden gladiators of radiators. Oh yes – the land of Shiva is now the land of GP diva. I’m a bit wary of making liberal arty farty capital out of the whole car racing circus. Probably it makes no difference but to me India has always seemed a land of advanced spirituality – beyond the brand and logo of plastered bill board overalls. And yet the taste of madness is sweet you know. Those childhood orgies of fallen conkers, hoarded simply because they were there, run on into adulthood and are delicious. The scream of wasteful engines and the kingfisher flash of  wealth are seductive. Seventeen thousand revs of orgasmic horsepower speak louder than a quiet voice of thought groping out for some gentle insight. Rip the rubber and ram it home to the chequered flag. Think simple and get the goods. That’s the true grand prize. Who am I to say different? At one stage of the race a car stopped at the edge of the circuit. Suddenly a mob hurtled towards the high grilled fence and pressed their faces against the metal in an agony to touch that far far world of the man with sponsored boots and million dollar gloves. These two worlds will never collide – provided that the fences hold.


 A very disturbing film is out on DVD about the life of  the racing driver Ayrton Senna. I’m not sure if it was meant to worry me but I kept posing a Wagnerian question “Where is there for defeated gods?” Many folk saw him as a GOD. That would be very difficult for a guy who simply drove cars in the name of a cigarette brand would it not?


Oh no – trouble in the temple. The Dean of St Paul’s cathedral has resigned over the strife around the anti-money changer demo on the steps. I love St Paul’s cathedral and have so often lit candles to the lovely building echoing choirboy fake-up-kid-yourself-spirituality God. Seemingly the elders of the temple can’t agree over whether or not to support the protests. I can see that this is a tough one. You get some kind of hippy guy show up with a few rough looking supporters and they go on about wealth and greed. Yup, even old Pontious Pilate was perplexed. He kinda fixed things up in the end though.


Emma thinx: Bossmosis – How the higher sucks out the lower.

Tea For One and Two for Tea.

Posted on by
2



Well, here I am back in Blighty. As I stepped red eyed and head-ached from the car my first impression was of fallen leaves. Initially I thought of back aching raking and sweeping. Then I thought of a proper strong cup of tea and gazed from the kitchen window onto the sog and bog of damp drizzling drab which is the Sunday morning after a night on the English Channel. The pint mug of tea pulsed out into my blood and flooded me with proper thoughts of love and romance. I found myself singing in French the song “Les Feuilles Mortes”. Look- I can be a pretentious stupid cow can’t I? Actually I only know one verse that goes:

“Mais la vie separe ceux qui s’aiment
Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit.
Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des amants desunis.”


A quick translation : Life separates those who love each other/softly without sound/And the sea erases from the sand/the footprints of parted lovers.(This is deliberately not a poetic translation.The French language IS Poetry simply in itself).


In the famous Nat King Cole version in English, this is not translated. If you want to feel the emotion of this season enhanced by music there are so many versions. I have chosen one here by Andrea Bocelli. For me the visuals are a bit busy, but have a glass (or two) of red wine, turn to whoever you love and remember that life is brief and that words of love are our Spring and they they will grow until one day their fruit passes inexorably into memory. 


Now – let’s talk about condoms.  A while ago when I first wrote “Knockout” I pushed it out for some pre publication reviews. Generally things were OK but one reviewer savaged me for allowing the lovers to have sex without condoms. Well, actually I did not allow it because having created these impulsive passionate beings the minute I took my eyes off them they were at it without even referring back to me. She attacked my irresponsible attitude to venereal disease and the kind of example I was setting to readers who might try this kinda thing at home. I know that from a public health point of view she was quite right but I just wanted naked passion between impossibly larger than life people in a wish list world. Now, fellow scribes – tell me what you think. PLEASE. I don’t want to go down in history as the woman who poxed up the populous and chlamydia-ed Christendom.  


And then there’s the subject of the tea served at breakfast on Brittany Ferries. I crossed last night from France and took the buffet breakfast in the restaurant aboard the vessel “Mont St.Michel”. As always the staff were flawless and kind. However, Gilles and I took tea and received one pot of hot water and a tea bag each. I believe the tea was Twinings. For me it was a bit pale but it was OK. There was just not enough of it. You can just about get one cup. The breakfast buffet is generous with ham, salmon, eggs, cereals etc etc etc. It is brilliant quality and value. If you order tea and coffee you get a whole pot each! We Brits need more to prepare us for life back in the UK. Dear Managing Director………


Tired and deprived of tea I turned on my lap top to write this blog and saw that a wonderful person had given me a lovely review. on Goodreads.


Emma thinx: Isaac Newton was primarily an alchemist. You can only get it right by being mainly wrong.