Family

Met up with my cousin J (which is distinct from colleague J) today near work. In the square outside my office we stood, our arms around each other to keep warm against the darkening chill, as I told her about how I had dug myself deeper into a hole.

We went and sat down in the reception of my building, chilled out, shared stories, as people walked in and out through the turnstiles. I felt relaxed, safe, alive—even threw my head back in laughter like I would out of work. My guard was down. It's strange.. I don't realise that at work, subconsciously, I always have my guard up. It's only when family or someone from out of work comes into my work sphere and I realise that it's a different feeling altogether.

I'm so glad my cousin is back here in the UK. And in London. And that my "baby" cousin is coming too. This Saturday.

It's nice to have family around. I miss it.

Holding on

I've changed a lot in the past few months. Swinging from being very positive, upbeat, and cloyingly pollyanna-ish at work (what would be termed very "American"), to the other extreme of deep cynicism, anger and bitterness.

The difference is as day and night. Alarmingly so, to those in my life.

Talking about work oftens chokes me up and tears of frustration spring too readily to my eyes.

And yet today, when my tall Espanol co-worker was turned to me and said: "Why? Say something to motivate me. Tell me why." instead of replying cynically as was my instinct, I looked at him, and saw his need, I lied out of my ass. Blew smoke, pulled sparkles and fireworks out of my ass and said: "Because our team is highly rated on the Street. We are the best, because we work hard and go the extra mile."

He smiled faintly and said: "Thanks. I am motivated again."

And I returned his smile.

He has no idea. Or maybe he did. *I* have no idea. How I managed to say all that despite the depth of my cynicism. When I have been looking at business schools, thinking about markets, asking about job opportunities elsewhere, and am almost at the end of my tether.

This usually apparently happy, easy-going girl (that J does not believe I am capable of being sarcastic or angry) wrote a sharp, barely civil email to her senior - so much so that the Espanol said I am now his hero. A *super-hero* no less. - You can just imagine.

And I just SMOKED out of my ass.

The fact is, I care very much for my peers. It's not a normal environment where people have normal work relationships. When you work so hard, for many hours with one another, and see how much suffering each goes through. There's a special bond. And I know they would help me as I would them. Because that is the only way. Sometimes it feels like that is the only way I manage to hold on.

I worry though, about my cynicism. Because I think one of the precious abilities I have is the ability to laugh. To identify sliver of amusement in the most desperate of situations — and laughter can dispel the darkness. That is one thing Ulysses likes about me. He had been working desperately hard for a few weeks. And tonight as he was walking out of a meeting room, he heard me laugh. And his frown of concentration cleared and he said: "This is what I like to hear - laughter... on Sunday, at.. (he looked at his watch).. 1.15am in the morning." And he walked over to join us for a little while.

But the fact is, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to laugh, or even smile genuinely - instead of a twisted smirk of cynicism.

Yesterday, I talked to V, a girl from work. She said that she had lost not only her memory, but her ability to feel. And really, it was better that way. It was easier to be happy.

I can see her point. It is so incredibly tempting. And that helps incredibly in being a good analyst. Having someone who is waiting for you makes in infinitely more more difficult. Every minute is pure undiluted pain amplified and stretched into eternity.

It is by far the easier path to forget, to numb, and nullify.

But it is scary. It is like being the living dead.

J made the point that he tries to write every weekend because it demarcates his time, preserves his memories, defines his existence.

I agree.

I hadn't realised how long it had been since I last wrote. I wrote last weekend, and felt rejuvenated by the process of creation, reflection, crytallisation. It felt like a rebirth. And I realised that I had not written for two months. Incroyable!

So tonight, I write again. To remember that I am alive. And also because I feel deeply alive.

Once upon the River Thames

Dinner on Saturday night at Shakespeare's Globe Restaurant by the riverbank with J and V. A table by the window. Light glittering on the dark water. The first sight was breathtaking, and I realised there are so many facets of London that I am missing. Letting slip by.

Conversation flowed freely: invariably about work (it is such a disproportionately big part of our lives), but also more — about feelings, not feeling, the meaning of life, having issues... real talk, not polite chit chat about nothingness.

I liked these two friends from work, but don't know them very well, so I didn't expect it all to flow so easily, beautifully. I hope there will be more.

The life and history of cous cous in this girl's life

Ever since I had the most divine starter (cous cous with tomato, mozarella and chilli) at a restaurant on Charlotte Street a few months ago, I have become quite intrigued (dare I say obsessed?) by cous cous.

Intrigued enough to want to learn to make cous cous, despite my mountain of doubts - how do you cook cous cous? how long do you cook it for? what do you cook it with? how is it eaten?

I started off timidly with a packet of flavoured instant cous cous (49p from Safeway) more than a month ago. Graduated to normal packet of plain cous cous, boiled with sundried tomatoes.

Saturday, the rare culinary bug bit me again, and I attempted my third batch of cous cous - cous cous with sundried tomatoes, melted with grated mozarella cheese with a sprinkling of basil (the only "Western" herb that I managed to scavenge from the random bottles of herbs and spices), with a side of boiled asparagus.

I rarely feel inspired to cook, but once I do, I really get into it, and want an all-encompassing experience. Proper food, layout, set out beautifully on a solid, wide plate, with lovely, heavy cutlery. Yes, I'm very particular about the cutlery I eat with. And yesterday, after carefully arranging my asparagus spears into a fan around the cous cous, I realised with dismay that while I had a lovely heavy spoon which felt so solid and luxurious in my hand, I had a really thin, light, and poorly made fork. And a desperate ransacking of all the kitchen drawers did not yield a fork (nor knife!) worthy to match my spoon.

Resolution: to buy a lovely set of cutlery (that includes chopsticks!)

My housemates scoffed at my avowed intention: How often do you even eat at home?

True, I willingly concede their point. But the fact is, whenever I Do eat at home... especially whenever I cook, it's actually crucial to my enjoyment that I have cutlery I like, crazy as that may sound.

Today, I had Jackie over for lunch, and I experimented even more with the cous cous - with sundried tomatoes, dried chilli (the kind used in Chinese cooking), Italian and mixed herbs (the basil had run out, and these were two other bottles of "Western" herbs I found in the cupboard), sliced chestnut mushrooms, and melted with mozarella.

(Does this process not remind you of that awful nursery rhyme "The House that Jack Built".)

While I don't think I have exhausted the possibilities of cous cous yet, I have been musing increasingly on mango. More specifically, mango with fish. I had a softshell crab with mango handroll an softshell crab with mango roll. The mixture of taste was surprising and delightful, and has since slowly suffused through my system, giving me time to marinate upon it.

Now the question is - what fish?