Gabrielle, 9 January 2009

Our beautiful daughter, Gabrielle, arrived into our world early this morning. She is absolutely adorable and we couldn’t have wished for a more perfect baby. Weighing in at a mere 2.85kg, she has my eyes as well as ears and her mother’s lips. The labour itself was an unforgettable and harrowing experience. I got the phone call at work from Helene at around 3.00pm that her contractions had already started and I rushed back home as fast as I could. I bought a copy of the day’s Times before I jumped on the train and got home within an hour. By then, Helene was already already suffering from regular and painful contractions. We fumbled with the TENS machine which we borrowed from a fellow NCT member and decided that it wasn’t really working for her. We did not rush to the Kingston Maternity Ward just quite yet as the contractions were only lasting roughly 40 to 50 seconds long every 4 minutes. But the contractions started to last longer quite rapidly and by 5.30pm they were going beyond 1 minute. That was the signal to go despite the hospital telling us to wait a bit longer.
When we got there at about 6pm, we were made to wait 30 minutes for our delivery room and, upon examination by a midwife, Helene’s uterus was already dilated by 6cm. We asked for gas and air in accordance with our birth plan, which helped ease the pain initially. However, the contractions were coming strong and heavy, and 2 hours later her uterus was fully dilated. At this point, the gas and air wasn’t cutting it anymore and we asked for Pethadine but it was already too late for any other painkiller. It was truly heartbreaking to see your loved one go through so much agony and not being able to do anything except try to encourage and comfort her whilst offering one’s hand for crushing. After a few more hours (and several different positions and 3 midwives providing collective assistance), Gabrielle finally decided to make an appearance at 12.21am and life as we knew it changed forever.
Looking back, I am even more convinced than ever that my wife is made of steel and my level of respect for all women in this world who have given natural birth increased by a factor of 10. It was all worth it in the end as we now have a little angel in our life. Next time, however, we’re definitely going for the epidural (damn those hippie NCT courses!). Our thanks go out to the lovely night-shift midwives at Kingston Maternity Ward who performed their duties with such professionalism, expertise and courtesy. They are a credit to the NHS Trust and are glowing examples of the much maligned public service.

Christmas 2008

As we were expecting the arrival of our little gift very soon, we spent Christmas this year at home with my in-laws over from France. Being the supposed “man” of the household, I felt it was my duty to volunteer to cook dinner for Christmas Eve. Although no stranger to the kitchen, I am ashamed to admit that I do not preside over the preparation of the majority of meals at home, leaving that accolade to my better half. I just stick to washing the dishes (or sticking them in the dishwater, more like). I, nonetheless, used this occasion to exercise my limited culinary skills by picking a Gordon Ramsay recipe I found in GQ magazine a few months back – “Honey and Cider Roast Leg of Lamb”. We bought the meat from a local butcher, thus assuring its freshness and quality. The preparation itself wasn’t particularly complicated for a Gordon Ramsay dish and the apple and honey gravy was a refreshing touch to accompany the lamb. I can smugly say that it went down a treat. Well, no one complained to me anyway.
Admittedly, this picture doesn't quite do it justice as it looks like someone's collapsed lung.

Human - The Killers

"Are we human or are we dancer?"

What a shit song.

That is all.

Paternal Instincts kicking in...

Ever since I discovered that I was finally going to be a father some 8 months ago, something inside of me seemed to click. Whereas before I would totally avoid tots like they were a form of medieval plague, I now look at these creatures in a different light. Living in Nappy Valley, loads of young parents bring their kids along the river on their strollers every weekend and I would actually find this activity somewhat...nice. Yeah, you read that right, cynical fuckers. I am actually starting to like kids. But not in a Gary Glitter way. And definitely not those annoying, crying 10 year old brats who keep kicking the back of your seat on the airplane while their parents look idly on. But those cute and benign cherubs who look at you with wide-eyed amazement. Or in my case, utter bewilderment that a weirdo like yours truly is paying attention to them.

To his credit, it was my cheeky nephew-in-law, Nicolas, who started this uncharacteristic trend. An amiable child, he didn't run away from me screaming in tears like most children and actually made me to read to him his favourite picture book about fishes. The book was in French, so I didn't actually read him anything and merely made up ridiculous stories about fishes, which he seemed to believe wholeheartedly. That was all it took, really.

Unlike my dear wife, however, the intricacies of childcare remain foreign to me, as demonstrated by my awkwardness with a baby doll during ante-natal classes. My baby-holding skills are basically as impressive as Scott Carson's goalkeeping skills between England's goalposts. This Padawan has much to learn indeed. I also sometimes find the thought of having someone totally dependent on us somewhat daunting, particularly during such harsh economic times when one could easily lose his/her job overnight. I draw comfort from the fact that we are not the only first-time parents going through all of this and our parents had much less than us when they started out. And we all turned out fine. Better than fine, actually.

I'm really looking forward to becoming a Dad. I just hope I can be at least half the father mine was and is to me.

Can't Count, Won't Count

I went to my usual sandwich/wrap takeaway shop for lunch today and ordered a chicken tikka wrap for £3.95. As I loathe carrying lots of shrapnel around, particularly those in small denominations, I gave £4.05 to the cashier, expecting 10p in return. The cashier, a chavette in her late teens/early 20s, looked puzzled, however. Obviously flusterred by this out-of-the-ordinary change of circumstances to her otherwise humdrum and predictable day, she seemed to try to make a mental calculation as to correct change that was due to me. But, alas, this monumental effort did not last long, as she gave up after only a millisecond bout with her arithmetic demons. Either that or she just couldn't be arsed. Probably the latter.

She returned £1 to me.

Hence, my moral conundrum - do I return her the £1 and correctly point out the right change? Or do I simply walk away and gleefully accept life's little charities?

I was about to do the supposedly right thing but then I suddenly remembered that I got a bad case of indigestion and runs from this establishment a few weeks ago, which screwed up my afternoon and evening. Moreover, I was in a semi-foul mood and was pretty sure that any effort on my part to be honest with her would have been thankless. It just doesn't pay to be honest all the time. Perhaps this sounds a tad sanctimonious but this was maybe a testament of this country's general standard of education, or lack thereof rather. Or perhaps it is an indication of my current level of moral fibre. Or lack thereof. I'm probably overthinking this. It was only £1, after all. What would you have done in my shoes?

I kept the £1, in case you haven't guessed by now.

White Lies, Koko Club, 26 November 2008

I can only listen to my Smiths back-catalogue for so long and I was starting to worry that I was turning into a cantankerous old fart who constantly gripes about the state of music today. I do find most of today's lightweight indie bands rather bland and uninspiring. Even their obiquitious skinny jeans, bad haircuts and ill-advised homage to garish 80's fashion do not sit well in my sartorial books. The Killers, for example, should really sack their current stylist. "I've got soul...", they certainly no longer do!

So it was with much relief that I stumbled across White Lies, a fresh-faced trio from Chiswick, on "Later...with Jools Holland" a few months ago. They had not even released a single, let alone an EP or album, but I was drawn to their Interpol-esque sound with dark lyrical undertones. They certainly have potential and I've been closely monitoring their progress via their MySpace blog. In between extensively touring throughout the summer, they have since released two singles, "Unfinished Business" and more recently the excellent "Death", with a debut album scheduled for release in January. So it was with great anticipation when their nationwide tour reached the Koko Club in Camden. Gigs by bands that have yet break through in the mainstream often have a more intimate atmosphere due to the smaller crowd but there was certainly a large turnout in this instance. The opening act was, Chairlift, a synthesiser pop trio whose single, "Bruises", was a quiet hit as a result of the i-Pod Nano tv commercial a year ago. They were followed up by S.C.U.M, a bunch of pre-pubescent industrial Goth wannabes who must be one of the worst live acts I have ever had the displeasure to see. They were downright awful and should seriously consider sacking their vain and utterly talentless vocalist.

White Lies, on the other hand, delivered a very polished and assured performance, belying their relatively young age. They were admittedly brief compared to bigger bands due to their small repertoire of songs but they certainly showed promise of breaking into the mainstream. The question is whether they'll be unfairly categorised as another Joy Division nostalgic band like The Editors. To be fair, there are very few bands who can claim that elusive mantle of originality these days. Time will tell whether they have the resilience to maintain their momentum but, in the meantime, they give me some hope for the future.

New York City, 26 to 29 August 2008

I had the privilege of being flown over to New York for a series of meetings with a global financial services company headquartered in Manhattan and New Jersey. As official business was only going to take up a day, I decided to take the whole week off to explore a city that claims to be the centre of the universe.

Unfortunately, Helene was not able to travel with me due to work reasons, which was a shame as I know she would have loved the city too.
This vibrant city does not disappoint. Its famous skyline is truly a sight to behold with its towering and iconic skyscrapers like the Chrysler and Empire State Building. The sheer size of the buildings was breathtaking. This is America, after all, where everything is pretty much supersized.
In my opinion, it's a much more cosmopolitan city than London, with different cultures, races and nationalities living and working close together in pursuit of the American dream. I got a good sense of this from my chat with my limo driver, who emigrated to the U.S. from Colombia about 7 years ago. Married to a Venezuelan-American, he and his wife work long hours and different shifts everyday just trying to make a better life for themselves in their adopted country. They proudly consider themselves American but yet steadfastly cling on to their cultural roots from the old country. I can identify with this and was impressed by his optimism, cheerful demeanour and lack of cynicism, which tends to creep up on most jaded and chastened people. We chatted about football and it turns out he personally knows (allegedly) Juan Pablo Angel, who came from his hometown and used play for Aston Villa. This all made for good conversation on the way to my meetings, which relaxed me considerably. I wished and tipped him well at the end of the day.
The meetings went well and I was driven to my hotel in Manhattan to start my vacation, as the Yanks would say. I explored the city mostly by foot (which I admittedly lived to regret as my blistered feet were killing me by the 3rd day) and I went about doing all the usual touristy things like going up the Empire State Building, walking across Brooklyn Bridge, getting briefly lost in Central Park (and watching someone get arrested by the NYPD), taking the ferry to Staten Island whilst getting a closer look at the green Liberty lady, paying my respects at Ground Zero, checking out the world famous Natural History Museum, sampling the chow fan at Chinatown, getting scolded by an old Chinese lady for taking a picture of her gambling in a park, sauntered down turbulent Wall Street, Times Square, Rockefeller Centre, et al. Went to check out CBGBs, the famous (or infamous, rather) punk and underground rock club on the Bowery, but was disappointed to learn that it was shut down a few years ago and is now replaced by a cheesy rock memorabilia and fashion boutique. Talk about selling out.







I was advised by a Yank (and now Brit) friend that I should check out "Soul Food" when I'm in the States. It's basically Southern-style barbecued grub and, although not the healthiest cuisine one can ingest, it's great for pigging out, an activity I'm prone to indulging in doing from time to time.
New York is also well-known for being a shoppers' paradise and, with the British pound still being relatively strong at the time (mind you, this was a few months ago before the pound started collapsing like a proverbial sack of shit), most items were relatively cheap compared to the UK. I was eyeing the sexy Tag Monaco Chronograph which was selling at a decent, albeit not exactly bargain, price at Macy's. But with the credit crunch in full flow, I thought it might be best to delay this material gratification until further notice.

There were loads of street vendors selling pro-Obama t-shirts (Obama's official nomination as the Democratic candidate was going on at the time) but I decided not to buy any as it seemed very cliched. Morever, I'm not American and I'll only end up looking like another liberal bandwagon jumping twat.

In short, what a fantastic city, with so much to see and do. It beats London hands down in many respects, I reckon. Maybe it's just your typical tourist infatuation, but I can honestly see myself living here with Helene (and family). There is the possibility of being flown over for a week long conference every year and I'm keeping my fingers crossed.











The "Friends" apartment, a stone's throw from the Gay District in Greenwich Village, as pointed out to me by a friendly local...

The once great CBGBs is today a rock memorabilia and fasion boutique. What a sell out...

Ground Zero...

This mofo's going down-tawwnn...