Goodbye Blue Sky



Today there were no clouds, no buttersmears, no marble, just endless depth and breadth of blue. To die now would be to bypass the cold press of the grave, purgatory and St Peter’s lists and enter directly through the gates of heaven, and there to lonely wait upon the end of time and judgement, to be joined by those whose deeds warrant the passage.

Reviving Relics

London is a city that is continuously evolving, I love seeing old buildings being brought back into use, and also the glimpses of the past that remain painted on odd corners.


I used to look across the river everyday at Bankside Power Station while I was at school, it was a desolate sight. It is now the Tate Modern, and people throng the tree lined walkways around it.  IMAG0131

And if you wander round the slowly gentrifying back streets of Southwark, you can still see the signs of its previous lives. IMAG0117

The Harry, Hermione, Ron Triangle


In the light of the new JKR article on Pottermore, I thought this was worth a repost:

Originally posted on Ali Abbas:

JK Rowling has recently commented that she persisted with the romance between Hermione and Ron, despite this being less likely than Hermione and Harry, reported variously in the press, including here in the Guardian.


There is a third way, a path that mirrors the hard truths of modern life in the Harry, Hermione, Ron love triangle. It was rational for Hermione to choose Ron in the aftermath of madness, and the wizarding world needing reconstruction. He was safe, uncomplicated, undemanding.


But within a few years the mundanity of life with this very ordinary person would grate on someone with her extraordinary gifts. He would not “get” her, or understand her need to be challenged, intellectually, magically, perhaps sexually.


As for Harry, well Ginny was always the rebound girl. After crashing and burning with Cho, and being unable to match the martyr status of Cedric Diggory with his…

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2012 and all that

St David’s day tends to pass unremarked in England. Perhaps because England has had more vested in the concept of Union than the other constituents, the concept of Englishness has subordinated itself to Britishness, and there is no British holiday or date celebrating the United Kingdom entire.


I’ve looked on with curiosity at the energy that other people put into their national days. It does not sit well with a certain natural reserve, and the frequent tub thumping jingoism is actually distasteful. Here we celebrate the monarchy, and all the goes with it, as long as they sit quietly in their corner until called upon to open a hospital, and we celebrate our sporting successes, but those only because they are rare and we know not to be repeated within living memory.


All that changed in 2012 largely thanks to a man born on these shores of Irish parents. Until the opening ceremony of the Olympics most Britons, like me, were sceptical. There was no way we could put on a show like Beijing. It would be a limp, cucumber sandwich of an event. And then that show happened. Sometimes a little bonkers, sometimes a little macabre, but overwhelmingly just the right tone: warm but not effusive, celebratory but with dignity, honouring the strength that has been tempered through an inclusive and accepting culture. And the Queen parachuted in with Jame Bond. How fucking cool was that?


Suddenly we had a language with which to express pride, in our way, not with tickertape parades and fireworks, but with a modest opening of arms and remembrance of what it means to welcome.


We’re not the same since you hung up that mirror Danny Boyle.


We still don’t have a national day for the United Kingdom, because we don’t need one, the rich tapestry of colours and creeds get to do their own thing, in their own way, and frankly everybody is fine with that.



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Clair by Ruswa Fatehpuri


by Ruswa Fatehpuri

We make a seamless join
From knee to hip, shoulder, armpit
Your fragrant herbal hair
Against my cradling arm
A buttress arch reaching
To clasp a window frame
As we seek warmth and comfort
Upon the chapel pew

A romance in G minor
Orchestra chasing violin
In acrobatic leaps from wall to wall
Flirtation, conversation
Without words. Illuminating
Thoughts unspoken

Light scatters on the shadows
Where the buttress meets the window
Where the music lifts and leaps
Your knee. Your crossed, your uncrossed knee.
Your hand, my hand, our ungloved hands
The dancing strings;
The ringing chapel walls

A line where our lives meet;
An unforgiving pew
Your ear upon my heart
Tympanic, inarticulate.
The join, the perpendicular,
The buttress to the window frame.
Shadows reclaim the corners.
An exchange of warmth unvoiced

You can find more of Ruswa Fatehpuri here