Fashion, my new passion!

I have just got back from my first fashion show. I say first fashion show, what I actually mean is indian fashion weeks live runway shows. There is a difference you know, I know this because I am a fashionista who has lived most of his life at the cutting edge of pop culture and fashion, from modelling snorkel parkas for Kay's catalogue at Wicksteed park in the 70's to runway modelling for Diana's dress agency in the 90's!

Dovetailing nicely with my comprehensive modelling history is my mum's who was voted 'best leg's in Creswell' in 1959, successfully defending her title the following year. She was also runner up in the 'face of Creswell colliery', a competition I believe it was compulsory to 'black up' with pit dust for!

My dad was also a fairly iconic character who sported a perm and porn star moustache when Kevin Keegan was still wondering if he "had the length right" for one. Just to put the final stamp of authority on my fashion credentials I have been married for 7 years to a woman who lives and breathes it. There is very little she doesn't know on the subject and has an exemplary history of sartorial elegance even defending her flirtation with Doc boots and dungarees in her student days by saying:
"That look was very in for a while".
She even did a bit of runway work in her time, though I suspect that may have been while temping as a baggage handler at Stanstead.

The point I am trying to get across is that fashion is in my blood, there is nothing I can do other than embrace it and so it was, with immense enthusiasm and deep gratitude that I accepted an invitation to the last day of Indian Fashion Week from none other than Mr Sunil Sethi, a powerful man on the Indian fashion council.

My first dilemma was clearly what look should I go for? Cravat and blazer combo -David Niven in Delhi? Skinny jeans and leather jacket - cool uncle Mannion? Jeans ,trainers and an over-washed T - Delhi working man? Or my usual jeans and a Ted shirt- K-town cool? The decision was ultimately made - obviously - by 'A' who's comments ranged from "I am not going out with you dressed like that" to "you really haven't got a clue have you?". In the end it was a cheeky little military style Zara shirt with a pair of 501's. I was allowed to pick my own socks which I was particularly happy about. Whenever 'A' tells me we are going to dinner somewhere I always ask socks or no socks. It is how I define upmarket in Delhi. I have so far worn them 3 times in 6 months, so you can see what a big deal the night ahead was going to be.

We arrived in the Ambassador, tossed the keys to the valet and were whisked through the hoi polloi to the sanctuary of the VIP area, where I immediately started to feel my age and weight! We were surrounded by the young and beautiful of India and drank red wine while being Pap'd by photographers who clearly had no idea who we were. I then commited a huge faux pas by wading into the free grub while all around stared at me in disgust. "What are you doing you tit?" 'A' scalded. "First rule about fashion is nobody eats, the second rule about fashion is nobody eats" I found a convenient place to set down my plate and pretended to be interested in the programme when there was a tap on my shoulder.

I turned round to find a saxophonist asking me what I would like to hear. I was tempted to say Lick my love by Cradle of Filth but had a feeling he wouldn't know it, so instead settled for Nothing's gonna change my love for you by Glen Madeiros. This was clearly faux pas number 2 as the looks I got from everyone - including my own wife - screamed idiot!

I was swiftly rescued from my growing embarrassment and general un-coolness by a guy issuing us our tickets for the first show. Once again we were ushered through the masses to another VIP holding area just outside the main runway. Here we waited with Delhi's bold and beautiful before being shown to our seats. Front row right in the centre no less, flanked by Marie Claire India, Vogue India and GQ, I felt myself ascend from boiling hot to mildly hypothermic on the coolometer. The look's of envy from opposite row 2 would have reduced Medusa to stone. "Act natural" I whispered to 'A' through gritted teeth "Make it look like we do this sort of thing all the time" to which she replied "shut up Conde you twat", slamming me back to earth.

The lights dimmed,the hip hop music cranked up to 11 and the latest creations by Meera & Muzaffar Ali were donned by some of the most beautiful women I have ever shared the same oxygen with. The look was traditional Indian chic,all flowing silks and satins with detailed embroidery and sumptuous beading. I was genuinely blown away by the beauty of it all. 'A' seemed to be commenting more about the state of the models knees,elbows and complexions. I resisted the urge to say they may well spend alot of time on all fours!

We made most of our comments from behind our hands, this was just how 'A' was sitting, whereas I can't tell a lie in this blog and will admit I was trying to give myself an air of mystery and make it look like I knew what I was doing. The show ended, the designers took their bow and we went back to the free bar to discuss how cool we were.

Appetite whet, I was really up for the next show. The designer was Prashant Verma, a young hip Indian designer and there was a real buzz developing around the place. we took our seats again and as the flashbulbs started and the smoke machine cranked up I made a mental note to never come to something like this again without losing a stone and gaining some cool shades.

The models came and went in a flash of what I can best describe as Gotham City inspired satin and silk. In marked contrast to the previous traditional Indian look, Prashant's collection was alive,vibrant and pure sexy. Slashed harem pants - I was wearing those 3 years ago, round toe shoes - I bought those in 05 and military buttoned jackets - remember me telling you that was going to be big on Parhar Ganj, were just some of the comments from 'A'.

We both agreed though that the show was electric and a complete triumph, the audience seemed to concur. I can reveal that toe-less pumps and silk printed dresses are the future and Military is still very hot but needs to be done with a twist.I left the show enthused by fashion and looking forward to the next show but feeling all of my 37 years and 16 stone. Maybe I should leave the fashion and red wine to 'A and stick to football. Kingfisher anyone?

What would you do if a bird shit on your head?

It is the first and I hope, last time I title my blog with a Bernard Manning joke, and fortunately for you the answer is not: leave her! I did have the misfortune however, to be in the position where I had to come up with an answer to the title question last week.

As usual,it wasn't just a simple case of walking down the street and passing under a tree full of incontinent pigeons. That would be too normal for this City, it was in fact while having my weekly shave.

I probably have to explain at this point that my weekly shave is not so much a matter of indulgence, more endurance. I stroll up to the market where there are 7 chairs spread out along the pavement, underneath a tarpaulin. It is here I find my arch nemesis and torturer in chief,Asif. He looks forward to my weekly trip to him in equal measure to the amount I dread it.The reason for this is that he charges me 5times what he charges the locals and I just can't say NO!

It doesn't matter how hard I try, or how much I repeat the word over and over in my head,I can't get those two little letters out. I am convinced he could ask me for my first born and I would just hand him over.I sit down in the chair and spell it out to him with words and mime, that I just want a shave. This is acknowledged and the shave commences. All relatively straight forward you would think? Oh no, this is where the problems start! See Asif has twigged that I find it hard to get out of the chair, hand over my 10rps and walk away and so preys on it.

Out comes the face cream and before I have had the chance to object my face is set in half an inch of a concrete like substance, that he makes himself - how he magics that up I dare not think!-. While this is drying on my face he goes to work on the head massage, nice you may be thinking but he has hands like anvils and by the time he has finished I am usually semi conscious. This allows him to go in for the kill with the neck, arm and hand massage, that culminates with a series of bone clicking tugs to my fingers that usually bring me out of my coma, just in time to enjoy the pain of the concrete being peeled off.

To add insult to injury, he charges me 100rps - about 1.50 - and laughs as I leave. You may ask why I go,and believe me I have asked myself but am struggling for answers. I have always found shaving a bit of a ball ache and the thought of someone else doing it for me seemed like such a luxury and it would be, if I could just say no! I digress though and have to now tell you how I managed to end up with bird crap on my head.

I took my seat randomly in the line of 7 and tilted my head back ready for my assault. As I looked up I noticed that I was sitting in a gap in the tarpaulin,staring into the trees and blue sky above (as seen in picture above). I joked to Asif that I would be in trouble if it rained, he grinned manically and yanked my chin down ricking my neck!

It was while sitting there, head back with the butcher of Boha Rao market poised with cut throat razor over my Adam's apple, that I looked up and noticed a bird fighting a squirrel. I watched with amazement and realised this wasn't an every day experience, when IT happened.

The bird, clearly terrified let rip with its weapon of crap production and from it's trajectory, I could tell it was heading my way. I had a sudden flashback to my youth when my sister - a girl that could have taught the soldiers at Abu Ghraib a thing or two - would pin me down with her knees holding my arms, while dripping spit from her mouth over my face! This would happen only after she had eaten an orange, so as to get extra elasticity from her saliva torture weapon. With this in mind, I had a decision to make. Thrash around wildly throwing head from side to side - as I did with my sister - and risk having The Butcher slash out my adams apple, or sit still, keep my life and take it on the chin so to speak.

With resigned indignation, I sat and accepted my fate and let the pigeons projectile explode on my forehead. The watching crowd erupted in laughter while I sat still frozen to the chair, as Asif wiped it off and carried on as if nothing happened! He finished the shave, wiped my face with the same towel he used to wipe up the crap and carried on with beating me up while I failed to say "no more" as usual.

I know now that I have the perfect reason not to go back for my weekly torture but know - as does Asif - that I will be back for more. It has become a sort of character test for me now. I feel that until I can say no to Asif, I can't move on and find a new barber. I need closure now not only from my inability to say no but also thanks to the pigeon, the horror of my youthful torture at the hands of my sister. Hard to believe that a simple trip to the barbers is going to end up with me in therapy!!

Burst bubble?

The good life could be over,I suppose it was inevitable. I have been told to go home and get a job -only with more expletives - and suppose it is not bad advice. I think I have gone from one extreme to the other and become the stereotypical male.My list of irritants include the following:

1) Never showing any interest in what my wife Says.

2) Although not said, clearly believed that I am incapable of sorting out the slightest problem.

3) No support while she "works her arse off to make this a success".

I could go on but won't bore you with the details. I don't know where and when it went wrong but the unbreakable unit seems suddenly very vulnerable with both 'A' and I unable to communicate for more than a day without war breaking out. Maybe it is the weather! A sudden shift in barometric pressure has caused us both to go barking, maybe it is the pressure of living so far away from friends and family, or maybe it is the 7 year itch! Who knows,but I might be seeing some of you sooner than expected!

Maybe it is just "one of those things". You can't really expect to live in the environment we do without having the odd explosion at each other.It wouldn't be healthy to be blissfully happy all the time would it?

Anyway, 'A' stormed off to work this morning and no doubt was cursing me as I was her. It was with great anger and emotion,while looking down my "job list" that my spirits were raised again.

One of my duties for the day sandwiched between post office and book flights for Trivandrum was Put net curtains back up in car! Not the sort of job most people have each day is it? It suddenly hit me just how different a life we are leading. Even though the abnormal has started to become normal for us here it doesn't mean that it is.

We have to remember why we came here, the sacrifices we made and the problems it may cause and perhaps make a few extra allowances for each other. Perhaps I need to listen better than I think I do, perhaps I am not being supportive and while we are being honest admit to being rubbish at problem solving! At the same time maybe "A" needs to remember that this is not always easy for me. I don't sit on my arse watching Oprah all day and sometimes find my new role tough. Maybe we need to remember why we came and how good it is 99 per cent of the time. Maybe I should stop looking for flights to England and give her a call. Worth a try, if not see you soon!!