BAKLAVA's KAMEKAZE LOVER

I knew it! Big sigh, my twin is up for semi finals now. And it makes me happy. Now I just have to find out a way to make people back off, because as usual people think I'm some sort of secret spy. I'm not, I'm a twin. Out to celebrate........

Kamekaze Lover

I've finally slept, and woke up all ready for Nigel to come and work his magic. Total disappointment. He's not coming, because my dear twin has worn him out by drilling curtain poles and fixing curtains all day long. Trust him to do that because he has no idea how to do them himself. And trust him to wreck the possibility of having a nice Saturday out-of-a-magazine sleek hairstyle. I look a mess, it's just one big ball of fire here. Oh well, I'll just have to wait till tomorrow, I hope, really hope I'll have my hair done by that time.

I had a dream, and all I remember that it was a really funny hilarious dream. I woke up laughing, and I''m still laughing, looking like an idiot with a big smile and not knowing why. It could have been worse. And so I'm watching Eurovision's showbox with a couple of butterflies in my stomach, because the results for the semi final will be out today.... go Kamekaze Lover!

Batons

I am getting tired and it's still half seven in the morning. If I could burn all the clocks in the world, I would. If I could burn a lot of the watches in the world, I also would. But I could never bring myself to burn a Cartier, a Chanel. And if I were to try and even put my hands on the Mister's Corum, he'd throw the first tantrum of his life. His watches are his babies, do not disturb. Fine, I have my own. And no, we're not a time-obsessed couple, nobody can live with me if he's time obsessed. I take most things at leisure, it's a relaxed attitude. And yet even in music, timing is important. But just as poets have their licence, we do too. And I make sure I put it to good use. I wonder if a Cavalli metronome exists, I've never come across anything like that, but it should exist. Or perhaps musicians are so poor they could never afford something like that so why make it? Hmm, my guess is it would sell out in seconds. Musicians would rather not eat and but something like that. But it's all about time, and I hate time. Time to do this, that, and the other, and who says so? In most cases, probably somebody using a baton as a penis extension. If you ever wondered why most conductors conduct themselves in a wild, all over the place behaviour, well there is no musical reason as to why. It's just that they are getting high on the power trip a baton seems to inflict. Batons, made of plain, bland wood. And they're so coveted. I've never understood why. Probably because it signifies mastership, although sometimes not necessarily musicianship. And perhaps that is the reason why female conductors are so few. Because we do not need batons for power trips. We have the power all along. It's a woman's world out there, we just let the Misters think it's theirs.

Pastaza

Coffee done. Beautiful. It's still dark but probably so many people are up and about already. And probably for them it's routine. How I'd hate to have to wake up at this devilish hour to earn a living. And yet on the very rare occasions that I've been out, I've seen girls, sometimes little older than 16, all made up waiting at their pick up place to go and earn a living which is probably not a grand living either. So if they are waiting at half six and have had time to put all that war paint on, then their wake up call must be something like 5 am. Brrrr it's enough to make anybody shudder. And when they're probably off to work facing the same machine day in day out, hour in hour out, minute in minute out, why do they need all that paint? For the machine to see them pretty? Sometimes I just don't understand. I now remember that I actually have been up and about at this hour more often, during my Paceville clubbing days, the days when I'd score marks in disappointing my mum. But somehow being up all night makes half six in the morning different. I don't know why it just does. I still score marks in the game called 'my-daughter-does-everything-wrong-and-is-a-big-pastaza'. I also realise that the more I wish not to think so often abut her, I end up writing about her instead. So I do everything wrong, I am used to it by now, other people are always better even if they aren't. A big pastaza, I'm not, but since a pastaza, by her standards, is someone who has five earrings, and someone who loves make up, and someone who is surrounded by gay men, and someone who loves the drama of fur and heels, and someone who loves the promising possibilities opened by cleavage (no pun intended) then yes I am a big pastaza. I have been since the age of 14 when I had my first boyfriend, because then, a peck on the cheek was being pastaza, holding hands like a nerd made me a big pastaza. The fact that my twin was still holy and virgin back then didn't help things, bang came the comparisons. Of course he wasn't kissing girls, not because he wasn't a pastaz, but for a lot more many reasons. And just because I could not, cannot and never will be able to go shopping with my mum, then that makes me a pastaza. Because the daughter of this one and that one take their mum with them. Sure, because their mum is their bank account. I can only think what hideous stuff she'd make me buy. Sorry mum, your daughter is a pastaza, and will never take you shopping, period. Which makes the list go on, just because I 'became' a woman at 11' (an 11 year old is never a woman but I'm talking in her terms) then I was a pastaza trying to grow up early, because my chest showed signs of womanhood, then that also made me a pastaza because girls do not wear bras at 10. But hello mum, nature made me very different to you, you are small, almost Chinese-like, I didn't branch out according to your side of the family, all small, slender, 40kg-ish tiny people. Because hello mum you lie on the bed you make, and since you lay down with my dad, well although it's difficult to believe now, you married him when he tipped the scales at a 130kg. And yes I know mum, I am big, but that does not make me a pastaza either. I am three times your weight and I could snap you in half but never will. Because after all is said and done, I love you mum, and if you brought a pastaza into the world, well, perhaps it's some sort of repressed, inherited gene don't you think?

Coffee

The cons of living in a house is that the first floor is usually the bedrooms/computer room/bathroom/en suite bathroom floor. The pros of living in a house is that the ground floor consists of living space (which I have never understood as living is in taking a shower and also in sleeping), dining room, sitting room, spare toilet and a kitchen. There it is the magic word, kitchen. Now I usually care less for kitchens, sure, they look so nice in a showroom, or in one of my brother's apartments and houses, and they would look good in mine, so good that they probably would remain in pristine conditions. I do not own a Scavolini quite simply because I'd never know how to use it anyway. I do not have much culinary experience, and I am not interested in getting any sort of culinary experience, that's the Mister's job. But in the kitchen lies my beloved kettle, which is imperative for my addiction to coffee. My kitchen also houses a refrigerator which keeps my beloved Hagen-Daaz, but I don't feel like ice-cream right now, not even if it's in the Belgian Chocolate type. I want the coffee, I need it. I've had one, and I need another, but going downstairs to make it seems like such a big effort. When I used to live in an apartment it was much easier. No stairs to get the coffee. No stairs to get the ice-cream. No stairs to get anything. That is the beauty of apartments. But 80kg dogs do not go with apartments. Nor do six cats. They need air conditioning, and space to run around. I should have thought of it before, but in all honesty I'd do it all again. The love and sheer pleasure pets give is something which is worth going up and down the stairs for. Even if it's just for coffee. I'm off for one.

Siamo fatti cosi`

I am up. Unbelievable, it's 5 am. Of course I am already up because it's a Saturday so just because I can take my time and poke myself up at leisure, there I go, I'm up already when I could have easily put in another 4 hours of sleep. C'est la vie. It's strange, I usually wake up this early when I start the insomnia phase and usually there is something to worry about, even if I don't know what it is and my psyche has pushed it to the back. But right now I'm ok, and I think I'm physically getting better, so why the hell did I actually get up? Is it my body's way of celebrating, as in, hurray we're better so release the hounds. But that's so aggressive, which is not the mood I'm in. I'm just sitting upright against the bed stand with a cup of coffee and yes, having a smoke. Smoking has started early today, and I'm not too happy with that. Anyway I'm just thinking of the body-soldiers. I remember, a really long time ago, more than 30 years ago, I used to watch this cartoon animated children's programme, of course accompanied by *the* twin who thankfully also was interested in the same programme. Otherwise it would have been battlefield, and all canons alert. You see, for those of you younger than me, there was a time when TV's came in black and white, and people were lucky if they had at least one TV set which didn't run by a remote control. If you wanted to change channels, you'd have to get up and do it. All the TV we had was either the national Maltese channel called Xandir Malta at the time, or blurry TV stations if your TV aerial was lucky enough to intercept them. Ours was. But I digress. So we watched this programme, in Italian, which was brilliant in explaining the human body and how it works. All in animated cartoon style. I also remember the antibodies portrayed as soldiers and the virus or cold or illness as the enemy on the battlefield, the enemy which no doubt had to be killed. Siamo fatti Cosi`; in English terminology, This is how we are made. It was amazing, it saved a lot of trouble back then when everything was taboo, my mother never had to shamefacedly explain the old tale of the birds and the bees. Neither had she to explian why my twinny constant companion was different. Because Siamo fatti Cosi` had explained that we might have come in one parcel, less than 15 minutes apart, but we were different because my mate was a boy. I was a girl. I have asked my mother from time to time if I ever asked anything about us being different. She always replies with a proud no, because, as she says, at the time I was a model daughter, not the pastaza I am today. Oh well, I've changed along the years. If she'd had it her way she would have stunted my growth at 5 years old, 6 at the most, but sorry mum, I grew up, and I wanted to know through first hand experience about the birds and the bees. I wonder about the tale of the birds and the bees. It's not as if they're anything explanatory, nothing like us, at least I think. But Siamo Fatti Cosi` had it all explained out. there were a lot of soldiers swimming their way up to the prize and one soldier would get the prize. It even explained that in certain cases there would be two deserving soldiers so there would be two prizes. Or more, depending on the soldiers' behaviour along the year. Cool isn't it? It's still fascinating to me now, imagine seeing all this through the eyes of a 5 year old. And you could actually see the soldier put their lancers down, put on their flippers and swim up to the prize which was portrayed as a treasure chest overflowing with gold and jewellery. No wonder I like jewellery so much. My soldier must have hit the golden treasure chest.