The Word Cloud

There have been quite a few significant character building changes in my life in the past one year. Not all of them were welcome since I have a natural resistance to change, very un-evolutionary (if that is a word) I must say. So I fought and kicked and screamed and yelled bit ( really hard), and yet I was dragged by the hair kicking screaming and rebelling all the way to the middle of 2010. My life is full of very independent and confident people who know what they want and have created very successful niches for themselves in the world. These wonderful people happen to be my parents, friends and of course my dearly beloved who has achieved enough commendable heights to rightfully say “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn”. However I am still running after all that jazz while it daintily eludes my time and again like a feather in the wind. My academic life of late is like a stubborn bit of burnt cooking at the bottom of the pan which refuses to leave. Not that I do not want to research!!! It is still a part of my grand plan to be a successful person.

In the past few months life as I knew it is rapidly changing, I am contemplating finishing my Mphil research, leaving hyderabad, getting a job, getting married, applying for further studies, moving to a new country, making my marriage work, studying or working, travelling and continuing to run behind my life as the years fly past like a constant panorama of colours. Like a continuous reel of film a movie where I am the flawed protagonist who wants all of it with a bit of romance, tender loving care and romance thrown in.

In search for that missing bit of spice in my life I have resorted to a lot of trashy novels which help me dream. Learnt to live alone and re-confirmed my knowledge that I am not a loner but someone who needs a lot of space, I am extremely attached to family and friends who are as good as family. I don’t care where I live as long as this basic need is fulfilled. South India hasn’t been the same since the 23rd of January. I suffering from withdrawal symptoms of tender loving care. I have spent a lot of time away from research trying to regroup myself, making new friends, travelling and turned into a suspicious person who craves for attention.

I am not sure what will help since I know what I should be doing. Maybe retail therapy will help but I doubt it, I just need a shove in the right direction and a listening ear and a helping hand. Is it too much to ask.

Guero blips the car open and climbs inside. Hiding behind dark glasses, his eyes gritty, his hair still wet from a hasty shower, he glances at the clock on the dash.

07.05 –

Sunday morning, Rioja still flowing guiltily through his veins, two a.m. indecently recent.

Still, a promise is a promise.

Today the Tourist arrives, expecting to be met at Gatwick airport. And he’d promised.

Guero turns the key in the ignition and points the car south-west.

 

The screen in Arrivals says BAGGAGE IN HALL –

            Damn, probably not enough time to grab a coffee.

            Sure enough, the Tourist appears within a couple of minutes. They greet each other, say their good to see yous, and set off for the car park. The Tourist pulls behind him a compact bag covered in a clear plastic security wrapping and wears a small backpack.

            As the morning sun rises higher on the open roads, Guero and the Tourist chat amiably on the journey back into South West London, renewing an acquaintance and asking after mutual friends. With traffic still light, the return trip passes quickly and soon they’re parked outside Guero’s house.

            Guero shows the Tourist inside and begins to make coffee.

 

‘Shit.’

            ‘What?’ Guero asks.

            ‘I can’t believe this.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘I’ve got the wrong bag.’

            ‘Are you sure?’

            ‘This bag isn’t mine,’ the Tourist says.

            He pulls away some more of the plastic wrapping and reveals a name tag that plainly isn’t his.

            The Tourist, now turning a shade of grey that can’t all be put down to a lack of sleep, begins to pace about Guero’s kitchen.

            Guero fetches his laptop –

            Guero googles Gatwick –

            Guero finds a phone number.

            The Tourist punches the number into the phone and stands listening to recorded messages. The bag looks accusingly at him.

            ‘Look, it’s ok,’ Guero says. ‘Let’s drink this coffee and head back to the airport.’

            ‘Shit, man, I’m so sorry,’ the Tourist says.

            ‘Hey, no problem. Ten minutes, we’ll be on our way.’

            Thinking bastard bag –

            Thinking you stupid –

 

Gatwick North Terminal looks just as it had when they’d left it an hour or so previously.

            The Tourist and Guero find an information desk, and the Tourist explains his mistake. He produces travel documents from his backpack to prove he’s who he says he is and gets given a number to call. Two minutes later, and his bag’s on its way back to him.

            Sighs of relief all round.

            Presumably except from the guy whose bag still glowers at the Tourist from behind its ripped plastic wrapping, but hey, shit happens and hopefully it’ll find its way back to its owner –

            Guero and the Tourist sit in a coffee shop to await the arrival of The Correct Luggage and slurp Americanos.

            Ten minutes pass and an airport security guy appears, checks the Tourist’s documentation and reunites him with his bag.

            That bag looks nothing like the one he took, Guero thinks. One’s blue, the other’s black and – oh, feck it, so what, let’s get home.

 

The citizens of South East England are now out in force and clear roads have now become busy ones. The journey takes longer and Guero and the Tourist make jokes about the bag swap to pass the time.

            Two thirds of the way home, a journey that’s now taken over forty-five minutes as opposed to the twenty-five that the same part of the drive had taken previously, the roads are at a standstill.

            And then –

            Guero: ‘Oh, well, drama over. You’ve got your other bag, though, right?’

            The Tourist: ‘Yes. I – um, yeah, I – ’

            The Tourist starts to look around in the clearly empty foot well of the car. Abandoning this obviously fruitless attempt, he looks wildly over his shoulder at the bare back seat.

            ‘Did you put it in the boot with the main bag?’ Guero asks.

            ‘Yeah. No. I don’t know.’

            Ahead, the lights turn red again. The Tourist opens the car door, asking ‘Is the boot unlocked?’

            Guero watches helplessly in the rear view as the boot lid rises and a frantic scrabbling is heard.

            The Tourist slides back into the passenger seat with the look of a man whose DNA’s just been found at a major crime scene.

            ‘Fuck.’

            Guero: ‘You are joking?’

            ‘It’s not there. Shit, it’s got my passport, my travel documents, my money, my credit card – ’

            ‘When did you last see it?’ Guero asks. ‘I mean, did you have it with you when we got back to the car park? Did you put it on top of the car when you put the other bag in the boot, or on the floor, or – ? ’

            ‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ whispers the ghost. ‘I don’t know.’

            Guero checks in the rear view, flips the indicator and performs an illegal U-turn on the A23.

 

As Guero approaches car park 6 North Terminal for the third time in as many hours, he slows and tells the Tourist to go back to the information desk quickly. Guero will meet him there once he’s parked the car.

The Tourist leaps from the car, a man for whom adrenaline has become rocket fuel. Guero drives to the barrier, takes a ticket and begins to wonder whether suspicion of running an unlicensed taxi service carries a large penalty. He is beginning to build a collection of tickets from car park 6 and has noticed that the security system is sophisticated enough that each one has his registration number printed on it.

Car parked, Guero walks to the Arrivals hall. It occurs to him that a cigarette would be a good idea. It then occurs to him that he didn’t bring any with him.

In the hall, there’s no sign of the Tourist or any recalcitrant backpack. Guero waits for ten minutes, eleven, twelve, until at last the Tourist reappears.

He’s smiling.

‘They’ve got it,’ he says. ‘They found it in the coffee shop.’

‘Great,’ Guero replies, relieved, ‘where is it?’

‘At Lost Property. South Terminal.’

‘South Terminal.’

‘Yeah. Is that far?’

 

Guero and the Tourist walk.

            Staircases, walkways, travelators, down the plate glass corridors and across shiny floors, following signs that say ‘Shuttle.’

            They wait for the Shuttle –

            They board the Shuttle –

            The Shuttle shuttles.

            They leave the Shuttle and walk, more staircases, more walkways, more travelators, deep down into the basement offices of Gatwick Airport.

South bloody Terminal.

After a while they discover the lair of the Lost Property Mistress.

Thankfully she’s a cheery soul and amidst banter and an increasing air of amused sarcasm, she fetches the relevant forms. Paperwork completed, the Tourist is reunited with his backpack.

 

Back in car park 6 and Guero is insisting that the Tourist delve into his bag and retrieve the carton of Marlboro that had been a gift from the Tourist but are now rapidly becoming Medical Supplies.

            The Tourist obliges, and the two men move out of the confines of the car park and light cigarettes.

The Tourist had announced pre-trip that he’d Given Up –

The Tourist doesn’t look like he’s Stuck At It –

It’s been a stressful time.

 

 Back in South West London and the Tourist says he’s going to take a shower. Guero shows him where the bathroom and the spare room are and goes downstairs to cook something. He’s arranged a trip for the Tourist to The London Eye but first would like some breakfast. It now being 1.30.

            As he sips a coffee and waits for the grill to warm, Guero hears a muffled shout.

            ‘Shit.’

            Fuck, no, fuck, no. fuck, no –

            Not again, not again, not again –

            Guero calls up the stairs. ‘Is everything ok?’

            ‘I put my bag down on the floor and heard something smash.’

            Guero thinks you PUT your bag down. From a height?

            ‘It’s the whisky. It’s kind of everywhere.’

            It does that, Guero thinks, liquid. Once released, it travels. Everywhere.

            Guero climbs the stairs wearily. The Tourist is kneeling on the floor of the spare room, gingerly picking broken glass from his Scotch-sodden clothing. Every item of clothing. The (soft) bag lies on the (hard) slate-tiled hearth.

            Guero mentions washing machine –

            Guero mentions food –

            Guero offers beer.

            Guero silently prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that the Tourist has now exhausted all the disasters of what is planned to be a five week, Europe-wide trip.

 

The Tourist is staying in a central London hotel tonight. Guero left him there this afternoon, wishing him well and saying how much he’s looking forward to seeing him again mid-August when he returns to the UK before flying back to South Africa.

            Guero wonders just how far he’ll get.

Today, I have a guest post from fellow indie author and Word Clouder Tony James Slater.

I first met Tony at a writer’s conference in 2010. Neither of us remember much about the encounter, which is a testament to the hard working bar staff of York University.

I was trying to snag an agent for my historical novel, and he was hitting the same brick wall with his account of his exotic adventures in Ecuador. When I heard Tony was self-publishing, I was delighted, as I knew how hard he had worked the traditional route, with no joy.

I also knew that if his book was half as funny as he was, he had a hit on his hands. He posted a sample from the beginning of the book near the end of May. As soon as I read that, I knew I would be buying his book.

It came out last Friday, and I grabbed a copy straight away. It’s hilarious, and touching. A very human, and very funny story. And if you don’t want to take my word for it, here isanother sample from the middle of the book.

Tony was planning some fireworks for his launch day, but was very cryptic about it. When I saw him race up the charts on his very first day, I knew I was going to have to get him to tell the story of how he did it. 

His book is called That Bear Ate My Pants and it’s available from Amazon and Amazon UKfor $2.99/£2.99. A bargain at twice the price, if you ask me.

Here’s Tony.

***

Well, the dust has finally settled after my launch on July 1st. By quite a margin in fact – it’s practically August! Alas, not everything moves at digital speed and I have been at the mercy of more fundamental forces recently.

Here’s a description of my launch day, followed by some figures and a bit of analysis. I was going to call it a ‘brief’ description, until I’d finished it. Then I realized it’s about as brief asWar and Peace, and not quite as riveting – so feel free to skip ahead or skim read! I’ll probably never know…

I was planning a truly epic day of promotion for the launch of THAT BEAR ATE MY PANTS! I’d hardly slept in a week, sitting up till 6:00 am, planning strategy, and creating lists of people, groups and sites to target.

I’d done almost everything on my own. I’m a control freak and perfectionist of the highest order, so delegation isn’t really in my nature. But my family would never let me do something like this without their support.

They decided to rent a bear costume and run around the town centre, handing out flyers and trying to draw as much attention as possible. Which I imagine is quite a lot when you’re dressed as a bear!

My sister returned from her honeymoon just in time to suggest we incorporate a gigantic pair of underpants – with her inside – into our strategy. It sounded unbeatable! If you wouldn’t take a flyer from a chick in a bear suit, how can you refuse one when it’s handed to you by a pair of y-fronts with legs?!

[SNIP - I can't post the whole thing here, it would take up the whole page! However, I simply insist that you click the link below and read the whole hilarious, bittersweet story of Tony's launch day]

http://davidgaughran.wordpress.com/2011/07/08/that-bear-ate-my-pants-a-home-run-on-day-one/ 

Like Frankenstein's Monster, it rises from the cold slab. Of my hard drive. Then it eats my brains and wrecks the joint.
No! Wrong movie, sorry.
This one is about a soon-to-be-successful writer and the project which is his pride and joy.

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls; dogs, cats, guinea pigs and at least one person who has a profile picture of a walrus; my book, 'THAT BEAR ATE MY PANTS!' is finally available for public consumption*

*Do NOT attempt to eat this book. A Kindle may look tasty, but it has small bits which will get up your nose. Tony James Slater cannot be held responsible for injuries sustained in such a manner.

Anyone thinking of buying it, please go here: http://amzn.to/thatbear
(You may have to cut n' paste - I still can't figure out how to make a link.)
You have my deepest, most sincere thanks.

Anyone not thinking of buying it, thank-you anyway. But think hard - you've got all day to change your mind. Tony still loves ya baby!

And here is a picture of the front cover, to tantalize your taste-buds further. But please see above for rules about not eating it. Food for thought...

 

This is a bit naughty, but what the hell

*********************

Over the years I have been rather lucky, professionally speaking. One particular programme I ran allows me to lay a legitimate claim to being a rocket scientist. I have used this to try to impress women at parties with varied, but as yet not totally acceptable, degrees of success ever since. I was in charge of the development of a system to track the European Space Agency Rocket and blow it up if it becomes dangerously off course. Anyway, here I am trying to impress the ladies again. (Is it working?). In fact it was used in anger once and $450M of rocket and payload scattered all over the jungle.

The launch base for the European Space Agency is in fact in French Guyana in South America. It was, of course, necessary to go there from time to time. There were two choices of route in those days. You could take a flight to Florida, change planes and fly down in one continuing run. Or you could fly to Martinique, stay overnight and get a shortish hop the next day. Now, even though I was the boss I had to hesitate over that one. But it turns out that the travel agents I was buying all the tickets for the whole team as we shuttled between Toulouse (what a dump) and London were shareholders in Club Med and provided I bought the tickets from them they would throw in a few rooms at the Club Med in Martinique "on the changeover". There is always a bit of unused capacity and we only needed one night. So, what the hell. Four of us, sorted.

So two things:

Who remembers Viz? The English accent always had an acceptable effect on American young ladies and there were a lot of them at the Club Med in Martinique. Bushy and Jurassic (aka Phil and John) were a big success. Of course as the boss I had to set an example. Never been totally sure about Alistair, as it happens. After an evening of plentiful wine and food we reconvened the next day to observe the young ladies with whom my erstwhile colleagues had become acquainted doing the morning biometric exercise. We also observed that the instructor, having explained it was for reasons of assessment, was inspecting the bottoms of all of the young ladies as they did their "buns tensing" stretches. I thought that the bottom inspectors was an invention for Viz. Bless them, the girls later said he had explained it was necessary as he didn’t want to cause them to pull any muscles.

Later, sitting on the beach on a dead tree, with Jurassic opposite on a rock, he had a serious moment and started discussing Kauffman algorithms. Which is the second thing. It’s all about trajectories and was something we needed to have our heads around for the meeting next day. Just behind him and rather quietly this truly gorgeous young woman laid out her towel and stood looking to to sea. John just carried on, unaware that his three colleagues had gone totally, rigidly, silent and at least one was silently praying to whichever of the gods governed bikini straps. It must have worked because after a moment the top came off and rather appropriately for a team off to progress a space project, these gravity defying beautiful parts were revealed.

John said, eventually:- "What?" and we fell about laughing.

Later that day we joined our exhausted French direct routed colleagues for dinner at the base in much better shape than they were. Happy days.

Am I covered?

The aim of the game is to do as much as you can to keep yourself safe. Having your medical bills paid is little consolation if you are stuck in a foreign hospital or have to cut your trip short.

Here are some general rules:

1. Pretend for a moment that you don't have any travel insurance.
How would you behave? Act as though you are uninsured! This mind-set is a good way not to ever have use of our excellent services.

Keep your belongings safe, and if they really mean a lot to you, don't ever let them get out of reach.

2. Accidents happen: stupidity doesn't
Say, you meet a 'friend', agree to engage in sexual activity and as a result wake up in the morning with no bag, passport and a headache, are you covered? It depends. MAYBE, you are covered for unprovoked assault by a third party, and you would probably be covered for replacement of your personal belongings, but NO, we wouldn't cover you if the "liaison" was illegal under local sex-tourism laws.

3. Is it safe to go there?
While we cover travel for most countries of the world, unfortunately the small print of travel insurance inevitably contains exclusions. The major one is if you go somewhere and you know it's not safe or your government's travel advisory advises you shouldn't go there. Bottom line: if you put yourself at risk or you place yourself in the crossfire, then you are unlikely to be covered.

4. Feeling adventurous and being adventurous are two different things
The adventure sports and activities we cover depends on your country of permanent residence and your particular level of insanity (and more importantly, skill).

If you are wildlife-watching in the extremes of Alaska and are attacked by a polar bear, are you covered? It depends. You see, if the bear attacks you while you were watching them as a part of a wildlife safari or trekking, then YES we would cover you (assuming the bear didn't catch you of course), but if you were chasing the bear having had a beer too many the night before and you thought it would be a laugh... err... then NO, we wouldn't.

If you are skiing and you're caught in an avalanche, are you covered? It depends. For example, if you leap out of a hovering helicopter while trying to pretend that you're in a Hollywood action movie, then NO, you aren't covered.

Got the message? If you are unsure about anything, ask us and we'd rather clear up a grey area before you have a claim.

If you want to know what my new novel is about, do have a look at my blog:
http://thepearlstringerroute.blogspot.com/
In this mystery thriller,  Rita’s perilous quest to unravel the mystery of her "late" father’s disappearance takes her from the grey skies of England, through sunny France and Spain, to the steamy tango bars of Argentina, chased by merciless killers. An ancient Cathar tragedy gives this 21st century girl the insight to discover her father's extraordinary secret.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I must be one of those people who exudes guilt; why else would they stop me almost every time I go through customs?

 

I’m not a bad sort. I do not have a criminal record, don’t do drugs, don’t smuggle contraband, am tolerant of and empathise with all religions, creeds, colours and do not hold radical political beliefs. I don’t even have points on my driving licence! Oh, and I’m married to a judge. Does none of this count for anything?

 

Don’t get me wrong, after 9/11 who wouldn’t agree with tough security measures at airports. However, having observed one woman in Boston Airport totally abandon her luggage to go off and fetch coffee and text her mates for quarter of an hour without so much of a batting of an eyelid by security, I wonder how effective can the other stringent security measures be.

 

When you enter the U.S. you are required to have your fingerprints and photograph taken and a copy of your passport is scanned. (This seems a little odd that as even our own government authorities are not entitled to hold our fingerprints without good reason.)

 

Upon leaving the U.S., having scanned my passport again, the customs official offered my passport back to me, then held on tight to it when I tried to relieve her of it. She stared me out for a good long while before eventually letting it go. I didn't know what to say and chose to say nothing. Was this the wrong thing to do? At the hand luggage scanner, my laptop was scanned, re-scanned then examined even more closely before it was finally returned to me; everyone else’s went through without a hitch, I noticed.

 

When I recovered my named-strapped suitcase at Heathrow, the padlock had been bolt-coppered and a leaflet stuck inside the case along with the severed lock to say that my luggage had been subjected to a ‘random search’. Yes ladies, to my horror someone had rummaged through my smalls without even having the decency of having me present at the time.

 

I ask myself why? All that's different about my laptop is, being a former accountant, I had purchased one with a number keypad attached. All that was different about my luggage was that it contained a couple of bottles from Boots – one containing a multi-vitamin supplement and one containing Evening Primrose Oil, oh and a blister of paracetamol  just in case. What was so threatening about these items? Do they think that I was about to use the number keypad on my laptop, in-flight, to send a numerically coded message to the Evening Primrose to make it spontaneously combust?

 

I tell you, as a fifty year old, hormonally challenged woman currently subject to extreme hot-flushes, the only thing in danger of spontaneously combusting in-flight was me.

 

Why? I feel violated. ‘s not fair! Do I look that dodgy to you?

 

...(On second thoughts, don’t answer that.)

We left Vermont with three inches of snow and travelled south to Newport, Rhode Island. The town just happened to have on a seafood festival for the weekend with live music and live lobsters giving their blush-pink, barbecued all for us touring populous. With the tall ships sailing into the harbour every few minutes we classed ourselves lucky to have arrived at such a vibrant time. It was quite a spectacle.

 

Today we moved east onto Cape Cod for the last of our overnight stays before returning home on tomorrow.

 

What a journey we have had. Weather ranging from freezing fog with zero visibility and ‘snow- feathers’, to seventy degrees and clear blue skies; vibrant cities to quaint fishing villages; precipitous three-quarter-car wide roads to six-lane highways; lodgings from the most basic, colonial past to rooms future-proofed for even the most picky of hi-techers; food from quahog to buffalo.

 

What have we learned from this amazing New England road trip?

 

1.     Next time bring the navy jacket, not the coffee one – Navy goes with everything.

2.     Be ready for the weather to turn at the drop of a hat.

3.     Be prepared to ‘have a good day’ whether you want one or not.

4.     You may turn right on a red light, if it is safe to do so. (Thanks to all the ‘Honkers’ who reminded us of this fact.)

5.     You should give serious consideration to voting “Chip Conquest” for State Senate – Oh come on, he has to be a superhero at the very least with a name like that!

And last but by no means least....

6.     “Always brake for moose – It could save your life.”

 

We hope that you have enjoyed taking this journey along with us and we thank you for travelling with ‘Clarissa and Henry’ tours.

 

Catch you next year.

 

Love.

 

Kim & Mike.  xxx