sidewalk scribbling

Nottingham might not be as quaintly English as Lincoln with its shiny cobbled streets and old toffee shops, nor as flippantly grunge and artistically gritty as Bristol – definitely can’t compare it to the magically majestic Edinburgh or the chaotic mad land-of-the-fast walkers-and-shovers-move –aside- where-did-all-the-polite-Englishmen-go-London ... It may not be haughtily beautiful like Oxford or Bath, nor situated along the coast of ancient white cliffs from the era of dinosaurs, not hipster like Norwich nor posh like Brighton – Still, there is something about the city that makes me quite happy we have chosen it as our tempoary home. It’s got a quirky mischievous character, somewhat hidden between the standard high street stores and the more grimy alleys with shops nursing cracked window panes and sad wayfarers looking for spare change to buy a bus ticket or perhaps more likely, another beer instead – You can always expect a place to be much bigger than it seems f

  At any one point in time, an infinitude of human experiences fold out, like an undulating silk blanket being whipped out in the skies by robotic angels, a galaxy of bright stars exploding in unison, giant infernos in themselves but so, so tiny from afar. At any one point in time you’ll have an array of events and emotions occurring simultaneously – a worker in an ill-fitting black uniform at a salon, looking up from the calloused foot of a client who is flipping through Instagram pictures on her phone; an old man sitting at the side of his four poster bed, his wrinkled fingers resting on silken sheets, his head bent; a baby being born, slippery, crying, silencing his mother’s screams; a young woman dying at the side of a road next to a smashed car on a highway; a veteran staring at himself in the mirror, a loaded gun gleaming in front of him on the dresser; a wife staring at her snoring husband, wondering if she would be happier without him; a toddler taking his first steps;

A good home is a balance between aesthetics, and comfort & practicality – probably leaning a bit more to the comfort and practicality side. I grew up absorbing- inadvertently- firm notions of patterned bed linen and dark coloured sofas to hide spills and stains.   We had limited art work on the wall to avoid holes and cracked plaster, and used shelves as storage for books, cosmetics, toys.   It makes sense – have your dustbin accessible in the kitchen, all your toiletries within reach and sight in the bathroom, use your bedside table for things you need at night – a book, your glasses, laptop charger, a coaster for your glass of water if you’re OCD like me.   Your bed would have two (or maybe four if you’re really lavish) pillows, definitely no more than one quilt because that’s what you use at night. You’ll probably keep your coffee table in the living room empty because you want to be able to pull it close to the sofa so you can put your feet up – you might have a co

They say the world is a much smaller place now – with faster airplanes, safer sea routes, phones and apps that can help you stay in touch with your best friends 2,000 miles away, all the while giving you the option to put on bunny ears and whiskers – because let’s face it, communicating is much easier when you can distract yourself and your 7-year-old nephew with magic hats and fire-vomit filters. In some ways though, the world doesn’t feel very small at all.   My family is split over three continents and four countries, my cousins and best friends are strewn across the globe in a wide arc so that no more than two are in the same city and while it is great to have a place to stay if I’m planning a trip to Netherlands or Toronto or Dubai or Boston or St Louis, it would be much nicer still to have one of them idiots a ten minute walk away so I could actually poke an arm and share a coffee in person. The mad quest to leave our country for brighter horizons – higher educat

You slip into the comfort of your own country so seamlessly you don’t even notice it.   It’s like wearing your favourite sneakers – you don’t realise how important they are till you buy new shoes and have to break them in.     We landed at the shoddy little Islamabad airport – Daewoo bus stations are better than the Islamabad airport, as my uncle put it – and I walked out into the crisp cool morning of home,   donning on a coat of smug confidence that was held up by invisible fairies right outside the plane door.    It’s that confidence which makes you stride with your head held high, pushes you to say “ex CUSE me!” loudly and indignantly to the aunties and uncles that try to cut the line in front of you, that helps you strike a conversation with a stranger on a bus, or offer help to a young mother with her antsy baby without blinking.   It’s the confidence of belonging to a place without filling out paperwork and supplying bank documents and paying thousands of dolla

I love Netflix.  I love that feature which makes the next episode come on right after one finishes –  and in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 – before you can finish the thought “should I watch another episode?”, the theme song is already playing.  A computer code has helpfully made the decision for you. If you believe in signs, the fact that the next episode has already started – well, that’s a sign as clear as the neon one screaming ‘SALE SALE SALE!’ in a trendy shoe shop. It tickles me how our minds work.  Unconsciously always on the lookout for affirmation for what we want – like a text message from JustEat (a life-altering food delivery app in the UK) asking you to “put your feet up and just order in!” – just what it takes to assuage that tiny bit of guilt about eating unhealthy or overspending on food.  “But it’s a sign!” I mean, of course, not really. It is more of a marketing gimmick but then we’ll believe what we want.  While I’m confessing, here is another admission of gu

Snowflakes, light, uneven, like god shredding cold clouds up above, they fall, almost like a dream that evaporates when it touches your skin – The asphalt is covered in sludge, ice and mud, people catching hold of one another as they hurry across, slipping out of their thoughts and into the present before they hit the curb.  The buses are running late. The sky has been white all day, like a blank canvas – no paint, no inspiration, it’s all been done before and maybe god doesn’t feel like sketching a replica today.  It’s darkening now and the street lights switch on, automation, magic, call it what you please. An old man wearing a navy beanie sticking like a gnome’s hat on his head rolls onto the bus stop.  He is sitting in a scooter, a grocery bag stuffed in a small black basket on the front.  His eyebrows are bushy, sticking out in all directions – with eyebrows like that, his expression was forever a scowl.  “Greg died five years ago, Norma!” he says, his voice half a