#83 A Friday night in September

"I just walked past you" I texted, as I walked up towards the ticket barrier. "Want to go for a drink?" came the response. "Ok". I started walking back down towards the crossroads. Looking around for some black hair in a leather jacket, I felt my pocket vibrate. "I'm near the steps down to Borough Market, where are you?" I trotted over the road, dodging traffic in an attempt to look cool and daring.

Anna was very apologetic about blanking me and was grateful to have a buddy on the scene as she waited for her friend, who was apparently already hammered somewhere. So we started to chat whilst waiting for the drinks. All of my friends who are teachers complain about the stress of the job. It's perfectly understandable. In theory, an educator should be able to mark papers between 3.30pm and 5pm and plan lessons during those extra weeks of holiday that they get. In reality it doesn't work anything like this. For one thing, marking thirty students' work takes a long, long time. Evenings and weekends start to disappear under a mountain of papers and when they finally get time off, they've lost touch with some of their friends and have to try to pick up with them again.

"How long does it take to pour a large G&T?" Still, it was refreshing to hang out in a proper London boozer. Lets face it, most pubs have become a bit camp these days. Is a burger still a burger when it's so delicately placed under the obligatory lettuce, tomato and onion, skewered between a brioche and forced to sit on a chopping board instead of proper tableware? If you listen carefully enough, you can hear the chips crying that their souls were destroyed somewhere between the second and third fry.

The drinks finally arrived, brought over by what looked like a student on his way to a farmers' themed fancy dress party? No, like I said, this was a real pub. I think they had Amstel but I opted for Fosters. Could you get Amstel in British pubs twenty years ago? I don't know. We had a bit of a gossip about work, friends, dating, the house, recent weddings and then went our separate ways. The fading warmth of summer lingered in the air as I wandered up the road towards the station. My own work had provided just the usual sort of challenges that I'd needed to sustain and simultaneously drain me over the course of five days. I felt ok though. Maybe I'd go for a run tomorrow.

#82 Some thoughts and a book review

It was a phrase that my soulmate had echo'd time and time again
JUST LET THINGS GO
I wondered when I would ever listen
A grape would kill itself trying to be a nut
It's squishy and not hard enough
The other nuts would never understand
A grape may of course harden over time but it will never be a nut
A nut will equally never be a grape
It is hard and strong but it lacks sweetness and will never gain it

The last slice of pizza sat on the plate, mocking me
This wasn't the day to be a hero
I'd probably end up refrigerating it
NO KEIRA!
That's my pizza

o O o

The Art of Happiness is a book based on interviews between Dr Howard Cutler and the Dalai Lama. Tibet's exiled spiritual leader spends much of his time philosophising and dispensing general advice. He may not be technically qualified to do so. His speeches and advice may not be rooted in established educational theory. This is because his teachings are not scientific in nature.

If a person wished to solve a practical problem, learn about a historical event, obtain a medical diagnoses or treatment, they should approach experts in these areas.The role and advice of a Buddhist monk is more akin to that of a mother or father. Comforting. His recommendations will be based on his own perspective and life experience.

The monk may be a worthy person to talk to about happiness and well-being. He routinely spends hours contemplating warmth and compassion. Studies, using MRI scans and electrodes, have shown increased activity in the parts of the monks' brains that are associated with feelings of contentment.

Happiness might be recognised as an art rather than a science, as what makes one person happy may not work for another. It may not even make sense to the other person. Perhaps the monk can be compared to an artist, who, through practise, has become particularly good at envisioning an image that is beautiful to him.

#81 India

When Rich met Lisha three years ago in London, I wonder if he started to imagine what the marriage ceremony might be like. It's entirely possible that he did. Still, for all of us that flew to the south Indian state of Kerala for the wedding this weekend, it was a special event.

We arrived several days before the weekend and spent a day and a half shopping for clothing, including a trip to the city of Kochi's largest and finest silk store. Scores of brightly coloured maidens and young men flocked to assist and tailor our garments, which we chose from the many bright and golden materials adorning the walls of the store.

Before shopping, we ate at a restaurant next to the silk store. Fish curry is popular in Kerala and the chefs like to use a lot of coconut in their dishes. The locals eat with their right hand, which we did later during our stay. For now, we tentatively requested forks.

The wedding itself took place over a day and a half, in the jungle town of Muvattupazha. It was monsoon season, so umbrellas were provided, even when walking to the coaches that ferries us between between the hotel, the church and the bride's parents' house. They had been there for a month already, decorating their home and arranging for the two hundred guests several three course meals and many ceremonies and entertainments. There were dancers, singers, musicians and fire jugglers. At the church, we were greeted by rows of drummers and a large decorated elephant.

Some of the local customs were unusual. The hotel waiters sometimes only took orders from the men at the table and even when asked for things by the women, brought them to the men. The rice pudding dessert was spicy. The hotel elevator contained a light switch, so you could ascend the floors in total darkness. That last one was kinda cool.

India is a dirty, smelly, over-populated and materialistic country. It is also beautiful and raw. The people are sincere, polite, hard-working and have an admirable appreciation of family and spirit. Kochi is a growing city and hopefully in the next five to ten years, development of its massive above-ground metro will be complete.

This week, I have enjoyed being wealthy (a decent restaurant meal costs between £2 and £4) and stared at like a celebrity as I walk around (I saw two other white people in the city this week outside of the wedding guests). Most of the locals were very friendly. The city, particularly the mainland, is pretty much untouched by tourism and is a very safe place to visit.