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Tag: obsession

June 9, 2010 Posted by tahir in Books

Oh My, Oh My...

It’s just how I am… in a word it’s obsessive. I can’t help myself. Always been like this and as the years slip by my obsession needle seems to arc forward a little more every day. When I started blogging I wrote masses and masses (if you haven’t, please please please have a look at my older posts)… but then I got obsessed with other stuff and the blog obsession waxed and waned. Then of course there’s the be dreaded crisis which has hit poor happy go lucky writers hard. My friends with proper lives and real salaries would hear me wax lyrical about the writer’s freedom, his teflon-coatedness. Ooops. Well it all sounded good at the time. Then I wrote a biiiiiig novel and have been waiting to be paid for that for a very very long time. The great pipeline of work dried as I spent all my time editing the novel and talking about it (talking is something I do a lot of… something that irritates the people around me and pays nothing at all). Well, I’m rambling now. Rambling has generally increased recently, as I try to explain to anyone and everyone I meet just why impecuniousness is my new middle name. So, after weeks and even months of feeling glum, I’m cranking out work again. I like to think of myself as a short order chef who’s got ten pots and pans on the burners, and he’s juggling them. I’m in my element when juggling pots. And the greatest thing of all is that the dark days of dire uncertainty got me thinking… got me back on the knife edge on which all writers should live. I’m going to write this blog as often as I can but I’m not going to do it every day… hopefully every week. And the entries may be short… half a line or a single word. Because it’s all about staying in touch. To anyone who checked my blog in the last months, gawd bless ya!, and thank you sooooo sooooo sooooo much for following my work. You have no idea at all how much it means to me. TS

June 17, 2008 Posted by tahir in Travel


There was a time when Ariane livied in a world that was that sickly, toe-cringing, jaw-wrenchingly pink. Her bedroom was filled with it — pink curtains, bedspead, cupboard (and its contents), dolls, soft toys, towel, toothbrush, and even toothpaste, a vile shade of bubblegum pink. She used to whisper to me that she liked words that sounded pink, and tried to think pink, because thinking in any other colour was naughty, the sort of thing that little boys would do.

I tried to slip into Ariane’s mind… see the world as she saw it: a luscious ebbing flow of undulating pink. The more I tried to see as she saw, the more confused I became. Don’t get me wrong, a little pink is a good thing. Without it we wouldn’t have roses or Morocco’s radiant pink  hibiscus flowers, and we wouldn’t have strawberry ice cream,  raspberries or even the Pink Panther.
But… and it’s a big but, there can be too much of a good thing, a thing that only little girls below the age of seven can really comprehend. As Ariane bounced around stroking anything pink she could find, I found myself wondering if the adoration for a colour could be wired into a person’s head. Could that be possible? And if so, how did it come about?
I looked at my little son Timur. He likes blue, but not with the same intensity with which Ariane is drawn to her colour, and I’m fascinated about why that is. Had I the time I’d read up in dusty dark depressing psycho journals, but I have too little time, as most of it is spent answering questions like ‘what do trees dream of at night?’ and ‘why don’t dog’s laugh?’
But then, the other day something remarkable happened. Ariane got out of bed, stretched, and said ‘Yuk! Look at all that horrid horrid pink!’ ‘What do you mean?’ I replied, struggling to pull a dress down over her upstretched arms. ‘Pink… it’s nasty nasty nasty! And,’ she said, sticking out her tongue so far I could see her tonsils, ‘I don’t want to see it ever again!’
But little girls being little girls, there is not an end to colour, just a new one.
And it’s red.