Have I told you that I think I was Russian in a former life? It is something to do with a sympathy and frustration with the inevitable un-use-ability of the communist system and a penchant for tea in glasses. I feel I may have been semi-intelligentsia or academia at the start of the twentieth century. I'm sure, maybe, a victim of Stalin's regime. I think it explains my reluctance to be in high end restaurants. I feel very uncomfortable and, basically, like I am faking it and shouldn't be there; like I am on the verge of being discovered and kicked out. It's the proletariat in me. There is a restaurant here that is the 'jewel in Indigo Pearl's crown'—the Black Ginger. V—— suggested we go. I twisted fate and got us to go to the Rivet restaurant on the resort instead. It was ever so much fine-dining too, but much more uncomfortable because I hadn't expected it to be. I would like to know what causes this discomfort in me beside my karmic heritage. V—— suggested it may be because its not our kind of lifestyle. What lifestyle is that I asked? Hedonistic. I can feel B—— falling off a Bosnian Internet cafe chair right about now. Maybe it is to do with illusion and a lack of authenticity. Do these places, and the people who do feel comfortable in them ever have a kind of truth to them, or is all about appearance and pretence? Do the very wealthy and the very affluent and the very famous consider themselves authentic? I suppose they do. It gets down to the subjective nature of truth. Different strokes for different folks.
Who wore it better?
Making friends today with: