Monday, 23 December 2019

Annus Horriblis


So....it is that time of year again. Normally, I love writing about the New Year. Remember the duck one? I still just love that duck one.

But this time, I just want to officially announce 2019 as the crappiest, shittiest year I remember in ages. As the Queen would say, it was an annus horriblis.

I can't wait for this annus to end, I will be honest with you. This 2019 annus has been one of the worst annuses ever.

2019....you have been just a very nasty annus.

I was looking through some party photos from exactly a year ago, one of those memories on Facebook, friends at my house, partying, laughing and dancing....not knowing what a shitty year they were welcoming. Only one year, I thought to myself. Isn't that incredible? Only one year and look at all the changes, all those lives taking a sharp, weird turn.

Cancer, surgeries, divorces, lies, tears, jobs and homes lost, hearts broken. More tears. Disappointment. Pain. Hospitals.
My little world, with my people in it, turned upside down.

And not just my world. Forget my world. Look at the whole world. Look at all that crap 2019 brought us. Sri Lanka church bombing. Christchurch Mosque shooting. Notre Dame. That Ethiopian plane crash. Kaduna state massacre. Truly was a shit year, wasn't it.

I will be honest with you, 2019...you won't be missed much.

So...2019....Halas! as we say in Doha. Enough.

Let's raise a glass to 2020, guys. Let it be better, please! Let it be better than this 2019 annus. I have looked it up, in case you haven't...and it is, according to Chinese Horoscope, a year of Metal Rat.

It is, allegedly, a year of new opportunities and fresh beginnings, finding true love and earning more money. Not bad.

I wish you all a wonderful Christmas, if you celebrate, and a very happy New Year.












Tuesday, 3 December 2019

About Pathways


“Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a 🌸 big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of 🌸🌸  fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing 🌸🌸 junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, 🌸-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?”

― John Hodge, Trainspotting: A Screenplay

I have been somewhat busy at work recently. I know, shocking and hard to believe. And due to the nature of the project, I have also been learning an awful lot about clinical stuff. One interesting tool I kept hearing about all week last week was patient pathways. It captured my attention. If you don’t know what I am talking about; and since I now (almost, kind of) do….it is basically an operational tool for making a patient care journey as standardized as possible. 
For example, you have symptoms that point in certain direction, which requires certain type of assessment, then perhaps a few tests, then based on those you get through next steps, then maybe a scan, then something else. Sometimes somewhere nearer to the end of that pathway there is a button called “death”. Is fun. 
And for some reason, thinking about patient pathways in hospitals made me draw a mental parallel with our whole life, in general. Because in live, we, like patients broken down into particular groups, have certain pathways we are expected to follow.
I saw a cool card on Instagram recently. 

My old friend and I had a fascinating discussion the other day. Well, to be honest, this topic is one of the reoccurring ones. You see, we go way back. We were very close friends in university. Now, both of us graduated at the same time and both of us had one thing in common. We weren’t particularly passionate about our profession. That kind of sucks, if you think that you had just gone through 6 years of blood, sweat and tears to get that degree. Imagine, after all that case work and exams, after endless sleepless nights filled with cigarettes and cups of black tea, hands covered in ink, you discover that you really don’t want to do this? Well, this is where our pathways started changing one from another. I knew I didn’t want a job in my profession, so I started thinking of ways to get out of it. I took English classes, and started looking for jobs where I could build on some of the skills I got after all those years, but not be what I was released into the wild to be.

That’s where our lives took completely different turns. And this is the reality of life, isn’t it. All of us, however free we think we might be, have certain pathways written down for us the moment we are conceived. Our future is dictated to a certain degree by where we were born to start with. What sex. What culture. What religion. What set of traditions..and we can try and break the rules written for us, but it isn’t easy.


(Speaking of traditions, I have to share this card too)And so, as I talk- endlessly- with this friend about her unhappiness at the job, I often remind her that she did nothing, absolutely nothing, to change that. Surely, she gets pissed off. WTF was I supposed to do, she says. I am stuck, aren’t I. With that degree, what else could I possibly be doing? Well, I said, Makarevich became a rock star.


I remember dating someone, and one evening we were out for a romantic drink; when, suddenly, I noticed he was staring at a group in the corner of the bar. Despite his usual style, he wasn’t staring at women. He was gazing at a bunch of over-weight, big-bellied, wearing similar clothes construction workers having a pint of beer after work. Are you all right, I asked. Those aren't quite your usual types? 


Look, he said to me. That, over there, is my future. It freaks me out, he said. It terrifies and depresses me. That over there is me!But why, I asked him then. Why does it have to be you? Don’t let it become your future. 


But he was firmly set on his pathway. 


Don’t take me wrong. Pathways are not necessarily bad. In hospital, they save lives. 


I just think, when it comes to happiness, it is actually quite simple. Complex, yet simple. There is only one thing you need to do.  It is all about analyzing the pathway that was set for you, and deciding whether you- and I mean you, not your family, not your friends, not the society or Jesus- are cool with it. You are set on one, like in a hospital. But what I think is very important (and bloody difficult) is to be able to recognize the difference between being happy with the pathway you were set on and thinking that’s the pathway you should be on in order to be happy. 


You are told you belong to a certain religion, you are told you need to own a house, you are told you want children; you should have a mortgage. 90% of the girls in my university dreamed about getting married. Not stopping for a second to think whether that’s the right pathway for them personally. Is having a married status necessary for you to be happy? Does having a big family make you happy? 


And so we go on, and follow our pathway, and play our role in this movie, written for people who are just like us, and therefore, we should conform and follow. But what if?... (and isn’t that the scariest scenario of them all?) What if we follow the stupid pathway, and we tick all the boxes, and we follow all the steps…. until one day we wake up and think "Holy...🌸! I don’t want this?! I want to be a 🌸🌸🌸 pirate! I want to sail and get a parrot and rob other ships!" 


OK, OK. I know. I know robbery is naughty. But what if that is your pathway? What if robbery and a cool swearing parrot is what would make you feel alive, not a house in suburbia and a chocolate Labrador? But by then you are 80, shuffling along that boring pathway in a Zimmer frame. Well, sweetie, by then is too late. 


Choose your pathways, guys. Choose them often, and then again, and change the steps, and re-write what was written. Who knows, you might be a pirate too. Or a rock star like Makarevich. 

Wednesday, 20 November 2019

Why you should marry a poor man.





We had a family friend once, who sadly, had a very unpleasant disease and passed away a few years ago. When he died, everyone was terribly sad, including all his ex-wives. Yes, you heard me, all of them- plural. Now, if you ask how come they all attended the funeral and cried- not fake but real tears, every one of them would respond that he was a wonderful man. And I am sure that one of the reasons he was considered so wonderful was that he was, up to the end, very generous with them all. Every time he divorced yet another wife, he made sure she was well looked after. They were no quarrels over alimonies, no fights about apartments or university fees for the children. He took care of it all. Of course, it helped that the guy was quite rich. He was also generous which, coupled with the above, is a rare combination.

I have a theory these days, which I am about to share with you. I reckon there is a good chance that I am not far from reality with my theory, and if I had the opportunity to do a proper research, with, you know, a decent population sample and all, I would prove it correct. 

Basically, a lot of women secretly- or not so secretly- dream of marrying well. Marrying someone with a fabulous career or a lot of money. And that’s exactly why I think they are being very stupid

My theory is as follows. If you want to stay in a relationship forever, and you are wondering about your husband or a partner or a boyfriend leaving you one day for someone else, don’t go for rich.
It seems obvious, yet many women still try and hunt for a richer man. Stop!
Here are my reasons why it is a lot easier for a man with money to leave you.


  1. When a man is rich, women start offering themselves, as we say back home, on the plate with a blue border. (Why blue? you ask. No idea. Maybe in older days, when this saying originated, pretty plates for special occasions had a blue border) So, imagine, lots of beautiful, young girls chase him every day. He goes to a shop to buy his next expensive suit and the sales assistant smiles at him with OMG, I would blow you right here right now stare. He looks in the mirror and thinks wow, all those amazing women want me, therefore I am a sex god. Of course, in reality, those women want his money not his dick, however men are delusional like that.

  1. When they are rich, they think they should do better, because they can. Is like upgrading a car or a house. They can always get a new model.

  1. They can afford to go. Because when they are rich, they don’t care about things other men worry about like who gets the savings or the house, or how much alimony you might demand. He can pay you shit lots, so you shut up and disappear quietly, and still afford to keep a new chick happy. The thing is, men, in their majority are, sadly, very practical in their approach to love and relationship. It all goes on those big imaginary scales. On one side is romance, on another- money. And in most cases, money wins. That’s why I talked here before about it being a good sign when men pay for dates and buy you gifts. When they do that- they invest in a relationship. The money they spent on long-term partner or a wife is sunk cost. It will never be recovered, but they still already spent it, and they don’t want to walk away from it. The more is invested, the harder it is to start again. Plus, don’t forget all the money he would have to give you afterwards. Unless…..the money he makes and has over-weights the pain of sunk cost of everything he had invested in you and he thinks oh, fuck it, she is a fat nagging bitch and I deserve much better. 


Well, this is all a bit shit, you say. So what do I do then???

Now, if you want my advice of how to ensure yours doesn’t run away from you, this is what I would recommend:

1.      Be rich. If parents were not rich, then try and make decent money yourself. It may be stating the obvious but being independent financially is a very good idea. Don’t make a mistake and listen to your partner who may suggest you should quit a good job to stay at home and look after the kids. You may regret this later when you find him checking himself out in that mirror and you know what he is thinking.

2.      Make good money and then marry someone poor. If he is poor, he won’t have the money for things like girlfriends, prostitutes or speedboats (which attract the girlfriends) .None of that. In fact, if you are a 2 or a 3, i.e. quite unattractive, maybe a little on the ugly side, marry someone jobless. Keep him at home, have a few kids and he will never go anywhere. Yours forever. He wont even have money for a pint after work, let alone a new woman.

3.     Most importantly, don’t ever forget that you are a girl. Ffs. Look after yourself. Look after your body, your face, your skin- as long as you can. Maybe buy fake boobs. It is an investment and a protection. Should you suddenly end up alone, as there is always a chance, you can still find someone else. Even at 80 as one of my friend’s mother.

So there you go. Don’t be jealous of other women who married rich men. Appreciate that with more money comes more freedom. Freedom of choice, freedom of thoughts, freedom of opportunities. And you wouldn’t like it if you knew just what some guys would do if only they could afford to.


Monday, 16 September 2019

Pravda, or would YOU want to know?



I was browsing through Facebook this morning when I came across a wedding anniversary announcement from someone I knew a long, long time ago. 
25 years of bliss and happiness! it announced. I stared at the photo, memories flooding in. 
The truth is, I know for a fact that marriage is not quite as blissful as you’d expect a blissful marriage to be. I know for a fact because I know something about the husband. 
The funny thing about truth is that it hits people suddenly, uninvited, unexpected, from some unpredictable source. 
I was thinking, looking at the couple’s happy smiling faces, that maybe they are happy now. That is possible, right? So what that many years ago the husband, a very quiet skinny dude, hung out with a hooker in Baku, and accidentally, I just happened to know the girl. I had, you see, met her in a sauna literally few weeks before then, in a hotel spa, where I had commented, in my unorthodox style, how beautiful her breasts were. She liked that, we introduced ourselves, I then ran into her in a bar, we said hello…and just at that moment, imagine the luck, this skinny dude friend of mine came to the bar to buy a drink. She said hi and stuck her beautiful breasts at him. He pretended he didn’t notice and scurried off. She smiled and said to me, with simplicity and openness only hookers possess: this one was so generous
Whoa! I know, right? Imagine the chances of that. It happened so long ago, in Baku days, and I didn’t tell anyone in our circle of friends. And I guess, till now, the wife is blissfully unaware. 
As they say, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
Do we actually want to know the truth, is what I am wondering? Would you want to know?
Years ago, I thought yes. Definitely yes. For me, I always preferred the truth. But as I grow older, I wonder if that’s such a good idea. Look at this couple. What if I had told someone?
A colleague of mine was chatting with me the other day when he suddenly announced that I looked different after my procedure. In what way, I asked. “Older” he happily replied. 
Go back to your effin' desk, I said, and stay there. Did I want to hear I looked older, or more tired, or whatever it was? No. Something so small, just a light-hearted comment, really upset me that day. I came home and didn’t even want to look in the mirror. 
Just imagine, I was thinking to myself, how depressing life would be, if we all knew the truth about what is going on around us? And if we only told the truth to each other? 
How many of those radiant Facebook smiles would fade! But here’s the thing… Most of the time, we do know, we would know, if we wanted to. We just don’t want to. 
I know that I don’t look my best right now. It is natural and expected after what happened. Trust me, I know because nobody knows better than me what's wrong with me
I also know when I put some weight on, or when my roots are starting to show and need touching up. I know! And don’t need you to tell me. 
If I am feeling down, I know I am. I don’t need you telling me I look miserable. If I have a badly behaving spoiled brat of a child, trust me, nobody else is more aware of that than me. If I have marital issues, I will be more aware of them than any of you, because I am a woman and I know these things. Every woman, however well she hides it, knows, with this gut instinct we all have, when she isn’t really in a blissful relationship. And if she chooses not to see things, it is because she chose not to. Not because she is blind or stupid. Maybe she is just very smart. Or maybe just weak. Whatever her reasons are, she chose not to know. 
You became very Western, an old friend told me recently when we were once again having a fight about something insensitive she had said to me. You just want me to say nice things you want to hear. And not the truth. And that’s what real friends do, tell the truth. I don’t know, I said, maybe. But why do you feel the need to tell me something unpleasant? And don’t you think I already probably know it?
As my friend, protect me. This life is already difficult and can be painful. Protect my feelings by saying I look pretty today. So what if I look like shit. Just lie. Support me with my diet by saying I look slimmer already, even if I had only skipped one toast at breakfast. Tell me I will be fine even if you think I probably won’t be. That’s what I want. More innocent lies. And as for truth….stick it where the sun don’t shine. 

Friday, 6 September 2019

About clogged arteries and surprises


Recently, I came across someone on Instagram whom I started following out of sick curiosity. Every time she posts a nude photo of herself, I go ewwwww!
I then send it to my friends who go ewwww!!! What the hell is wrong with you! why are you sending me this? 
But it is like looking at a sheep’s chopped off head during Eid celebrations. You don’t want to look and yet you still have to see
I am not sure, I think, this woman might also be an actress, but judging by her Instagram portfolio, her main claim to fame is being obese. She is naked in mostly all photos, looking- well, there is no nice way to describe her, so I will just share one cropped image for you here. I suspect they are meant to be cool, some romantic-with pretty flowers, one arty-with a flamingo…my favourite one is where she has another, average sized woman lying on top of her- for size comparison I guess, to make it more impressive. 
And of course, as you may easily imagine, she does occasionally get someone suggesting that she should try and eat more healthily, to which she, of course, understandably, suggests they go fuck themselves. Which I guess, is fair. Is her personal business how she looks, what she chooses to do to her body, and how she makes money from it. (the latest, lightly bronzed naked photo you can purchase as a postcard for $30) 
I personally don’t care what or who she is and what she is doing to her body. 
What does however, annoy me is that she is actively glorifying obesity. She is sending a message to other women, and most importantly, young girls, that it is, in fact, cool to be that fat. Be fat! She says. Be proud of it! 
I am not sure why, as soon as there is some issue in this world, trying to fix it, people tend go all the way into the opposite direction. Why can’t you people just, you know, stop somewhere in the middle?
I get it! Models were becoming anorexic, teenage girls were becoming obsessed with their weight and getting depressed, other women felt unsexy because they were a bit overweight…I get it. 
So, everybody started protesting. Beach body???? Who said beach body? What exactly is beach body? How dare you. My body is perfectly beachy, thanks very much. OK, I get it! But this??? 


This isn’t right. Come on. 
This?....Isn’t just about looks. It will actually kill you, being that obese. And I am now thinking that, going along with the new trend, more and more people are too afraid to say oh, come on, ffs! so that not to be called a fat-shaming asshole, and thus are sitting there silently, while people like this model becoming famous for…well for being obese and proud of it. There isn’t anything to be proud of there. 
And, as someone commented…she should watch those arteries getting clogged, having a heart attack and dying. 
Speaking of dying and clogged arteries, I had a pretty scary experience, as a result of which I ended up having two stents in my arteries just before my summer vacation. (and no, ironically, am not obese. Not yet, anyway, even though if I continued to eat like I did on this vacation in Singapore, that goal could be easily achieved)
What can I tell you. It was a scary experience. In hindsight, nothing particularly surprising, as I have had a lot of stress recently- who doesn’t? - and I smoked- occasionally, yet quite a few on those occasions…And drank- occasionally but quite A LOT on those occasions…And, I have family history of heart conditions… plus, my cholesterol was getting a little high. … Also, despite me staring in shock at the surgeon who told me I had a 100% and 80% blockages in one of the main arteries, having looked back at my whole life, I realised that even though in the last few years I was eating relatively healthily, it is the years and years of Azeri food (all those lamb chops, plovs and Russian salads layered with mayo) plus genetics that probably contributed to the crazy fucked-up situation I found myself in, as well as taking things too close to heart, as my Qatari colleague very correctly and quickly diagnosed. 
When my suspicious anxiety attacks would not go away, and what I thought was intercostal back muscle pain made it difficult to take a deep breath, I went to see the doctor who had to also treat this condition on my mother only recently here, in Doha. Thankfully, he scheduled a CT scan for me. I guess I was lucky that he took me seriously, as mostly all other doctors I had seen before him, and friends and family all suspected I was being hypochondriac, laughed at me and told me I probably had gas. 
It was a Thursday night, and having dropped my husband and the kids off at the airport (they were going on holiday a week before me), I was applying make-up to go out, when my doctor sent me a text asking if it was okay to call me. Shit, I thought. "Don’t worry" he said. "The CT scan tends to over-estimate. It will probably be a lot smaller of a blockage than it tells us." So…I went out and had a few cocktails that night. 
And, of course, I went to brunch with some friends the following Friday. It was summer in Doha! That’s when families and kids are away and those who stay behind, go out. So, I was enjoying my party time. However, I didn’t feel quite right. And so, even though I really didn’t fancy having an invasive angiogram while my family was away, I decided it was probably a good idea to just go for it, as going away on vacation not knowing just how bad things were seemed like maybe a less scary, but daft idea. 
I won’t bore you with details. What I found out during this scary time, is that people are actually amazing. Sometimes you think you would be alone and you find out you are not ever left alone- even when you actually want to be alone- to cry properly and excessively over your previous life, when you could eat as many chicken wings as you wanted, smoke if you wanted, and drink a bottle of prosecco…I needed time to mourn it all. But, help and emotional support came from everywhere- from the few friends who were still in Doha this summer to work colleagues who sent me flowers and wanted to visit. 

So I didn’t get a lot of time to cry and grieve over my party days. I cried a lot immediately after the procedure- well I had to, I had such a scare! And during the procedure, I was not allowed to cry. I had to stay calm, still and follow the instructions- breathe in, hold your breath, will you just STOP talking! And was mesmerised by an image of my beating heart on a huge screen next to me- pretty impressive, let me tell you. But straight after… I just couldn’t stop the tears. A Filipino nurse hovered over. She kept stroking my shoulder, repeating endlessly- "Why you cry? Don’t cry?..Just don’t eat fried food. Don’t cry. Just don’t eat fried food!" (Filipinos have this peculiar habit of repeating the same word or sentence quite a few times. Like my personal trainer who would not just ask if I liked George Clooney. He would ask “You like George Clooney? You like? You like? You like George?”) 
I really wanted to kill her, kill her...kill her. But I had needles sticking out of my hands and arms, my eyelash extensions were falling out, and I was feeling pretty scared and pretty…well, fucked. 
It is sad to realise you could have dropped dead without knowing it was coming. That’s a blinding flash of obvious. But it is also sad to realise you can’t be as carefree anymore and have to think before you pick up that glass, or eat a shawarma. My whole persona, my whole life, my cool sexy image I had created for myself in my head, all vanished in a puff of smoke. 
It also made me realize life can be full of surprises, some pleasant and some not so much. The nurse who sent me home from Emergency department having glanced over me quickly and making her mind up that I looked too fit to be having a heart emergency, was probably surprised to find out how wrong she was, and how, should I not have had my amazing doctor watching over me personally, I would maybe not be writing this blog right now. 
All my family and friends were surprised I could have had all that going on at my age, without any obesity, high blood pressure or any other obvious signs and problems…and realised life holds surprises for us all, at any unexpected time of our lives, in various ways. 
And, my personal surprise was that, while everybody’s first reaction to this story was OMG, you were alone? In Doha? in summer? Weren’t you scared to go through all that alone? The truth is- I was never alone, and did not feel alone, not for a minute. And that’s the bottom line of this long story. I had, bizarrely, despite all the shock and fear and unpleasant moments…quite a nice time. I got spoilt rotten, taken out, brought flowers and chocolates, showered with texts and offers of help…my lovely helper cooked healthy meals for me every day; and, on the first night I was home from the hospital, refused to go upstairs to her bed, and slept on the sofa, afraid to leave me alone. 
Usually I try and tie the ending of my posting to the beginning, you know, so it has a nice flow and reaches some kind of conclusion. This time there is no conclusion, really. It is just a story of my crazy summer, and a story about people around me, who surprised me, this whole expatriate life that always amazes me, and as for the obese lady…well, whether you think she is being cool doing what she is doing or not…I just wish you all to stay healthy, happy and loved. And don't ever ignore your body telling you something is wrong, even if you think it makes you sound uncool. 


Wednesday, 20 February 2019

Eifman ballet and other random s**t.

  
When I first sat down to write this particular blog post, it was about my long weekend in Oman. Then I also decided I absolutely had to tell you about that amazing ballet I went to. And by the time I actually sat down here, ready to publish it…I am having to completely re-write it, as what I realize I really want to tell you is…

Guys...You have to do some random shit. Do it! Do something outside your normal life.

We all know not to be lazy. We all read lots about not settling into routine, because routine kills absolutely everything, starting with our own souls. Like I saw somewhere online recently…Most people die when they are in their twenties, they just don’t know itBecause once you stop fighting, once you settle in your ways and afraid of doing anything different…you are dead inside. And I am not talking about some major important things in life right now-I realize most of you are pussies and that’s just a sad realityI am talking about small, everyday things that we don’t do because we are…well, just lazy.

So, in short.. I had a great couple of weeks. And I will tell you why. I made myself do things I wouldn’t normally do. It started with a seminar I was fortunate enough to get an opportunity to attend in Oman. Visiting a completely new place, being surrounded by new people from all over the world was like a breath of fresh air I desperately needed. I didn’t really see much of Oman as we stayed in a resort about an hour away from Muscat; so I will summarize my experience in a few points and will throw in a few entertaining photos just to spice this post up a little, so you don’t all fall asleep.


So....this rock was called a Sitting Elephant. 



    

  













   This tour guide explained to us that Omani men don’t wear pants under the thobe, but another skirt. He also explained that the funny tassel hanging around their necks was for use of traditional oil perfumes, which otherwise would stain the thobes. 


    
   
    OK, this below is actually a man. I know. I wasn’t sure at first, either. And yes, that is his (rather impressive, don't you think?) breast. I have girlfriends who paid a lot of money to enhance theirs to that shape and size. 













Oman is cool in a very surreal way. Those rocks everywhere made me feel like I was on the moon, and the air felt fresher than in Doha. It was fantastic.

Back in Doha, I was still on a high from the travels and that’s probably why I went to that ballet by myself. I never done that before and you know what? I loved it. The original plan was to attend it with Russkiy friend of mine. (She is not really Russkiy and neither am I, but everyone sees us as such, so I give up and just say it for the sake of this post.) But in the end, the friend didn’t make it back from vacation, the tickets were free, by registration only, and I’d only registered for myself...So the choice was to go alone or miss it. And I don’t usually go to theatre or anything like that by myself. And it was late. And it was at the Convention Centre (I hate driving there). And it was mid-week. But guess what? I did it. I went and it turned out to be the most superb, amazing performance I have seen in years. 


It was Anna Karenina by Eifman ballet from St Petersburg; and the place was buzzing and packed with all sorts of people who also obviously do random shit, like I did that night. They dress up (or down in some cases) and come out to watch a free (Yesfree!!! These kind of random things are possible in Doha) ballet on a Wednesday night, when most of others are in their pyjamas doing their Netflix and chill, only without the chilling part. 

It was awesome, guys. Absolutely amazing. Bewitching. Beautiful. Passionate and strong. Like I remember Russian ballet to be, from my childhood. 

If you ever get a chance to see Eifman ballet? Go!!! Do not miss it.



Finally, last weekend, after a late night, I woke up tired and the last thing I fancied doing was attempting rock climbing. But my nice Polish colleague had organized it ages ago, for the whole department. Sitting in my kitchen with a cup of Nespresso, I thought no effin way. And then, I made myself go. 

I am glad I did. Not only because the poor colleague was excited like a child to see that at least six people out of 45 bothered to turn up; but also because I loved the experience. And I thought I looked so cool on that rock that I of course, shared it on every social media I had access to. And will share here, too.


See? See that sexy chick all the way up there? That could be you. 

I am telling you. Do random shit. It makes you feel alive, and it makes you happy. Even if it is a small thing, even if it is a struggle the next morning to wake up for work…do it. 

I know you didn't ask for it, but that’s my advice, and is a good one, so take it. Life is short and I know there is a lot of good stuff on Netflix at the moment, but tomorrow you will be too old, too boring and too fat to climb that rock. So do it now.