When you are crunching on a peppery purple wild flower listening to Mary talk about what she got out of the Gita, you know something is very right with the Kensal Review. Just when you thought the last session couldn't be superseded, Lara and her secret chef-friend rustled up a Chateaubriand with a roast beetroot and horseradish sauce, a tri-bean bowl of superfoods, a medley of flora n' fauna from the dorset Dales and other eye-popping, jaw-dropping creations. Thankfully David, who used to be a plongeur at Little Chef is hosting next. So appease your fears.
It took a while for the conversation to move away from food for our gobs towards food for us yobs. Praise Mary, who, clinging to her Penguin Classic copy said, "I'm going to read this book for the rest of my life." Beetroot spillage. Stunned silence. What did I miss, I heard someone wail. I believe it was my ego. The message is simple, said Bruce. Let's have it in pamphlet form. It was fascinating to see how many struggled with the basic message of the text: letting go of attachments, the ego, being happy with your place and doing good for goodness sake. Growing up this side of Calcutta, we develop into ambitious, ego-centric, consumerist innere schweinehunde with affinities for purgatories (courtesy of Max Cole) such as the Westfield shopping centre. No wonder this spiritual allegory slightly jarred. I realised twenty pages in that it is probably a text read pian piano. Phrases need to be... well, read first of all, let's face it Milly, Bruce and Lara. And then digested. We need to be given a chance to develop a practice of yoga, to let Gandhi's and the Gita's words sink in. Until then my friends, Ahimsa.
As for Essential Killing. Now there's a rom-com with a cinnamon twist. Bruce, who likened the plot to Tom and Jerry (tree falls on man, man/mouse says 'Ouch', woman opens door...), will not be including it on his Oscar nominations list. Michelle, myself and Ian loved the cinematography and the fact that little was said in the film. It was a big test of the human spirit, both for the main character and the viewer. How far would you go to stay alive? And how long will you be rooting for the good guy gone bad? I think he lost me at the breast is best moment. But that was OK as it brought us swiftly onto my suggestion for next month: 365 Days of Sensational Sex by Lou Paget, (rapidly poo-pooed by the high-brow brigade but don't come crying to me when you're not getting any), which in turn took us to porn, only to finish at the cavernous Turbine Hall, with a blustering, blushing Ian.
It took a while for the conversation to move away from food for our gobs towards food for us yobs. Praise Mary, who, clinging to her Penguin Classic copy said, "I'm going to read this book for the rest of my life." Beetroot spillage. Stunned silence. What did I miss, I heard someone wail. I believe it was my ego. The message is simple, said Bruce. Let's have it in pamphlet form. It was fascinating to see how many struggled with the basic message of the text: letting go of attachments, the ego, being happy with your place and doing good for goodness sake. Growing up this side of Calcutta, we develop into ambitious, ego-centric, consumerist innere schweinehunde with affinities for purgatories (courtesy of Max Cole) such as the Westfield shopping centre. No wonder this spiritual allegory slightly jarred. I realised twenty pages in that it is probably a text read pian piano. Phrases need to be... well, read first of all, let's face it Milly, Bruce and Lara. And then digested. We need to be given a chance to develop a practice of yoga, to let Gandhi's and the Gita's words sink in. Until then my friends, Ahimsa.
As for Essential Killing. Now there's a rom-com with a cinnamon twist. Bruce, who likened the plot to Tom and Jerry (tree falls on man, man/mouse says 'Ouch', woman opens door...), will not be including it on his Oscar nominations list. Michelle, myself and Ian loved the cinematography and the fact that little was said in the film. It was a big test of the human spirit, both for the main character and the viewer. How far would you go to stay alive? And how long will you be rooting for the good guy gone bad? I think he lost me at the breast is best moment. But that was OK as it brought us swiftly onto my suggestion for next month: 365 Days of Sensational Sex by Lou Paget, (rapidly poo-pooed by the high-brow brigade but don't come crying to me when you're not getting any), which in turn took us to porn, only to finish at the cavernous Turbine Hall, with a blustering, blushing Ian.
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