Lenny, although he could clearly see out, was confident that nobody could see in, due to the bias of lighting and persevered with the trying on of the chosen garment. The garment had been chosen for him and although unsure, Lenny had gracefully accepted. He reached down and angling each foot into the over priced and not 'altogether him' pair of blue cords, slowly edged them up and over his calves. They greeted his knee with relative ease and Lenny understanding this to be the half way point, took a moment to compose himself. He looked out checking for any prying eyes and content he was not being watched, gathered the belt line of the trouser and took a deep breath. Lenny knew the second half of the journey would prove difficult, he had always avoided such drain pipe configurations as these and closing his eyes pulled up hard. The seat of the cords leap up and over his thighs with ease but as the narrowing leg of the trouser cruised up the marbled ivory, considerable friction hindered its progress. Lenny, head angled to the heavens and eyes firmly shut, pulled harder letting out a small squeal as the cords tweaked hairs and gorged flesh to their resting place. Hastily he fastened the riveted buttons and leant against the wall his eyes still closed.

Lenny took a moment masked in the innocence offered by his eyelids, imagining how the cords should look. He thought about the wonderful things that awaited him in these new trousers. He marvelled in the idea of the blue cords being the key to his future and wearing them, how dynamically he would carve his way to success. Lenny then took a peek, it wasn't a pleasant sight. His legs bulged in odd places and the trousers pinched and tweaked in others.The lines of the cord formed weird contours over his legs, similar to the mapping of a variable terrain such as the peak district. They were in short a monstrosity. Lenny ran his thumbs around the bagging waist and confirming that he had the right size, felt his chin begin to quiver. Lenny bit his lip in an attempt to stifle any leaking emotion. Things were going well with Kate, the beautiful girl waiting on the shop floor, but Lenny knew the sight of him in these things had even the power to part conjoined twins. He hopelessly paced on the spot, there was no emergency exit in this white veneered two-by-two ply wood closet, no hatch to escape through. A tear broke and like a dog let loose, ran down his cheek joyfully mocking his predicament. Lenny hadn't the mettle just to admit they didn't fit and sankey doodle out of the shop gifting them back to the tiller. Lenny knew he was committed to parading the blue cords and instead silently wept pawing the wall.

Lenny stood straight trying to shake the big girls blouse that had bubbled up inside him. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to ring out the last tear and struggled to get a hold of himself. He liked Kate a lot and couldn't face jeopardising the relationship with an ill choice of trouser. He looked down again at the tight cords randomly angling their way to his feet. He was screwed, not even his mother would be prepared for the sight of him in these leggings. Lenny sniffled and mopped at his running nose. It wasn't fair, he was not prepared to apologise for the fact his parents weren't smack heads and that he hadn't been malnourished as a child. Nor would he apologise for having once picked up a rugby ball or having squatted on the odd occasion in a public toilet. Lenny had muscles and bones in his legs and he wasn't about to disown them for the want of being fashionable. He looked down at the piping trousers. How on earth do these fit men? Had things changed so dramatically that with evolution his physique had grown over weight? Lenny again felt his chin begin to give way. He was not over weight, he was of an average size! Possessed with an inner despair, a curious cowardliness, an unwillingness to accept that his average legs were too fat for the current trend, Lenny clambered up on the courtesy chair. He reached up and battled open the slender window. There maybe no fire escape or secret hatch but he would find a way out. He wasn't going to be caught. He wasn't too fat.

Unfortunately if Lenny had managed a moment's composure, he would have noticed that not only was the window alarmed, but also there was no chance he would fit through it. Arms pinned to his side and body wedged from the gut down, Lenny found himself stuck fast in the slight window with his head hanging out over a small side street. As the blood rushed to his brain an inner calm fell upon him and he found himself politely smiling at passers by, as the alarm sang it chorus behind him. The odd bleat from Kate also made its way through the window, but this didn't disturb Lenny's new found peace, he knew he had blown any chance with her. Resigned Lenny was just grateful to be a whole wall physically removed from the horrid ill fitting blue cords.

We took a gamble, hoping that the only easterly break in the buildings would give us a view of Victoria parks firework display. It didn’t, I would like to add more but the disappointment still smarts.

The cafe was brimming, Lucy at first glided past, glancing through the large windows. She had never been to this cafe before and wanted to gain an understanding of its clientele before she breached its walls wearing her experimental saucy top. As she had suspected, it was a pretentious little affair and coasting to a stop two doors down, she eyed her reflection in the shop window in order to confirm that her attire was fitting. She was a pretty young girl, and although her hips were distinctly child baring making her body slightly pear shaped, most would consider her slim. Lucy turned and content that her flirty white number was suitably offset by her baggy jeans, plucked up the courage and made for the cafe. She entered with a chime and several eyes greeted her. Lucy guessed the chiming door was an effort of authenticity, but was not grateful of the attention it aroused. The cafe, as her drive by had confirmed, was a studious little number, a place where people seemingly drank coffee only to show off the text they were attempting to devour. It had been her date’s choice, a date frankly she had no interest in, nevertheless a subject she knew would serve as a prime candidate to test out a theory. The Prat suddenly erected himself at the back of the room. He stood up from the much desired two man couch and smiled with a half-raised waving arm. Lucy could only guess, having acquired such a prestigious seat, he had been there for some time. Thoughtful but too calculated. The nerd clearly wanted to look cool and in the bundle sit in close quarters so as to engage her full attention and with a little luck a knee grazing or two. All of which Lucy, who had had many a hopeless date, knew was the platform for a very intense and suffocating environment. Unusually this pleased her, as it all helped in setting the perfect stage to test the preachings of this hopeful article and consequentially the naughty white vest.

Lucy greeted the Prat with a single kiss to the cheek then, as ushered, took the seat on the couch next to the already plonked idiot. The Prat had dropped to the couch almost as soon as she had pulled her head from his cheek, his excitement uncontainable. Lucy rather more delicately took her place, pushing forward what chest she had and due to the attention from the door, her pricked teats. Prat eyed them and was not all that subtle about it. Lucy, not used to the attention, darted a glance herself, as her eyes settled she realised that her top was not the fullest of whites and was actually a little transparent in this light. She turned away from Prat as she felt a slight embarrassment ruddy her pale cheeks. She was not comfortable that the shadowing of her nipples could be seen through her vest and struggling to compose herself, took a prolonged moment leant over the arm of the couch.

She brushed down a cushion that she had pulled from her side as means of distraction and once she felt the red drain from her face, she turned back to the Prat.

‘It’s just chocolate I think.’ Lucy gestured to the cushion then smiled up at Prat’s keen face.

The Prat nervously tapped at his choice bible on the coffee table and nodded in agreement with Lucy. Agreement with something but not all together sure what. The Prat had failed to notice that Lucy had gone astray for the past three minutes, he hadn’t noticed her teetering over the far side of the settee grooming a cushion. He had been far too involved with himself, his demeanour and the conversation he proposed to strike. Lucy could see his brain firing up and examined his nervous hand fiddling with the book on the coffee table. The author of the book leapt out from between his fingers and Lucy was surprised, ‘Wilbur Smith’ was not what she expected to see smeared across the front cover. She was imaging it would be something pretentious, a catalyst for a prolonged deliberation on the prose of some literary genius. Wilbur Smith certainly did not fit that criteria, at best he was only a conversation piece with ones Father, once talk of the weather had dried up. The Prat, noticing Lucy’s keen eye on his book turned it away from her, he knew Wilbur was no girly read. Lucy looked again into Prat’s large face and felt a twinge of pity. She imagined that the Prat was just the result of a domineering Father, whose sole purpose in life was to regurgitate inherited views. Lucy imagined that if she was to experience the full delights of the Prat, it was the father that she should date, not the bit that dribbled out and merged with a lesser soul. Lucy sat and listened to the Prat fumble and mumble his way through a stream of hand-me-down topics. As was her usual practice when internet dating, she fired objective and belittling obstructions to all that Prat offered, she knew this to be her common practise and was unapologetic about it. Although she chose to date in this fashion and believed it to be a productive effort in finding a suitor, she still believed her man would materialise in an organic fashion. She imagined her man would perhaps fall into her arms from an idyllic bordering shrub, untainted by life. Prat was still talking and although Lucy was bored, she kept him primed with the odd laugh and flirtatious eye. He was perfect, a perfect minion to test the theory.

The third coffee consumed and, unfortunately but necessary for her experiment, numbers exchanged, Lucy suggested the Prat walk her to the bus. She had routed a stop that meant a short cut down a sheltered alleyway, here she paused. She wanted to say his name but was torn between Matthew and Michael, George also rung a bell. Knowing that if she called him Prat the moment would be lost, Lucy just hung back and readied a seductive stance against the brick wall. The Prat plodded on four more strides before he realised she was no longer clung to the fat Wilbur Smith trapped under his arm. Eventually he stopped and turned to seek her out, Lucy now empowered by the privacy the alleyway offered, pushed forward her chest and circular shadings. The Prat nearly dropped Wilbur as his eyes darted and feet motioned, in all fairness, everywhere. As he approached he showed a little know how and raised his hands stroking her hair away from her face. Lucy responded to the gentle touch by lifting her jaw but with a thud the moment was lost as Wilbur slipped its grip and dropped to the floor. Lucy cursed the sod but made good of the situation, she edged the book towards her and stepped up tall on the block of words. Wilbur’s weight brought her someway up to Prats height and she leant in and kissed him. The Prat keenly kissed back and then kissed some more. Lucy underwhelmed by the plunger action, found herself more concerned that the Prats lung capacity considerably outweighed hers. Lucy worried that she might suffocate whilst stuck to his face, squeaked her face away and took a large breath.

‘God!’ She disguised her need for air with a exasperated cry of joy, fanning Prats ego.

The Prat was excited by her response and nibbled on her neck. Lucy enjoyed this but needed to keep the experiment on track, so she pulled away from his salivating mouth and unlocked his arms from the back of her head. Knowingly Lucy had given him the green card to wander, she had instructed his hands to search out what they may. Lucy went for another dive into the airless cavern of Prats mouth, hopeful that the article held some truth. Were small breasts attractive and not something to smuggle away? If one paraded them in the correct manner, were very comparable to the larger bosom? The Prat now had his tongue some way into her mouth and wriggled it in a fashion a dentist searched for a cavity. Lucy could detect his hands were hovering somewhere around her mid section and that he was still a little weary to engage them. She let him inspect her dentures some more and to encourage him, let out a little squeak of pleasure. The hands started to amble. Lucy tensed slightly. Would he miss out first base and simply go for glory? Would the Prat in this very alley, confirm her disappointment that a small chest can never truly serve as a stopping point to the final destination?

‘Oooo arrrgh!’ he didn’t, he grabbed them! He tweaked and toyed with them. In fact he didn’t really know what the hell he was doing with them, but they had certainly captured his full attention. It was amazing, Lucy was liberated. The Prat was crap, clueless but Lucy had breasts and breasts men desired.

Jolted, titillated and bruised, eleven Land Rover volunteers arrived in Wamba to study the Grevy Zebra. The unforgiving roads were responsible for most of the discomfort, but I imagine a large percentage of the remaining kettle pot of emotions was occupied by the spectacular animal strewn landscapes. Eerily however, as the bright orange Land Rover Defender bumped from the hedgerow and worked its way up the busy high street, it was perhaps the economic void that carved the deepest and most resounding impression.

Wamba, nuzzled north of Mount Kenya and firmly lodged in the heart of the Samburu district, presented itself in the manner a divorced town strikes a chord in a hearty Cowboy. Instead of busy carriages parading pomp women through the stirred dust of guarded guns, brightly beaded Samburu folk populated the streets to be marred by the fallout of the eagerly spread Saloons. There was no drunken gunfire or highly audible jaw thumping, but the odd strewn drunk smarted of a misplaced Western influence.

Fortunately for our volunteers, the worn badge of Earthwatch, beaming from the front doors of the Defender, only sparked glee amongst the locals. As young children and, rather more sheepish adults waved at this orange vessel, it became immediately obvious that this ingrained logo was serving the community. A welcome reception for the team, as being poked into a 4×4 next to a strange work colleague, who for all they knew, perhaps called their wage package, then being ruthlessly bumped around for an hour or so was not ideal. Add to that, the prospect of ending up in some small halfway town, where Safaricom* is about the only common word and the locals have an inherent mistrust for you, it could have been intolerable. As it turned out, to be acknowledged with fondness by even a four year old, forgives that bumpy road and newly befriended supervisor, breeding a warmth and igniting a sense of purpose.

The team, the selected candidates who found themselves fortunate enough to be cocooned in this orange beacon of hope, were bursting to get involved. Picked from a stream of applications, this assortment of characters could have been likened to ones found in a ‘Marvel comic’. It consisted of a lady with the strength of five men, a tender father with unparalleled sensual powers and numerous other multi-skilled and wisely convened characters. All shared a desire to make a difference and an acute methodical meticulousness, that must come with the Land Rover crest emblazoned on their chests. The candidates had a distinctive respect for their company and as they boarded the orange Defender for the first time, their chins visibly raised a couple of inches with pride.

The Defender was the choice vehicle for this team of environmental enforcers and it rose to the challenge unfazed. The raw hunk of metal was clearly made for this environment and with every rock and trench that was thrown in its path, you could almost feel the Defender creak with a smile as it eased its way through. Its cargo revelled in witnessing a product they had had a hand in, some who had even assembled the back end, made easy roads that lesser vehicles would have to detour miles to avoid. On a road in England it is perhaps hard to appreciate the Defender. We find ourselves lured towards its more attractive cousins, the Range Rover or Discovery. Yet in a testing environment where the roads alternate from soft sand to hard rock in the single rotation of a wheel, its simplicity is applauded. In such a field you have to expect problems, punctures are the least of your worries, therefore you are grateful when you open up the bonnet and are not faced with a hive of computer technology. Obviously this will change; vehicles have to develop and Land Rover are at the forefront of development, but on location in the middle of Wamba when the best computer on offer is little better than a Commadore 64, it is gratifying to see an engine with obvious parts.

When boarding the cabin its uncompromising interior follows the same rudimentary guidelines. A seat acts quite plainly as a seat and does not disguise itself as a rump warming armchair. Guaranteed, in comparison with the luxuries of its in-laws and with half an eye on the road ahead, it could be perceived a disappointment, but after a five metre stretch, your rear and scalp would soon be in full agreement, understanding that none of the superior upholsteries on the market could possibly cradle you lovingly enough. Neither in turn would a wonderfully crafted swooping dashboard gift you any additional comfort. Instead you might find its curves somehow mock you, as you repeatedly jolt from seat to roof whilst it remains basking beneath the window screen. The fuss-free, box-like form of the Defender suited this place; it concealed no secrets and quietly whispered, ‘things are going to get rough!’

Unsympathetic, with a hardened vehicle at their disposal and burning with a new found sense of duty, the Land Rover volunteers were fuelled with a desire to do good, environmental, humanitarian, the works! Bound to the cause, Land Rover’s ensemble, even before they had had the opportunity to total the number of Grevy Zebras on a morning stroll or delve into a ripe ‘poop’ looking for parasites, were already wanting to bring sanitation, education and clean water to the residents of Wamba.

On what from the outset could have appeared little more than a company jaunt, a Safari of a lifetime written off on a company’s expenses, had already proved otherwise, even before arriving at camp. The grounding journey from the towers of Nairobi to the corrugated metal huts of Wamba had captured their attention and shaken any illusions that this was going to be a holiday. They were gripped and it was now their task to get their hands dirty, unravel their findings and understand the importance of the trip.

The expedition played a key role in Land Rover’s generous carbon offsetting strategy and by deliberately involving its workforce, it was now shouting its goals louder from within the company walls. Land Rover’s commitment to carbon offsetting is prominent in their business strategy, so much so that it has adopted ‘pillars’ in order to manage the weight of its ambitions.

The Grevy Zebra expedition resides firmly in the environmental partnership pillar. It offers vehicles and personnel to Earthwatch’s environmental study. Initially set up by the African Wildlife Trust, it has now become an important institute thanks to Earthwatch’s support. The institute houses a rally of scientists and students from Kenya, all championing conservation through the study of wildlife. The study of the Grevy Zebra, in the wake of its recent dramatic decline in population, has become one of the institute’s principal studies. The institute is proactively trying to establish a sustainable strategy to preserve the Grevy Zebra.

Nestled in the Hills above Wamba, this could all be viewed as a touch trite, when an unwashed child runs barefoot along the streets only later to retire in little more than a mud hut. The idea of a breed of animal nearing extinction is upsetting, but the idea of humans living in abject poverty outrages and infuriates, thus taking precedent. Yet, upon realising that that very same child is running to wave at Earthwatch’s iridescent Defender, it becomes apparent that its involvement reaches further than just the plight of the Grevy Zebra. Earthwatch have rather wisely infiltrated the community in a worthy and sensitive manner. Their focus is the Grevy Zebra, but they are very aware that the fall out of funds has to find its way into the heart of the community and indeed to safe the Grevy Zebra, the Local community has to be on side.

Land Rover’s newly appointed task force, all from very different roles within the company, had to learn fast. They had to shy away from any knee jerk reactions to adorn the locals with gifts and focus their efforts on the job at hand. Our Western empathies urge us to stretch out our charitable arm at any given chance, but it was not the purpose of the expedition. The Grevy Zebra was the reason for this taxing jolly and as with all small beginnings the bigger picture would serve as the reward.

The team, from the patter of keyboards to the grind of the Land Rover assembly floor, had to refrain from gifting charity and allow their goodwill to naturally find its own path. They were encouraged to turn a blind eye to the poverty and pour all their energy into squinting and gazing at the horizon in search of the Grevy Zebra. Their role was a simple one; look, gather and record. For such an elite force this was frustrating, with many an engineer in tow, couldn’t they look to conjure a water pump or at the very least hold a class in the local school? The expedition was asking the volunteers to betray their western compassions, proving to be as much a personnel journey as it was an aid to Earthwatch’s cause.

Concerns duly pocketed for evening confabs, the team walked the planes of Samburu and rifled through the fresh faeces of the glorious Grevy Zebra. Forced to slowly labour over their chores, due to the searing heat and dogged vehicle-bound stalkings, the rural spirit of Samburu began to find its voice, quelling the roaring flames of ‘We must help these people’, and politely suggesting ‘Help us to help ourselves’.

At first the Grevy popped up its head and asked for a little courting. As is the nature of the animal it didn’t want to monopolise the team’s attention, instead just bated and illusively captivated their admiration. Secondly the Samburu tribes, the Wamba villagers aired their opinions, like a silent movie plays out, through their actions. As they moved through the open planes of the inhospitable landscape, their basic lives echoed a frank charm that was and is at times, enviable. The Land Rover team suddenly, in tracking the Grevy Zebra and involving themselves in a day-to-day duty, found the peace of mind to reflect and shake off their Western shackles.

Enchanted, the team with every step and creak across the earth eagerly gathered as much data as was permitted, becoming experts on the Grevy Zebra and its distinguishing features. The Grevy is a striking, yet comical creature. Striking, because it moves with the elegance of a show horse and its tightly clad stripes zing hypnotically, before petering out to a wonderful white under belly. Comical, because its all too often coined ‘Mickey Mouse’ ears, once pricked in your direction are not altogether African. Implausibly round and oversized they would not go amiss amongst the more dyspraxic beasts found in Australia and would certainly amuse any television screen come children’s hour. The Grevy at first glance is just a Zebra and it is, but to understand its true beauty unfortunately it is best to stand it next to a common Zebra. The common Zebra is bulbous, clumsy and in comparison with the Grevy little more than a painted donkey.

The volunteers were outwardly deflated if they had not encountered at least one Grevy on a mornings ramble and almost childishly excited if they had been the first to spot one. In not spotting a Grevy, the data was of equal importance to the Earthwatch scientists, it was key in helping them understand the Grevy’s grazing patterns, but it was considerably more rewarding for the volunteers to observe this inquisitive creature. The Grevy from a distance appears grey, its narrow stripes merge together and it perfectly blends in with the mottled terrain. To differentiate a Grevy from a rock at a substantial distance before one of your guides, was a challenge.

The guides, Samburu natives keeping you from harm and on track, had a remarkable eye for detecting the Grevy and on the odd occasion that they were out spotted, a delight befell on the eagle eyed Sherlock. Obviously, as adults, the triumph was merely taken in one’s stride and only internally etched on ones wall of achievement. Perhaps not to be etched alongside was the excitement at seeing a Grevy lift its tail and defecate. However, surprisingly it was a moment of some clout, as stool samples were also as important a part of the research as indeed the numbers of the Grevy. The scientists were looking for parasites and troubleshooting as to whether there are other causes, other than loss of habitat, for the Grevy’s decline. So with the poop dispatched, the Land Rover team found themselves keenly cantering to locate the steaming deposit, eager to beat a dung beetle to the chase.

As the mission continued, the Land Rover disciples grew less involved with the idea of helping the Samburu people, the townsfolk of Wamba, and now found themselves meandering in the middle of the wide planes alongside them. As they probed the landscape for Zebra, striking Moran warriors walked through their gaze. As they stooped for excrement, young children herded goats around them. Without realising, the Land Rover team had become field scientists, conservationists working alongside the community. The group no longer looked through pitying eyes when greeted by a dusty half dressed native, now their eyes were full of respect.

In a land where the Grevy Zebra’s population had faltered, the Samburu man had managed to prosper, not in terms of concreted acreage, but they were surviving. On arrival in Wamba it was the drunk, Western clothed locals that distressed, it was our half embraced influence painted across Saloon walls and small roadside shops that shouted of repression and poverty. The rural, beautifully adorned residents on the whole were a joy to see, they were purposeful and happy. The Land Rover team were now in tune with their environment and understood that change had to make its way slowly to Wamba.

Wamba is undoubtedly a third world country with massive strives to make in order to achieve any other status, but to the people of this region the notion of being third world means nothing, this is how they live and always have. As a community they are slowly learning and developing, maybe not at the haste that would ease our conscience, but for the want of an easy sleep surely thrusting ones values and ideologies would be all too much in one hit.

In tracking a Grevy Zebra, in working side by side with the natives for a mutual cause a more sustainable growth will naturally occur. The Samburu people have to want to develop, they have to want to learn, and witnessing the reception that greets Earthwatch’s Defender first hand, we can start to believe they do and will.

The very idea that supporting the conservation of the Grevy Zebra can have a knock-on effect sounds dubious, but eleven volunteers would now vouch that it can. In practice when conservation works with the locals and its funds and knowledge are fed through the right channels, then it is the locals that inevitably reap the benefits.

Earthwatch with the aid of Land Rover are giving Wamba a foothold to a sustainable future by embracing one of their region’s key attributes, the Grevy Zebra.

* Safaricom is a leading mobile network operator in Kenya.

ourplanet website

Scotsie was clearly unhappy with her over bearing insular owner, otherwise why the eye? Mark believed that the girl clearly didn’t understand Scotsie and merely used her as a play thing, perhaps to plonk Barbie and Ken on top of as though a donkey at a beach. He went on to imagine the girl force feeding the dog over a little tea set and shoe horning her into a toy pram. Mark was outraged, Scotsie was only used as a form of amusement for this unworldly, unloving child and he wanted to free Scotsie from this torrid existence. He was going to elope with Scotsie and show her the world, make a fresh start for both of them.

Mark kicked the ball over to Rufus. The park was filling out and Mark knew that Scotsie would soon be ceremoniously walked through by her possessor, the petulant, abusive little girl. Rufus took more time on the ball than Mark had anticipated, he was ungainly trying to flip the ball onto the back of his neck. Mark urged him to pass the ball back, as time was not on his side. Rufus was not responding to Mark’s direction, which was infuriating; he had only been asked as cover, I mean nobody asks Rufus out anymore, at least not since Toby had cast rumours of his involvement with Derek’s mother.

Mark’s eyes suddenly honed in on the elegant strutting Scotsie, from behind a bothering Pit Bull some distance away. He took stock of the distance and with a quick estimate of expected time of arrival, knew he needed the ball back. Rufus was showing no sign of yielding the ball and with time against him he set out to acquire it himself.

Mark jogged over to Rufus and lunged with his leading leg for the ball. Rufus took up the challenge and counter acted, bucking Mark’s advances and turning his back to shield the ball. Mark glanced at the advancing Scotsie and then despairingly tried to turn the awkward Rufus. Rufus using Mark’s momentum to his advantage, skewered on the spot and as Mark plummeted to the floor, scampered off with the ball. Mark hit the floor hard, this was not going at all to plan, but he was a winner, he was resourceful, he had what it takes.

Mark took a large intake of breath, eyed Scotsie’s advance then got to his feet, threw down his arms, grunted and paced up to Rufus. Rufus toyed over the ball miming a shimmy, Mark at first responded with a jovial twist of his shoulder then feigning a lunge, stood back and struck Rufus on his ear with his favoured left. There’s one for Derek he thought, before plucking up the ball and cantering in the direction of Scotsie.

His timing was perfect, he slowed his canter once in range, assessed the wind and with one swift movement drop kicked the ball straight at the young girl. The ball struck her firm on the face lifting her off her feet and as she began her descent, blood was generously airborne from her nose. The young girl’s mother screamed, unable to place what had just happened. She attended her blood soaked daughter, not noticing that Scotsie had lost her rein and was scampering away. Mark did not falter, although he had not been prepared for such gushings, he kept a level head and was in hot pursuit of his love.

Scotsie ran midway into the mass of green and losing her bearings halted. Mark hot on her heels slowed to a slow advance, ‘Hello Girl!’ Scotsie looked up at Mark, there was no fondness in her eye, no love. Mark crouched and peered deeper into his Scotsie’s little grey face, a white poodle barked some metres away. Mark looked up and as he did he was sure the poodles tale wagged. The blunted cartilage protruding from the beautiful white pearly curls most defiantly wagged! Mark found himself motioning towards the poodle. Poodle, Poodle noodle, he would call her Noodle.

The blob plonked under my scalp chose to highlight Combs and Toothpicks from my recent outings in Vietnam. This is by no means a futile attempt to undermine the splendours of this third world country, just annoyingly what my foolish matter held onto.

The complimentary comb was the first oddity singed to my database and this was perhaps more of a comment on my own ignorance then an observation of Vietnam. I was aware of complimentary slippers, gels and toothbrushes, but my matter had failed to ever before notice the complimentary comb. Yet with every hotel I frequented in Vietnam, the complimentary comb persistently lay alongside the other bathroom delights.

More concerned with getting the air conditioner onto full cooling, I ever increasingly grew frustrated with this homage to the comb. The very idea of dragging a comb through my sweaty locks, when struggling to suppress a forty five degree wall of heat, was ludicrous. I could only imagine that the comb was sacred in Vietnam and that the prospect of leaving home without having groomed one’s head was a sin.

On countless occasions, once moderate body temperature was resumed, teeth cleaned, shower cap laughed at and complimentary comb left very much undisturbed, my imaginings of a groom crazed nation were quashed. My visions of impeccably combed partings and immaculately furrowed Fonze-like quiffs, populating the streets of Hanoi were shattered. I was disappointed, the hair on view was very much everyday and although I am sure groomed, not notably. The Comb therefore, despite my grey matter’s mongering, was and is indeed just a part of ‘The Complimentary Bathroom Set’ and not as fantasised a Vietnamese fetish.

The country’s fetish without a doubt is growth, not grooming, and seemingly growth as a nation, not just as a strong hold of pilfering entrepreneurs. The looking glass of a taxi window is not the greatest vantage to form an opinion on a country, nor is a sightseeing Junk boat, but it is a pleasure to edge your way through a country and see so much productivity. I cannot comment on the void between a farmer and a tycoon, but the very fact rice fields carpet the landscape to the foot of each village, town and city speaks volumes.

Vietnam is interested in feeding itself and when increasingly other countries look to gamble and import their food, as though stocks and shares, this surely puts them in a good position to slowly climb the world league table. After all, with a full belly the Vietnamese can take their time, pick any remnants from their teeth and merrily look to serve the drones of tourists baying at the gates.

So pick their teeth they do, endorsed by the militantly sat receptacle of toothpicks accompanying every dining table. These seemingly compulsory toothpicks served as the final fruit that planted itself in my quagmire. Considerably more celebrated then the mere acknowledgement of the complimentary comb, the toothpick for me was representative, not just an encouraged and enjoyable pastime whilst awaiting a bill; it encapsulated Vietnamese hospitality. The presence of toothpicks on any table top shows
a willingness to go that extra mile.

It might be slightly regrettable if one dislodges a filling or witnesses another’s findings, but as a dispensable table top accompaniment, its presence is ingratiating. The toothpick illustrates the Vietnamese appetite to please, flatter and welcome. Understanding tourism as a valuable commodity the Vietnamese are clearly making hospitality one of their specialities.

Four Complimentary Combs and a Compulsory Toothpick or two later Vietnam sits proudly as a great country, at least from under an air conditioner in a tourist’s bubble.

If you would like to showcase your acting prowess in your own Coffee and Tea, or for more information please email info@carwellcasswell.com

Alongside Helen Weinstein, Producer and Director of Historyworks, I was fortunate to capture some words from, Historian and Presenter, Dan Snow. Speaking to IPUP, Dan Snow shared his passion for History and vision of History’s place in todays media.

Carwell Casswell stepped out with the Ladies that lunch and
found out all about the making of a Mooli.

The Ladies that lunch are the founders of an exciting new
venture, What Lunch Where, which hosts great lunch offers
in and around Soho.

It is not every sunday I find myself awake in a beer garden surrounded by lycra. Although the familiar dash of lager accompanying my morning tonsil was monetarily worrying, thankfully it was of my choosing and the Lycra belonged to adventure seeking Cyclists.

Carwell Casswell didn't saddle up but keenly pursued the participants and documented The London Classic. An Urban Cycling Adventure, that raised £3401.01 for The Evelina Childrens Hospital.