Batakliev's Bloc

8.30 am, a tube station somewhere in London. The Northern line train which was “only a minute away” is now approaching. The expressions on the commuters’ faces tense up. Eyebrows meet, nostrils semi-flare, eyelids tighten, upper lips lift up…quivering. They know what they are about to see. “It’s going to be alright”, I whisper in my neighbour’s ear. She gives me a smile, as sincere as a LinkedIn endorsement. I smile back with equal sincerity. Then we deep-dive, only to get spewed out by the sea of flesh. The next Northern line train is only a minute away.

At last...a full mighty blast of tropical rain. Never before has rain felt that comforting, that redeeming and that empowering. The sun is smiling in disguise as I am swim-walking through curtains of cascading water, somewhere between above and below. Am I still intact, entire? I might as well disperse in the full mighty blast of tropical rain and shapeshift merrily until the sun comes out again.

Today's soundtrack: the gentle gurgle of water pouring into the pool (from the beak of a golden swan) overlaid with the incantational vibration of bamboo xylophone. I am new to paradise. Sun-deprived, grey and gaunt. Laden with programmes and modules. Haunted by alignments and dependencies. Galloping from one experience to another, in fear of missing the ultimate one. Hungry, itchy, greedy for simplicity, normality and peace of mind. The people of Bali only look at me and smile. As if to say: "No rush. You'll get there."

The egg left its shell rather willingly and sprawled itself upon the sizzling oil like a pirouetting ballerina landing in the splits. I was admiring my bird's eye view of the perfectly irregular oval shape of the tutu, crisp around the edges and soufflé-soft in the middle. From within her radiant yellow halo, the prima ballerina gave me an approving nod and I showered her with snowflakes of sea salt. Then the wind machine whipped the snowflakes into a raging blizzard and the music rose to a closing crescendo.