Old Pictures, New Stories: The Peculiar Case Of The Chewed Pharaoh!

I am not the least embarrassed. I love to talk out loud whenever I am inside the British Museum!

Rising out of the Bloomsbury area of London as if it were a descendent of the Great Sphinx itself, the walls are glowingly prestigious and its artefacts unparalleled in their diversity to touch expansively upon vast human timelines of history, culture and the arts. Besides the times when I lose myself between the covers of an addictive book and my Amma cannot nudge me out of its spell even as she threatens and charges at me with her radioactive flip-flops, I would state categorically that it is in the riveting fodder of curiosities only found within the kingdom of a museum that has such gripping hold on my carnivorous imagination that time and place become an inconsequential small print.

Ancient Egypt will always fare as my favourite gallery. Each artefact that I should come across, neatly and carefully propped up on a clean white podium or perhaps pinned behind the shrine of a glass cubicle, unfortunately has already been ransacked with more camera flashes than the collective number of all the lightning bolts ever to have criss-crossed through the smoggy skies of London in any recorded year.

I do like to have a good giggle when I spot that customary practice elicited by many visitors when they whip out their long fishing rods of self-promotion, known as ‘selfie sticks’ in the common tongue, and take highly contrived shots of themselves posing triumphantly with celebrity exhibits. What they do not know, and that I fondly contemplate, is that these selfies are fulfilling an ancient faith.

The grand narrative of these ancient people centred on the concept of resurrection. Countless catalogued funereal objects have been acquired and examined, gleaming in masterful detail and variety and proving that the ancient Egyptians were fiercely dedicated to ensuring that the journey to the afterlife was made as comfortable and refined as possible. Their ingenious techniques of preservation of the corpse, known as the process of mummification, revolved around the belief that if the soul was pure it would dutifully return to the body to live beyond the grave, in a heavenly and eternal life. In a big way, they were right and I can see that as lucidly as the sky on a bright summer’s day. The selfie revolution has inadvertently aroused the dead to come back to life, insofar in that brief moment of capture the selfie poser indeed does behave as though the inanimate statue next to them is live and well!

Ask any of my companions who brave a museum visit with me and they will outwardly report back to You that I have an excruciatingly hilarious habit of rocketing out fitful giggles as the selfie pundits get to work as they put an arm around a basalt statute of the pharaoh’s accountant, whilst beaming a smile rich in elastin straight into the eye of the camera. Sometimes I have been known to shout out “Bingo!” accompanied with the flicking of a cheeky wink at the statue! No, I do not wink at the poser! I have no intention in the world to be picked up by gorilla-grade security and humiliatingly thrown out of those hallowed corridors and onto the street! Ahem, ahem!

I cannot say that I am a fan or follower of the selfie craze. But, if on the agenda we are relating to the issue of the ancient artefacts of the Egyptian gallery, then I have before me an exceptional context in which I will quite happily agree to make a concession. Hands down I shall confess that these tiny bits of blinking metal, that perform the duties of a phone as well as a million other mind-boggling functions, have a staggering power to criminally stimulate some of the most absurd and farcical bouts of role-play ever imaginable in the name of selfie-hood, and yet their relished use in a gallery of stone pharaohs and key dignitaries of an ancient land, once haunted and preoccupied with the afterlife and resurrection, fascinatingly perpetuates a specific brand of magic. The magic of a prophecy fulfilled. The visitors may be faking it, however when I notice that arm wrapping round the pharaoh, half timidly and half amiably, or that hyperactive gang of students who jump next to Imhotep and eagerly gesture out the victory sign, I secretly exchange a smug grin with the statue. It is undoubtedly a unique theatrical stage, for after all, if I were to send You out to attempt to capture friendly selfies with the bald mannequins of your local shop, Your anomalous antics would most certainly be construed outrageous and unsavoury, landing You in the psychiatric ward in no time at all!

Nevertheless, I do not own a smarty pants phone so how am I to wake the snoring pharaoh from the stubborn slumber of a thousand years of deadness? Understandably, I feel that I ought to be able to achieve this since I am an ardent Egyptologist at heart. I, too, ought to perform this amazing magic of resurrection!

I do have a little something. A constructive rebellion.

The imagination of a Storyteller.

Not one single visitor in all my frequent explorations of the ancient Egyptian gallery at the British Museum has ever successfully come near to taking their selfie next to the pharaonic chap in the photograph below. How can they possibly? This mighty chap is a colossal giant and his head is several metres above floor level. Veneered in impressive brassy gold that appears to radiate in the freshness of the day it was built, the face is large and dignifiedly looks out towards the long corridor of the gallery, as if he were appointed by the gods to watch over the safety of this fortress of hard-won and hard-earned knowledge. The visitors do not pay him any attention because he offers no incentive for self-promotion. One would have to endure the possibility of severe injury if they were to concede to clambering up his body to accomplish a selfie with him!

People pass him by and no one deigns to look up, and those that do spend a scant few seconds in his shadow, do so impatiently, before racing onto a less startling but more accessible figure. I decidedly walk over to him, and with my hands in my jean pockets, I remember speaking out loud, “So those hungry rats staking out in the disused tunnels underneath London city finally got to your regal beard and chewed it off! You poor chap, did it hurt?

Chipped though he was, he at last knew he was not forgotten. The air just in front of his gnawed beard quivered. I would like to believe in my imagination that a sigh of relief had passed between the lips of my golden pharaoh… ♥♥♥

Old Pictures, New Stories: The Entertaining Case Of The Curse Of The Chewed Pharaoh!

“… I would like to believe in my imagination that a sigh of relief had passed between the lips of my golden pharaoh...”

 

Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016
Photography: Originally Posted As ‘A Jolly Good Easter Holiday In Paddington’s London [1]’ © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories – Saatchi Website | Spring Reunion Series | London | UK 2015

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Episode 5 And A Bit: The Umpire Strikes Back!

My beloved Reader, it has come to my frazzled and most nervous attention that the two thespian actors, widely known for their frequent and loyal photographic services in my whimsical projects and who recently starred in the ambitious visual production of my story, ‘The Legend Of Corfe Castle’, were spotted early this morning in our majestic capital city of London and each had on their person a suspicious article swinging off their arms! CCTV cameras picked up a clear visual of the two ladies – a Ms Agnes and Ms Katie – casually approaching the front façade of The British Museum, a landmark reputed to stand as a forefront in world-class architectural sophistication and whose contents are filled with astounding artefacts of impressive educational merit.

When detectives finally could not bear the suspense for a moment longer, they stormed into the paved courtyard and stopped the aforementioned suspects in their tracks. Meanwhile, the head co-ordinator of the taskforce made an urgent request for reinforcements in case upon confrontation the ladies were to reach into their bags and pull out certain named chemical irritants. In five minutes flat, ice-creams vans were dutifully deployed on standby to cool the situation down if things got out of hand – literally!

Witnesses report that when the senior field officer asked the two suspects to drop their bags and to step away immediately, they chose not to comply. The officer repeated his commands, but this time he spoke through an old brassy gramophone horn that belonged to his granddad . Each woman gave a disarmingly wry smile that had the remarkable effect of confusing all the officers on the scene. It would appear that this cleverly engineered state of unfocused attention created an opportunistic time window for both ladies in which they were able to quickly dig into their bags and unleash upon the faces of the officers an attack of the most orangey oranges, each one shining ripe and bursting with exponential quantities of Vitamin C!

Both ladies were handcuffed, each to an officer, and then promptly scooted off in cars with wailing sirens and screeching tires, all the way down to the London Metropolitan Police HQ where they were detained securely inside separate interrogation chambers.

When questioned about their motives their answers were remarkably identical.

What is the purpose of your possession of suspicious quantities of oranges in your bag?

We were inspired to bring colour back into people’s cheeks…

Ergo, I have now successfully got myself stuck in a highly pickle situation. The entire Metropolitan force is in pursuit after me and I need somewhere to lay low. Any offers?

NB (No-Ball nota bene) To the proprietors of dodgy and ruinous castles who may wish to assist. Thank you, but no thank you!

Giggle, giggle!!! ♥♥♥ 

Episode 5 And A Bit: The Umpire Strikes Back!

“… Each woman gave a disarmingly wry smile that had the remarkable effect of confusing all the officers on the scene…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | British Museum | London | UK 2016

Old Pictures, New Story: Pocket Edition Magic!

The votes have been cast and my family and friends have decided, unanimously, that the spruced-up chap with the lion-heart, whom we see in the photograph below, should bravely step forward and take my hand! I say, what conspiracy is this?! Yet I shall be kindly upon them and grant amnesty to the innocence and naivety of their verdict, for little do they know that the days of Mr C.S. Lewis and the wearing of dignified tweed fibres have unfortunately relegated themselves to an endangered rank of style. And if still, miracle permitting, there is such a man whose wardrobe tastes are as ancient as the first bacterial life that bewitched into existence beneath the world’s blue oceans, then hurry man, relinquish thy silence and make Yourself known! Giggle, giggle! ♥♥♥ 

 
Every which way I turned the serpentine streets of London showed themselves to be the empires of frenzied footsteps made of scampering strangers, cramped spaces teeming with a living museum of the city’s diverse and complex human characters. I had only just sprung out from the underground tube and into the reassurance of familiar daylight when this rather dapper and stylishly suited gentleman appeared out of the corner of my eye! Donned in green tweed, monocle confidently propped up, festooned with a bushy moustache on a canvas of face generously rotund as like his equally portly belly, I was curious to know precisely what such a figure of dignified antiquity was viewing on his phone. Perhaps he was requesting that he should be sent back to his own time? Or, was he texting Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, demanding to know where his pick-up car had gone to that was promised to him? What a delight that this eccentric chap should spark endless stories in my head and to remind me that even in the most chaotic and impersonal of places my eyes could still make out exquisite pockets of magic…” 

Meet Colonel Green Tweed!

Potential husband material? Well, that depends. Are we referring to the round-bellied one or to his handsome green tweed suit? I beg Your pardon, but why are You winking at me? ♥♥♥

 

Photograph & Journal Excerpt: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | London Street Photography Series | Central London | UK 2014

 

Dining With A Shopping Mystery (A Bittersweet Conclusion!)

How To Train Your Train: A Stupendously Timely Update! 14-03-2016

You see my dearest and most beloved Reader, sometimes circumstances are such that the Conductor might go amiss and the smartypants phones of one’s travelling companions conspire to dissent from serving their duty as navigational aids, and the journey henceforth prickled with unpredictable perils and way too many unfactored unknowns that You begin to wonder that far from enjoyment, one has simply let themselves in for a ride from which a safe return may not be guaranteed!

Oh do stop worrying for goodness sake, You know I cannot resist the temptation for building up crescendos of tension before the final splatter of the true news! And it is a rather nice and beastly news for that matter, for three things have happened this very morning that suggest to me that TRAINS are a pivotal part of MY STORY AND YOUR STORY, the one that shall connect me to someone rather special! Ahem, ahem!

First of all, I have just discovered that someone by the name of ‘Miska Khatun’ has flagged a Like for a comment of mine that I penned on the page of my favourite photographer who lives on this side of the galaxy. The comment was made early last year, so I am rather deliciously bamboozled as to why this chap or chapette has chosen to show interest in what I have to say about the world of ‘Porters’ at this point of time. How enormously fascinating!

Secondly, my favourite photographer on this side of the galaxy – or his admin – has hoisted up on his Instagram page an image of a poor lady cradling a child and who is totally petrified of a rushing train! We need to do something positive about this spot of unfortunate botheration!

Thirdly, the most magical gift I received I this morning, is that my beautiful and kindly friend, Agnes has at last sent me a menagerie of photographs from our London adventures in which she has very craftily captured my cheeky face and then has subsequently shown her friends and family back home in Poland! In a blink of an eye I have crossed borders it would seem! Giggle, giggle!

And, therefore, before I commence to enjoy this stunning sunny day here in England with my mates, I wish to reassure YOU – the man who is in a bit of quandary and whose true face I have yet to decipher – that when we meet, I shall be more than glad to give You a tour of London and I assure You that, though I am not a slave to the digital world with its menacing range of social media tools, I have on me the auspicious blessings of Destiny and my infallible book of marvellous navigational powers, my fabled but oh so very true ‘LONDON A-Z’… ♥♥♥

I raise a toast of tea to the curly-haired Photographer who once wrote to me to say that I was a born Storyteller,
Mazzy xxx

P.S. Yes, there are more voyages with friends to be had, watch this SPACE

How To Train Your Train!

Katie Sunshine and myself on board the London Waterloo to Winchester night train! Gosh, did we ladies make a racket in that carriage! Giggle, giggle!

Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2016
Photography Kindly Sent By © Agnes | 2016

 

***************************************************************

On our final night in the intricate maze of the capital city of London, the hunger pangs had us grabbed by our starved tummies, a pleasing symptom – if not a rather annoying one at the time – that spelled out clearly and with ample credence that the three of us ladies had expended and exceeded our energies beyond our expectations while on this city break. Now the time had come to refill our bodies with the morsels of tasty grub and the warm elixir of tea! Ravenous, we sought food!

Ladies, we were supposed to arrive at The Real Greek restaurant for 5.30pm but, it seems like we are going to be a tad late, in fact, precisely half an hour late!” I informed my friends that we were about to forfeit our knack for punctuality, and yet it was spoken without the slightest angle of worry or grievance in my voice. So wrapped up we had been with sightseeing and, of course, plodding ourselves in cafes here and there, that we had lost all trace of our awareness of the fact that a pre-booked table was waiting for us in Covent Garden in the homely premises of The Real Greek Restaurant! Oops!

Mazzy, I know! But listen, I have to stop by in that shop over there, they sell the most fabulous skin products that agree with me. I have a hard time finding them anywhere else!” Katie looked at me desperately and I honestly thought that was unnecessary, for I knew she was as swift as lightning when it came to the business of buying purchases. I did not mind the slightest!

Of course, go ahead! We will wait for you out here!” With the announcement of my green-light decision, Katie sped off into the shop and rustled up those precious buys that had always proven to be as elusive as a blue moon when she had  formerly attempted to track them down in our local area.

The night drew in fast and the air took on an unnatural chill that had both myself and Agnes clutch onto our thick blanket scarves and we pressed on them harder against our throat and chest, hoping against hope that this added attention would prevent any more of the cold wind from invading our weather-beaten skin.

Now, remember that I had mentioned at the start of my storytelling series for the half-term holidays that I would take up on rebellion and sashay forward and backward along the timeline so that what You read would fit in neatly into the jigsaw of Your day? Well, prepare for such a moment to occur right about now.

In the absence of our dearest Katie, and to cushion our minds from the deviancy of the cold wind, Agnes and I reminded ourselves of that highly animated and thrilling conversation that had taken place early on in our adventures, right in the middle of Waterloo Station, when, and in replication to the temporary disbanded nature of the group as it was right now, Katie had disappeared to the loos and Agnes had begun to talk of her book! Yes, she had very generously brought a book with her that she was currently much immersed in, and I was profoundly touched that my darling friend, in all the excitable anticipation and preparation for this trip, had not erased it from her mind. She had remembered! Hurrah!

Tell me again about your book – about ‘The Mystery Of The Clockwork Sparrow’ so that I do not forget its contents when I come to write this tale up in the future!” I rubbed my gloved hands together, blowing into them what little warm breath I could siphon out from, what I believed at that time to be, my incurably frozen lips and mouth.

Mazzy, I think you come to a point when you are fed up with reading the complicated books. The books for mature readers and the books people study from. I have lost interest of them lately. Agnes had recently completed her Masters and I could quite easily picture her weariness for the type of literature that was driven by the more systematic goals of the world. “Like you, I like a good adventure story, especially ones with mystery and suspense!” Presenting an eminently accurate character portrait of my own inclinations in the book world, Agnes may not have known it at the time, but the conviction of her passion for the book that shone so beautifully through her dark eyes, had already won me over to the point that I promised myself to read her picking as soon as I finished the other outstanding titles sat on my desk.

Tell me more about the narrative structure, how does it tug you along?” I had completely forgotten how cold it was out here, and that is no new thing for me when my mind is wonderfully led astray to other quarters of investigation! She recounted the primary events of the tale and since I did not have my journal in my hands I provide below of what I vividly remember from listening to my friend that night.

The story is set in Edwardian England and tells of a girl called Sophie who is left orphan and without income after her father dies, however her fortunes take a surprising turn when she lands a job at a prestigious shop for hats – a millinery by the name of Sinclair’s – based in the heart of London and whose owner is an enigmatic millionaire from New York. Sophie quickly makes friends with Billy and Lil and she feels that life at last is beginning to brighten up, opening up new prospects in both her professional and personal life. Alas, on the eve of the opening of this high-fashion boutique, a sharp and cunning thief has penetrated through the security and many things are stolen from the shop, including the most priceless item that was hoped to be the star attraction of the inauguration of the opening event – a diamond-encrusted clockwork sparrow! The immediate blame falls on Sophie and it is a race against time as she and her two loyal friends attempt to solve the true culprit behind this dastardly act of thievery ever committed on the streets of glamorous London!

The writer does an excellent job of making the plot spread out in different directions and the range of suspects keeps growing, then suddenly it comes together again! It is amazing!” And to that our frolicsome mate, Katie, reappeared and looking down at the watch, we realised how drastically late we were and yet not a wince of anxiety passed our faces! We were built that way, eternal optimists!

Pushing forward the heavy doors of The Real Greek Restaurant and stumbling in from the cold, I stepped forth with the bravado of the cavalry and explained to the manager that we had booked a table for 5.30pm.

But you are late! Why did you not inform us before…?” He was not very pleased at all, however I detected a little vulnerability in his voice and to that I tunnelled through and whizzed up my next reply with the artifice of the Artful Dodger himself!

Oh, well, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for that: We are not from here and tried our very best to find your establishment, unfortunately we got terribly lost somewhere back there, and now that I am here I am so so so happy to have found you..!” I winked my dimple smile at him and he melted in the manner of an ice-cube on a hot stove!

Ok, ok, your table is still here. Follow me…” He casually walked us to our table at the back of the room, a cosy spot with families and children sat around us, the laughter of life and the spirit of the evening in its most convivial form and it lit up the whitewashed walls of the quaint and warm eatery in which we took solace in the late hours. Thanks to Chiara – you remember our beautiful friend from Molly’s Den?! – we followed up her recommendation and it was indeed everything she made it out to be! We plonked down, satisfied and relieved, and enormously eager to taste the delicacies of the Mediterranean continent, to let it consummate our palate with victorious deliverance!

Our final night in the magnificent capital, London, overseer of countless brilliant writers of the centuries, and here we were, scoffing down our dishes in rapid zest, abandoning our ladylike etiquette to the wind, and then only to proceed to order a round of beverages. Before embarking on the trip, Chiara, with calculated poise, had used a spot of reverse psychology on me so that when the waiter asked me what I would like to drink, I said – and I strongly advise You to wear Your seat belt as I gather up the courage to say this, “I am going go for your house special, your famous Greek coffee served extra sweet, please!

The other two friends of mine stared at my face as if they had seen the visage of a morbid apparition float before their eyes. I caught their gaze and simply replied in an indifferent tone of voice, without making a huge festivity of oddness about it, “Oh, blame Chiara!” We all let out a chuckle and for this once, I suppose, I ought to comply with that famous adage ‘When in Rome..’, and that is exactly what I did!

As the night wore on outside, the bittersweet Greek coffee that arrived to our table in the tiniest cups imaginable, echoed stunningly the rich and dark mysteries of the unfathomable nocturnal hours, the leagues of untold knowledge we saw in towering kingdoms of books, and the coiling and convoluted narratives that belonged to a heroine out to restore and return to its true home a most priceless treasure of Time.  And so we laced the conclusion of our literary adventures, quite appropriately, with one last picture of the books whose contents threw down a beacon of dazzling light, at times funny and contemplative, and then, in unison, we raised our three cups of wholesome coffee and let their ceramic sides touch and tinkle high above the centre of the table, advancing our motto with charisma and smiles:

To the forever power of books and friendship♥♥♥    

The Concluding Chapter!

“… And so we laced the conclusion of our literary adventures, quite appropriately, with one last picture of the books whose contents threw down a beacon of dazzling light, at times funny and contemplative…”

The Concluding Chapter!

“… “To the forever power of books and friendship…”

 

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | The Real Greek In Covent Garden | London | UK 2016

Christmas Month Puzzle Box 5: On The Matter Of Coffee and Canons!

Miss Beth pulls tightly round her fair face the fur lining of her hoody coat
To mask out deathly blows between Spanish galleon and the fleet of British boat
Plumes of smoke and ash, the birthmarks of mind-blowing canons heavy and black
Hulls blown into and masts fallen, though treasure chest remains intact
A battle on the seas played beyond the shores now famous for its berry rounded beans
Coffee I speak of and doth thou pour Colombian from thy coffee bean machines?
I have no fancy for such ‘rabbits droppings’, that is what they seem to me
But I confess I have entered a coffee house but only for wholesome tea
And may I direct Your attention to Starbucks, although there really is no star in there
Hop into my red balloon, away on Google Maps there’s something I want to share
Situated on 186 Earls Court in London, the number is that of Light speed I attest
But to those whose spelling is slightly shaky they shall think they are richly blessed
For what appears as a mundane coffee joint in the heart of London, one easily forgot
Shall to a Colombian coffee lover equal to 186 Pearls Caught ♥♥♥


LINK TO 186 STARBUCKS COFFEE HOUSE:
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/place/Starbucks+Coffee/@51.4930289,-0.1944671,15z/data=!4m2!3m1!1s0x0:0xcf08069f5836477e

LINK TO COLOMBIAN TREASURE FIND: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-latin-america-35014600

 

Christmas Month Puzzle Box 5: On The Matter Of Coffee and Canons!

“Miss Beth pulls tightly round her fair face the fur lining of her hoody coat, To mask out deathly blows between Spanish galleon and the fleet of British boat…”

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2015

Off To Paddington’s London!

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Oh I’d better fill You in for why this munchkin bears a marmalade grin
She’s off to see Grandma in London, the city that’s second home to furry skin!
Summer holidays have begun for this little sprite of three foot and a crumbly bit
Tonight travelling on the Underground Tube, not a ship – c’mon, use your wit!
Oh I do envy my sweet pixie for heading to stations on which brown paws have walked
Where a red hat has bobbed, flipped down escalators hence news that’s still talked!
I have earnestly asked her that should she see him, my stowaway bear, do not mockingly laugh
Simply tell him we’ll meet someday and kindly ask him for an autograph…!

EPILOGUE & NEWS: Just in – thank you Lady Destiny, your timing is a perfection of timeliness! Paddington, born on the 25th of two months, travelled on a marmalade-smudged steamer ship, crossing the choppy waters of the Atlantic to attend a game of baseball. I do believe he also indulged in a spot of Stateside trip of the roads – oh dear, that sounds rather monotonous, I meant to say a road trip, Stateside! He added this little memento into his scrapbook after quickly realising that his memory is beyond awful and that he needed to do something in order to ensure he would forever remember his fun-filled time across the pond. I am inclined to regard it as ticklishly amusing that he printed his name in there too – Paddy, my Love, don’t tell me that you are prone to forgetting who you are?! Oh dear me, dear! Giggle, giggle…!!!

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/PaddingtonBear/photos/a.157585777634955.33066.125079994218867/930494057010786/?type=1&theater

Off To Paddington’s London!

“… “Let’s go! Let’s go!” Oh I’d better fill You in for why this munchkin bears a marmalade grin
She’s off to see Grandma in London, the city that’s second home to furry skin…”

Photography & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Summer Garden Party | Winchester | UK 2015  

Meet Colonel Green Tweed!

Every which way I turned, the serpentine streets of London showed themselves to be empires of frenzied footsteps made of scampering strangers, cramped spaces teeming with a living museum of the city’s diverse and complex human characters. I had only just sprung out from the underground tube and into the reassurance of familiar daylight when this rather dapper and stylishly suited gentleman appeared out of the corner of my eye! Donned in green tweed, monocle confidently propped up, festooned with a bushy moustache on a canvas of face that was generously rotund and complementing his equally portly belly, I was curious to know precisely what such a figure of dignified antiquity was viewing on his phone. Perhaps he was requesting that he should be sent back to his own TIME? Or, was he texting Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, demanding to know where his pick-up car had gone that was promised to him? What a delight that this eccentric chap should spark endless stories in my head and to remind me that even in the most chaotic and impersonal of places my eyes could still make out exquisite pockets of magic…

Meet Colonel Green Tweed!

“Donned in green tweed, monocle confidently propped up, festooned with a bushy moustache on a canvas of face that was generously rotund and complementing his equally portly belly…”


Photograph & Journal Excerpt:
 © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Central London | UK 2014

A Study Of My Uncle’s Tea-Shirt!

No, no Rana Mama (Uncle), you have got it all wrong and twisted and misshapen! Diesel does not make for successful living (T-shirt slogans are hugely telling of one’s dispositions)! Wellington boots, violins, books, tea and silver moonlight win me any day but the smoothie sludge of fossilised creatures, I do not think so! Get with the programme, Mama! I shall acquit you this time round since you are doing a most marvellous job in this photograph at making two very fine ladies smile as if they are welcoming a national hero back to the homestead! Close shave Mama, close shave!

P.S. To those who read my previous post, does it not look like as if the luscious vine pattern from our red Chinese teapot has magically teleported and boisterously spread itself across my Aunty’s living room wall….? :))

A Study Of My Uncle's Tea-Shirt!

“… Wellington boots, violins, books, tea and silver moonlight win me any day but the smoothie sludge of fossilised creatures, I do not think so! Get with the programme, Mama…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Spring Reunion Series | London | UK 2015

La Dolce Vita!

Budge over Mr Amundsen and Mr Shackleton, both you chaps have some enormously LARGE SHOES to fill ahead of you because neither of you were able to cross between the polar caps as fast and as industriously as our Prime Minister of Strawberries, Lady Tania who in this scene shimmies from pole to pole without even a hint of doubt or trepidation suggested in the sway of her actions! On the contrary, she seems to be far more concerned with making it known that her sense of style even in the most treacherous of conditions is never for one moment under threat. Keeping up appearances no matter what the task ahead – how very British of her! In conclusion, I postulate that all who have entertained the idea of death-defying polar explorations for the future should invest in a strawberry red woolly and, to add credence to my argument, experiments are already under way at CERN to determine whether such coloured apparel proffers an advantage in establishing a symbiotic relation between the wearer and the Earth’s magnetic field and therefore help speed up the trek to the polar cap. WHAT? Why are you LAUGHING?! Oh, do go and bogwash your head down the toilet! Giggle, giggle!

La Dolce Vita!

“… Budge over Mr Amundsen and Mr Shackleton, both you chaps have some enormously large shoes to fill ahead of you because neither of you were able to cross between the polar caps as fast and as industriously as our Prime Minister of Strawberries, Lady Tania…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Spring Reunion Series | London | UK 2015

Undercover Bobby Captures Mastermind! Mumsy Still On Loose!

MI6 have just confirmed that the short stripy one you see
Is in fact an employee of the British Intelligence Agency!
Oh my goodness gracious me, he had us all fooled yesterday!
Stubby hands known to have detained criminals, as far as India’s Bombay
But like all our Brit Bobbies, he captures his witless prey with a smile
Hence, his older offending brother gives in to this unique arresting style
Do not become complacent for there is one more thief, a plump plum on the loose
Approach her with caution otherwise risk losing your heart to my Mother Goose…!!

Undercover Bobby Captures Mastermind! Mumsy Still On Loose!

“… MI6 have just confirmed that the short stripy one you see
Is in fact an employee of the British Intelligence Agency…”

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | International Amma Day | Spring Re-Union Series | Winchester | UK 2015