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Role Reversal

Fruit wala in Juhu Market

While in Bombay, which seems like an age ago, my mother and I are walking down Juhu market.

Every inch of it is dug up. They dig up the road every single fucking year. It’s a government tradition. Like corruption (See? I can be political.)

Cars are honking constantly and ricks are driven by lunatics. It’s a chaotic, noisy, pot-hole filled, obstacle course.

My mother is not looking up as we are trying to cross the road, and is furiously texting some bum-chum.

“Mom, must we do this now? You can text who-ever when we get home or are off the road.”

“Haan, but it’s urgent! I need to reply to Vivek about our milonga!”

(Apparently a milonga is some dancing get-together thingummy. My mother has grown addicted to Salsa and Tango classes.)

Our roles have rather reversed of late.

For her birthday my mother wore some deadly off-shoulder, tight, lace mini (see above), while I was fully covered up to the neck.

She was dancing away, while I was at the bar drinking.

Chatting to my folks these days is like have a conversation with teenagers.

Mom’s tango class teacher (who is 30 years her junior) is sulking.

People have left his class and have gone to someone else’s class, then have being saying all these bitchy things about him behind his back, so he’s upset and is now saying he won’t come to Mom’s milonga and if he doesn’t come, Mom won’t enjoy the milonga because he’s her favourite and so she’s trying to convince him to come to the milonga. 

Who knew you could say milonga so many times in one sentence?

She’s such a dedicated student that she became class assistant. That’s my Mom – class apple polisher.

All this milonga drama and dance class back stabbing made me have vivid school flashbacks.

“Oh my god! Have you heard?? Karishma said that Shipali said that she had a pakoda-nose-pimply-face! No one is going to talk to her ever again!”

That actually happened. Then it turned out that the person who said that the other person said that thing about their nose was lying, so no one talked to her after that. (A garbled business, I know) It brought her crashing down from position of social queen to social leper (for a little while anyway).

It was perfect example of social politics (I love school politics, don’t you?). Instead of taking part I documented it in detail in my diary back then like a huge nerd.

I told my mother that I recommended a nice tight slap for Sulky.

“Aare how can you say that? Poor fellow. These people are being damn mean. But there’s so much politics in this small tango community of ours.”

I love how my father says that. Like he’s experienced dance politics for eons.

“Yes, of course. Didn’t you watch Black Swan?”

I’ve learned a lot from Black Swan. That and watching ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ religiously.

“I thought I had resolved and smoothed out issues but then today he’s sulking all over again.”

“You should just leave it. What is this? High school?”

Seriously. I feel old listening to this.

“Just tell mom to slap him. Slap him hard.”

Man I really want my mother to slap someone.

“Mom says how can you talk like that? Poor chap. These people are making his life a misery. They say they don’t like his dancing. How can expect him not too sulk?”

Oh.my.god. So much drrrrrama!

“But if they don’t like it, they don’t like it! Loads of people tell me they don’t like my drawings. I’m not so lame that I would sulk. He needs to grow up.”

“Mom says she will bash up these people who say this to you.”

You see – This is what happens when you get a tattoo. You’ll start trying to ‘bash up’ people for no reason.

“Then she needs to bash – Munt, My boss, The ex, and various other sentimental types. Tell this guy to sort it out and go to the milonga.”

The ex and Monty think I need to be more ‘commercial’. They don’t approve of my dark material. Kittens and ponies, that’s what I need to draw. Preferably kittens riding ponies. You just can’t go wrong with material like that.

“Mom says she can kick ass. She works out at the gym. She says tell them that when she comes she’ll kick their ass.”

Aw. Mom is gonna fight people.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

She’s gotten another tattoo by the way (ankle). Thought you’d like to know.

The Goa Airport

Hideous statues at Goa airport. I mean, who commissioned these monstrosities? And then grouped them for Christmas? Like that's doing anyone a favour.

Back dated post (such a bad habit) from my Goa Trip & New Years Eve. 

The next morning, while still buzzing from the night before, I went for swim after breakfast. The ex was still groggy and refused to leave the hut.

It was amazing. Really it was. I think I was still high, which made it feel even better. I wore my sun glasses in the water.

Then me, the ex and PhD all smoked one last one before we left for the airport.

PhD got into an argument with a young, mustachioed policeman at the Goa airport entrance about how they should open both airport entrances, therefore making everything more efficient and that he shouldn’t just accept the status quo but try to change things! Yes We Can! Jai Ho! I have dream! Friends, Foes, Countrymen!

Clearly the effects of the smoke had worn off.

The ex tried to drag him away but he wouldn’t budge. This lecture/debate lasted 15 minutes. His hindi is only marginally better than mine, so it was with some horror that we left him to it and joined the line for security (X-raying the bags)

Maddening bureaucracy and pointless red tape cripple the Goa Airport. (PhD had a point after all, but don’t annoy a cop just as you are about to board a flight is all I say).

One Goa airport rule is that all airlines have their own security stickers for your bags post-screening. Imagine that – Printing all the different types of stickers for each airline, then managing who is being screened for what flight and then matching the stickers correctly. Logistically it’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever witnessed.

Since my mother made us reach the airport some 2 hours in advance for our flight – She fucking tricked us! She told us there might be lots of traffic and we should leave early! It was a scam. I’m sure of it. There was no traffic. She loves to get people waiting at airports. Some OCD thing – So security weren’t even ready for our flight – Surprise surprise, our bags got the wrong sticker.

When we went up to the check-in counter, the counter lady said,

“Aare! You can’t fly with the wrong stickers on your bags! You must screen them again.”

PhD promptly had a fight with the counter lady. Most definitely the mal had worn off.

“What difference do the stickers make? They are all generic anyway!”

The counter lady seemed baffled, both by the use of the word ‘generic’ and his casual rejection of the immutable laws of the Goa airport. Then he said,

“We’re leaving the bags with you. This is your problem! You made the mistake and you should sort it out for us! Why should we screen them again? Come on guys, we’re going to the waiting lounge.”

I thought, I’m not leaving my bag unattended you madman!

Luckily no one listened to him. No one ever listens to the academics, thank god.

By this time the ex was getting rather hot under the collar. The ex gets very agitated with unforeseen occurrences. It’s so cute.

The ex then scolded me severely for taking that photo above of the mind blowingly hideous airport statues instead of sorting out our luggage issue.

Plus I had 2 lighters in my bag because Goa Airport, unlike all other airports in the world, still implements the ‘no lighter’ policy (even if the lighter is in your checked-in luggage), just because they can’t be bothered to change it.. So I had to open 2 suitcases to hunt for the lighters.

There was a hidden 3rd lighter which I only found back in Bombay once I unpacked! Hah! Take that Goa Airport!

Then we settled down to find some snacks. While we stood in the queue at a food counter waiting to buy some samosas, PhD got impatient, (Yes We Can! Challenge the status quo! Jai Ho!) went off on his own and returned with an armful of samosas.

Unfortunately everyone else waiting patiently in the queue had just been served. So in the end we had nearly 4 extra plates of huge samosas.

I told PhD he really should run for Mayor of Goa.

The Distance from Bombay

Just watched Dhobi Ghat. The first Hindi movie I have seen in the cinema in over a decade. Probably more.

The last movie I watched starred Aishwarya Rai and two other dudes (I can’t remember who, maybe Salman Khan). She has an arranged marriage, her boyfriend who is heart-broken goes to Europe (if he could afford to go off on a jaunt, why didn’t they just elope? And who was giving him a visa anyway?). Then her hubby takes her to Europe to look for her boyfriend (instead of bitch slapping her), so there are 2 hours of moping and fucking singing on the Swiss alps with sulky wife and earnest hubby to find sexy boyfriend. Finally Aishwarya Rai finds boyfriend only to tell him, I love you and shit, but my hubby is my duty (whatever) so chalo bye. The end.

The girl sitting next to me switched seats half-way through the movie because my huffing-puffing and violent eye rolling interrupted her crying. I can’t say I feel particularly bad about it. She was damn sentimental and the movie’s conservative moral message made me want to puke. (This is also the same girl who broke up with someone because they tried to hold her hand.)

Dhobi Ghat (which I liked very much) stayed well away from the easy-breezy-cheezy ending. It seemed (to me anyway) more like a love letter to Bombay. But don’t worry, I won’t be playing critic anytime soon on this blog. This is just a post about feeling a tad homesick.

Visiting home is the highlight of my year. I pretty much look forward to it for 11 months out of the 12.

I like to imagine, if things fall apart here in London, that I would move back. That I would love it. That I would fit in easily. Recently I’ve started to doubt these fine sentiments. Would I really? Would I miss the independence of London? Would my folks drive me crazy? What do I even know about Bombay now? It’s been over 8 years.

It’s like a good friend you used to hang out with in school or college. You move away and you’re still in touch via the internet, but when you meet in person you suddenly find you have nothing in common anymore. A long distance, email based relationship is the only one you have left.

Bombay (for me) has shrunk into two separate and extreme worlds.

One is the ideal Bombay, the dream Bombay – The garden, sitting outside at night drinking and smoking. My friends, the ones I see only once a year, (usually in the garden). Sea View and Rang Sharda and the few places I remember from long ago, the places I can take a taxi to without having a mental breakdown. The lazy Bombay, where chai is brought to you every morning and you’re fed properly for lunch. Not the London dusty tea-bagged shite. Kaddi-Chaval and Pav Bhaji and Misti doi from Parsi Dairy. The perfect Bombay.

Then there is the nightmare Bombay – Of being lost in a city you should know but don’t, the people staring at you when you just want to go unnoticed. Random men who seem to constantly hang around on the street, everywhere. Endless crowds of people, no sense of space. This feeling of anxiety, alienation and paranoia. The Bombay I hate.

This last visit the feeling seemed heightened. The longer I stay in London, the more the two Bombays spin away from each other and become more and more extreme.

I was meeting Riddhi and Lovebunny at Alfredo’s, near Juhu Market. A mere 6 minute walk from my house. I used to take this walk nearly everyday when I was in college.

Now my mother wanted me to call her as soon as I got there to know if “I’ve reached safely”. People will put me in a van and take me away, she says. I will get raped, she says. She worries she says. (Again, this rape business. My mothers favourite subject. No wonder I turned out so fucking fucked.)

I’m too gori now, she says.

Sigh.

It was clear that I was no longer the Mumbaiker I used to be (and I was a pretty useless one to begin with), and it depressed me.

London is nothing like a home. When people ask me where I live, I always say

“Oh, I’m staying in London, right now, but my home is in Bombay”.

But at least in London I am totally invisible. No one ever notices me. I’m relatively independent. I have no fear of rape taxis (which admittedly is irrational, but knowing that changes nothing), I don’t think twice about walking around late at night (which is stupid). I never ask anyone to drop me home. I’m not anxious. But then, there is also no feeling of belonging.

Watching Dhobi ghat made me feel quite home sick. I feel like Bombay is moving further and further away the longer I stay here. Even when I was there, it was at a distance.

Leaving Bombay

 

Wah Wah Rona dhona

Last year, when I left Bombay, my parents dropped me off at the airport. (Well, they always drop me to the airport.)

As soon as I got there, I saw the check-in queue and started crying.

Sure, the queue was long, but not long enough to make me cry. My parents had already left, and I was relieved not to be bawling in front of them. The humiliation. The humiliation.

I’ve never done this before, crying at an airport. It freaked me out.

Initially I tried crying discreetly, but that’s the worst thing you can do. There is no way to cry discreetly, you just start making weird scrunchy faces. Everyone starts looking to see why you’re acting strange.

It’s better to give up and just cry quietly. Then no one tried looking. No one wants to look at someone crying.

Not only did I cry, but I didn’t stop crying right through check-in, walking through security, immigration, waiting in the duty-free and even on the flight. (Immigration didn’t seem remotely suspicious of my sniveling. Maybe it looked good that I didn’t want to go abroad.)

At first the ex tried to be comforting and was giving me the ‘there-there-pat-pats’, then after a bit tried the ‘come-on-now-stop-this’ and then the ‘everyone-is-looking-hiss’ and finally a few hours in just gave up and ignored me.

Half-way through the flight I ran out of steam (thank god), when we landed I was reasonably cheerful. By the time we got back to the flat I was in a great mood.

(No, it wasn’t PMS, which always gets the blame for any display of emotions. An emotion is no less real just because you happen to have a uterus.)

Well, anyway there were no such dramatics this time out. It was all very sedate. I was at the airport 3 hours early because my mother gets very twitchy out about flights (she used to be an air-hostess). She won’t stop nagging from the moment you get up until you’re in the car. Just to get some peace and quiet you do what she says. It’s a good tactic.

So I spent Rs.1000 on a 30 min back and neck massage. Yup.

I felt very slick doing that, like a professional traveller instead of a sniveling idiot.

Ladies Night

Note: I’m so back-dated on my posts that I’m still writing about Bombay, even though I’ve been in London for nearly a month. But regardless…

In my quest to find Mumbai-chi lesbians I coerced Riddhi and J to come with me to the ‘Ladies Night’ at Firangi Pani. Ladies night, from 8:00 pm to 9:30 pm, advertised free drinks for all girls.

Apparently this draws all the lesbians like moths to a flame. (At least this is what I had heard, hence my coercing J to take me there.)

First Riddhi insisted we needed to go with Lovebunny to the middle of nowhere, to pick up a free pizza. It took us an hour to get there and back. Riddhi drove back while Lovebunny ate and gave a running commentary on Riddhi’s driving. I sat in the back listening to an Adele song on repeat. I’m not sure why we did this chakkar instead of just going somewhere for a drink while Lovebunny went to pick up his pizza. I’m sure there was a reason, but I never understood it.

We finally get to Firangi Pani, just as the Ladies night-time slot was ending (slot is such a dirty word, especially in the context of ‘ladies night’). Three more women turn up to join us (yay).

The place is disappointing. It’s gloomy and enclosed. The DJ is playing soft rock very, very loudly. Riddhi grows to hate the DJ. He was playing Nickleback and Green Day I can’t say I really blame her…(Ok look don’t tell Riddhi but after a drink or two I quite like Nickleback). There were no discernible lesbians in sight and worst of all, you couldn’t smoke.

There is no terrace for smoking, only a small room in a corridor, much like a dentist’s waiting room, with two bland black couches and some tables. There is a match box with only 3 matches in it on the table. There are two tall, industrial sized ash trays. The room reeks of stale smoke. There are large glass doors facing a lady’s toilet. At least the Ladies night theme is consistent.

The majority of the women a la FP’s Ladies Night seem to be camped in the smoking room. As were we, for most of the evening. Dreary as it was, it was better than the inside of Firangi Pani. J and I think we have spotted at least one lesbian (in the smoking room because that was where the party’s at yo). We are very excited. Yes that’s right, that’s how lame we are.

When we all run out of drink coupons (4 each) we give up on the lesbian hunt and bounce to Bonobo. At least you can smoke and drink simultaneously. At Bonono we play sex Antakshari (you name sex related things instead of songs) for an hour, because in our old age we can’t go anywhere without playing a game.

J keeps appending words in front of the word ‘pussy’ for various letters. ‘Y’ – ‘yummy pussy’, S – sweet pussy, H – hot pussy, and so on. She really likes to say pussy. She lengthens and really drawls out the word ‘pussy’.

‘Yummmmmmy Puuuuuusssssssssy’, like so. With relish. I begin to wonder if she likes it a bit too much.

Eventually we leave and go back to the garden to wind up the night (or is it wind down? You wind up a yo-yo, but then a wind-up toy eventually winds down….I’m confused. And English is my first language).

We sit around smoking and drinking, trying to zap mosquitos with my brother’s electric racket. J, the reigning Queen of the electric racket, nails them every time. Sometimes twice . *wink wink nudge nudge*

Riddhi forces us to play more games. She has become some gaming demon. There is always at least one board games in her purse so at 2 am in the semi-dark, we are playing a variety of games (which is the best time to play really). I got into it and now I have an intense desire to play cards while drinking.

I learned how to play Shithead, Icall, Mongoose , Masala Uno and Sequence. I’ve never had such a solid repertoire. But if you’re not careful, Riddhi will start yelling if you break any of the arbitrary rules of that particular game.

“THE RULES SAY NO TALKING! NO TALKING!!”

“YOU CAN’T PLAY THAT! IT’S CHEATING!!”

or

“IF YOU DON’T PICK A CARD YOU FORFEIT YOUR CARD!”

She is rather Fascist about game play (which I secretly enjoy).

My evenings in Bombay usually end with a stint in the garden. I like to soak up as much of the garden as possible while I can. London is such an ice box that I probably will be wearing sweaters and double socks well into June.

It’s also a very comforting way to end an evening and if you’re really lucky you might win a few rounds of cards.

Mumbai Photos

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Commuting Unchaperoned

Rape Taxi

My mother never let me take a rick until I was 15. She’d tell me how people get taken away and raped in ricks. Like this was standard procedure. This wasn’t the occasional remark either. This rick-rape was drilled into my fragile eggshell brain until it cracked.

She didn’t let me cross the road alone until I was 12. In case I got hit by a truck. Like that too, was standard procedure. This is why I came to the strong belief that she only had two kids so one would be a back up if the other died. (Although this is my theory about why all people have more than one child, a genetic back-up as it were)

The sum result of all this conditioning is that now I have a high level of anxiety when traveling alone at night in Bombay. It doesn’t even have to be particularly late. (I can’t drive yet, and I’ve been in London so long there never seemed to be any point in learning. I can barely afford public transport, much less a car)

After 10pm I start feeling a slight anxiety but it’s still OK, 10 pm isn’t really late. At around 11:00-11:30pm there’s a knot right at the pit of my stomach. I make sure I watch the road incase he tries and leads me down some dead-end alley. After 12 I’m gripping the side of the rick and planning escapes.

One of R.’s friends was telling us a story about how when she was 3 she got lost and now every time she gets lost (if she is driving) she cries. Or if she’s stuck in traffic for ages, she cries. At the time this sounded a bit bonkers, but on reflection I’m very nearly crying when stressed.

So I’m standing with my mother at around 7:30-8:00pm on some hole of a street in Bandra, she’s on her way to Tango classes and I’m on my way to R. classes of smoking.

We find a taxi after 30 minutes of waiting. He’s a young guy. My mom says,

“Hmmmm he looks a bit young….”

But I get in because there are no other taxis around and we have been waiting for ages. I ask him to take me to Worli Naka by the Sea Link. He has to ask another cab for directions. This ought to have been my cue to ditch this cab, but I didn’t. He drove jerkily, slowly and stalling occasionally. This also ought to have been my cue to ditch this cab, but I didn’t.

He kept asking guys in passing ricks and taxis for directions. Go straight they said, and then turn left. I had to stop him from turning after every straight and left. Then he tries to go up on the highway to Pune. I started to wish I could ditch this cab, but I couldn’t.

Then he goes up on the right ramp to the Sea Link at last. I breathe deeply. Now how can he possibly get lost? After 5 minutes I notice he’s taken the exit lane on the right and is going back to where we started.

My mother calls to check up on me;

“Where are you now?”

“This guy can’t drive. He’s on the sea link and has just taken a full chakkar around”

She immediately goes into hysterics;

“GIVE ME THE CAB NUMBER! YOU’RE GOING TO GET RAPED!! HE WILL TAKE YOU AWAY AND RAPE YOU!!! GIVE ME THE CAB NUMBER! PASS HIM THE PHONE!! YOU CAN’T GET OUT OF THE CAB! YOU CAN’T GET OUT OF THE CAB ON THE HIGHWAY!! LISTEN TO ME!! YOU WILL GET RAPED!!”

Do you see why I have anxiety? This is hardly helpful.

I insist I am getting out of this cab, he is fundamentally useless and he can’t even drive. I refuse to even try to take him to Shazu’s house. I don’t know the way and this guy knows even less than me. It is my long-standing belief that at least one person in a moving vehicle ought to know something and I no longer expect this fool of a U.P.ite bhaiya, who left his farm the day-before-yesterday to learn how to drive, to know the streets of Bombay.

My mother forces me to go to Lilavati Hospital by screaming about rape and calling every 5 minutes.

“Mom! I can’t concentrate on anything if you keep calling! I have to get out of this cab! He doesn’t know anything! Fine!! I’ll stop at Lilavati Ok? I’m not going anywhere! We’re stuck in traffic!!”

R. calls to ask me where the hell I am. She tells me I might not get a cab at Lilavati. I insist I am ditching this cab. Shazu calls to tell me he will speak to the cabbie, I say no I am getting out of this cab. Shazu tells me I might not get a cab at Lilavati. I insist I am getting out of this cab. Then I hang up.

So I’m stuck in non-moving traffic on the road to Lilavati for 30 minutes. I could have just hopped out across the road but the taxi was on the right and it could have been awkward. My mother was frantic by this point and it was only 8:00pm. It was maddening, I wanted to cry. Instead I yelled at this cabbie in my fuck-all broken hindi. Why did he waste my time if he doesn’t know where he was going?

I also wished I was someone who could speak better hindi only so I could give galis in a proper, legit way. Like R. or J. or a fisherwoman

Then, to add insult to injury, I even had to pay him.

Chut.

Never Throw Stones Beta

R is for...Rocks

Based on A4′s sterling recommendation, R. & I decide to take a loafing chakkar to this “pink rupee friendly” shop called Azaad Bazaar in Macapau central (Bandra), the only gay shop in the village.

If you happen to live with your folks in Bombay and if you plan on engaging in non-PG rated activities, you have to go somewhere where granny, auntie, uncle and third cousin brother won’t see you. The somewhere is the problem. Everywhere has people and people are annoying.

So R. drives, this is a pretty good solution, barring the traffic. You are enclosed in a portable room with music and air-conditioning. We painstakingly drive through garage gully, which has a wedding party moving at snail’s pace across the road.

The bride looks oldish. She is fat and is wearing jade greens and bright reds while walking under the usual bridal umbrella. She faintly resembled a bejeweled, decorated toad under a creamy mushroom.

I point out the toad-bride gleefully and R. viciously suggests all weddings in Bombay ought to be and should be banned. Additionally all people who cause traffic jams, even for a minute, shall be thrashed.

Bombay traffic is like the wild wild west. There are no rules but the rules made by the brave. If your car can survive a car crash, you win. I once knew a guy who carried a big stick in his car, just to beat up people who cut him. This guy was, clearly, a psychopath, but nonetheless a psychopath with a driver’s license.

I can’t drive, so it all seems quite stressful. You know yelling, gesturing at taxi drivers, mader chods and fuck you’s all the time. My danda is bigger than your danda.

R. says I need stones. Big stones.

But I only have small, small pebbles. So maybe I’ll never drive.

Speaking of pebbles and stones, we drive past the ‘Rambo Circus’, the event du jour in Bombay (aprox. Rs. 500 per ticket). R. suggests we visit and chuck rocks at them. There is an elephant in captivity and they make it perform humiliating tricks. I’m with R. on this, in sentiment, but I have no stones to be running about throwing stones. That’s her boyfriends job.

Rambo Circus, Elephant oppressors

So instead I offer R. a Christmas present of a bag of large rocks. I tell her I’ll monogram them, I’ll paint them in rainbow colours. She can chuck them at taxis, rickshaws, wedding processions, cheap circuses, anything she likes. Her victims will look down and see this rainbow rock with a mobile number and name, maybe a slogan

“Apake pat’thara hai kaphi bada?”

It’ll be a great calling card. R. will be infamous. Notorious. I think this is an excellent idea. For some reason R. rejects my kind offer. She only will throw anonymous stones.

Later I see a rick which has “RIDDHI” written on the back of it. I’m very happy. It’s a sign. A sign that she should throw a rock at it. Again she refuses. She loves to say no to me.

We finally get to Azbaz, which is a cute, tiny shop full of rainbow coloured items and T-shirts with slogan. There’s a little curtained corner outside where you can help yourself to tea/coffee and sit and chill.

A4 spoke of fields and fields of baby dykes hanging out there. Baby dykes with cropped hair and leather wrist cuffs, low slung jeans and quiffs, full of love-lorn angst and bravado drinking coffee and eyeing each other up.

A4 also mentioned that 5pm-6pm was the best time to visit since most college students were done by then. We were unfortunately (stupid traffic) unpunctual and missed our time slot. There wasn’t even a single, teeny-tiny baby dyke in sight. Not the one.

We were going to sit there but R. wanted to ‘send it’ and I’m too paranoid to be doing that in an open public space. Right at that moment a bunch of gays turned up so we bounced. (check out my Bombay lingo. Aren’t I ‘hip’?)

Maybe I should use the Azbaz notice board “Wanted: Posse of lesbians. L word style. Baby dykes optional”

26 degrees of Heaven

Home with the Mariott looming behind like some god-awful Borg hive.

Home at long last.

I fretted all week, first about the snow, then that my suitcases would be too heavy.

As it is I could barely lift it. I packed all the books I could, even my highly dubious, hard-backed red journals full of psychotic scrawls, and occasional complaints about the Munt. It’s dangerous to leave stuff like that with my parents, but I’m hoping my spider scribble scrawls will turn off anyone trying to read them.

There was a girl on the Heathrow Express, of ambiguous nationality and accent, who seemed even more clueless and useless than I am in general.

And this made me happy.

The ticket inspector came around and I showed him my ticket print out. He scans the reference bar at the top with a portable scanner.

This girl sitting next to me hands him a similar piece of paper

He looks at it and looks at her.

“Where is your ticket?”

She looks at him mutely and then says

“Oh”

He looks at her then looks at the ticket, then looks at his colleague.

“Where is your ticket? This is not a ticket. It’s just a print out. You needed to type in this code here, see? In one of the machines and it will give you a ticket.”

She says

“Oh” again and says “I have other papers…”

He says

“No no, its fine”

and turns again to his colleague, as if to say silently “Now what do I do with this?”

“How did you even get here?”

he asks as he turns back to face her

She looks totally baffled. But the absolute blankness of her face saved her. It was just void, of any thought, of any kind.

“They saw my ticket and said it was fine…”

(It’s not a ticket)

The ticket guy looks astonished. He shrugs at his coworker.

Then says to her finally,

“OK. Next time you need to get a ticket. This is just a piece of paper. It’s not a ticket. I can’t do anything with a piece of paper. OK?”

She just stares at him. He leaves. His face is priceless.

She was also confused about how to get to Terminal 4. She followed me around a bit.

I felt nice to be the less ditzy one out of the 2 of us. Not that that’s saying a great deal.

It turns out all that fretting was for nothing, the check-in counter guy said my bags were 10kg lighter than my allowance of 46 kg. Arrgh Damn it! I feel cheated.

I should have brought my scanner. I’m dying to scan shit. I love mini-holiday projects and I especially love organising. Scanning and organising. *sigh*. (This is besides sitting out in the garden, and I think this will be the first time Leo, Riddhi and I will all be on holiday.)

My bed with mosquito netting.

The cottage is looking lovelier than ever the plants look lush and are running riot. The much dreaded re-build depresses me. There are creeping vines with those sweet-smelling red, pink and white flowers that grow in little clumps, and the bora tree all of which the builder will have to axe I dare say. Had a long discussion with parents about the position of the patio and the size of the veranda. The size of the veranda on the plans concern me slightly. I want to lose as little garden as possible.

Still its 26 degrees, I’m neither wearing socks nor cowering by the heater. I have a couple of Agatha Christie’s to read and Luigi the cat is wonderfully friendly.

He’s a good ol’ cat. In fact he’s just the kind of cat I like. He lets me pet his tummy and enjoys it with gusto. Look at that silly face

Luigi smiling like a smug fool

Also my father has grown the most outrageous mustache. Apparently for some play.

Seriously, outrageous.

He said he accidentally shaved one side off when he forgot he was growing it.

And had to go to a wedding with one side missing. Everyone was staring, so he told them

“Aare this is a new style, my director is making me grow it for a play”