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
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.”
“Oh” again and says “I have other papers…”
“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.)
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
Also my father has grown the most outrageous mustache. Apparently for some play.
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”