Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a friend.
For ten years, we shared the joys and sorrows, the wakeful nights, the happy mornings, the contented hours and the disturbed ones. We celebrated and mourned together. Travelled, moved house, worked, partied, grew up.
We were together for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer. A daydream believer and a homecoming queen.
There is a lot of hearty, strident stuff spoken about quitting the habit, mostly because, like marriage, it's incomprehensible from the outside – you need to be in it to understand it. Someone described it as a magic wand that changes everything and quitting is hard because there isn't another one to replace it. Actually it is the closest companion, the truest love and the fairy godmother wielding the magic wand, all rolled into one.
A ten-year relationship is a hard one to end, but I did. As Hugh Grant says in Love Actually, "I fear this has become a bad relationship and from now on I am prepared to be much stronger". I finally got tired of the tyranny of this habit, angry about feeling helpless, dragged along in the wake of yet another compulsion. Tired enough, once more, to walk away from this sort of thing.
And now I need to go out to find creatures smaller than me and kill them just to watch them die. And I hope that you, dearly beloved who are reading this, will get fleas.
The quit-smoking programme said I'll stop feeling homicidal in two weeks. It also warned that heavy smokers would experience real feelings of bereavement.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
An uneasy valentine
A side-effect of researching the history of Indian Railways is an involuntary feeling of respect, in spite of yourself, for an empire that fully earned the word mighty. And a fresh disdain for the lesser version being attempted now.
The old invader was ruthlessly feudal, magnificently arrogant and calmly self-centered. The new one wears its power clumsily, still in awe of its own brute force. So no railway system will be bequeathed to Iraq, no snob schools will be built in Afghanistan nor clubs in Kosovo, no courts, cathedrals or civil service.
They will be left nothing to tear down in a gesture of independence or appropriate with ceremony or simply build on. Nothing will be stolen from them that can be demanded back in indignation as "closure". It will have been a rape, as opposed to an unequal relationship.
The old invader was ruthlessly feudal, magnificently arrogant and calmly self-centered. The new one wears its power clumsily, still in awe of its own brute force. So no railway system will be bequeathed to Iraq, no snob schools will be built in Afghanistan nor clubs in Kosovo, no courts, cathedrals or civil service.
They will be left nothing to tear down in a gesture of independence or appropriate with ceremony or simply build on. Nothing will be stolen from them that can be demanded back in indignation as "closure". It will have been a rape, as opposed to an unequal relationship.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The great Indian railway journey
It began at 3:35pm on April 16th, 1853. 14 coaches carrying 400 passengers steamed out of Bombay's Bori Bunder to a 21-gun salute. They were hauled by three engines picturesquely called Sindh, Sultan and Sahib. It was an hour and fifteen minutes to the destination, Thane.
Of course two freight trains were already operating somewhere a few years before this, but they weren't nice enough for the memsahibs to sit in and didn't get any dress-uniform recognition. So the glamour date (as one might see in a Merchant-Ivory movie) is the Bori Bunder-Thane passenger.
In the first 25 years of Indian Railways, more than 6500 kilometers of track were laid. They moved from narrow gauge to meter gauge, built the Darjeeling Hill Railway, upgraded the coaches at least five times, published a railway timetable, laid emergency lines for famine relief and started construction of the Victoria Terminus. Routes emerged almost simultaneously to the North, East and South. Bombay, Ahmedabad, Ajmer, Delhi, Calcutta, Bangalore, Chennai, Salem and Hyderabad were just a few of the places connected rapidly, without the benefit of sixteen-wheeler trucks, cranes or telephones.
The Bangalore Metro, on the other hand, has been 25 years in the making and is still three years from completion (at the last estimate).
But in spite of that (and others like it), Indian Railways remains an awe-inspiring phenomenon, noticeably so even in a country where you're likely to find one around any random corner. 108,805 kilometres of track connect the Himalayas to the Indian Ocean, the Arabian sea to the Bay of Bengal. Across the vast spaces, signals rise and fall, points click and move, the little piece of paper with your name on it appears by magic on the reserved coach.
For me, like for many others, the life and times of the railways are caught up in my own, from a child who kept falling off the top berth to a lawless adult hanging out the doorway of a speeding express. Like everyone else I’ve resisted the temptation to pull that chain just once, just to see if it works. Cut dangerously across the rails from one platform to another, rather than climb the stairs. Still believe that even the most questionable food tastes great in the train.
In the first 25 years of my life, my local station went from a single-rail ghost stop to a seven-platform junction. The railways form India's only living, breathing, evolving historical monument. The Bangalore-Chennai Mail that I know so well has been running for 145 years.
I've stopped looking bewildered by choice when would-be tourists ask me where they can see the "real India". Now I tell them: just ride the trains. (One of them took my advice and so I discovered that there's an Indrail pass, modeled on the Eurail one.)
Perhaps one day the Shatabdi will be a bullet train and the commuter trains will run on elevated rail. Meanwhile, Indian Railways functions, through flood, famine, fire, riots, strikes, accidents, budget cuts – all the hazards of being the national carrier to a large and unwieldy democracy – almost always against the odds. If the trains stopped, so would the country.
Of course two freight trains were already operating somewhere a few years before this, but they weren't nice enough for the memsahibs to sit in and didn't get any dress-uniform recognition. So the glamour date (as one might see in a Merchant-Ivory movie) is the Bori Bunder-Thane passenger.
In the first 25 years of Indian Railways, more than 6500 kilometers of track were laid. They moved from narrow gauge to meter gauge, built the Darjeeling Hill Railway, upgraded the coaches at least five times, published a railway timetable, laid emergency lines for famine relief and started construction of the Victoria Terminus. Routes emerged almost simultaneously to the North, East and South. Bombay, Ahmedabad, Ajmer, Delhi, Calcutta, Bangalore, Chennai, Salem and Hyderabad were just a few of the places connected rapidly, without the benefit of sixteen-wheeler trucks, cranes or telephones.
The Bangalore Metro, on the other hand, has been 25 years in the making and is still three years from completion (at the last estimate).
But in spite of that (and others like it), Indian Railways remains an awe-inspiring phenomenon, noticeably so even in a country where you're likely to find one around any random corner. 108,805 kilometres of track connect the Himalayas to the Indian Ocean, the Arabian sea to the Bay of Bengal. Across the vast spaces, signals rise and fall, points click and move, the little piece of paper with your name on it appears by magic on the reserved coach.
For me, like for many others, the life and times of the railways are caught up in my own, from a child who kept falling off the top berth to a lawless adult hanging out the doorway of a speeding express. Like everyone else I’ve resisted the temptation to pull that chain just once, just to see if it works. Cut dangerously across the rails from one platform to another, rather than climb the stairs. Still believe that even the most questionable food tastes great in the train.
In the first 25 years of my life, my local station went from a single-rail ghost stop to a seven-platform junction. The railways form India's only living, breathing, evolving historical monument. The Bangalore-Chennai Mail that I know so well has been running for 145 years.
I've stopped looking bewildered by choice when would-be tourists ask me where they can see the "real India". Now I tell them: just ride the trains. (One of them took my advice and so I discovered that there's an Indrail pass, modeled on the Eurail one.)
Perhaps one day the Shatabdi will be a bullet train and the commuter trains will run on elevated rail. Meanwhile, Indian Railways functions, through flood, famine, fire, riots, strikes, accidents, budget cuts – all the hazards of being the national carrier to a large and unwieldy democracy – almost always against the odds. If the trains stopped, so would the country.
Monday, February 04, 2008
War on error
Occasionally there is a quiet voice of reason that says coincidence has been an acceptable form of human error since time immemorial. Or a calmly informed comment about perfectly natural prevailing conditions of wind and water. But these are ignored even by readers who were thinking much the same thing themselves. Conspiracy theories about the cut cables are far more exciting.
Discussion among bloggers ranges from the obvious and unimaginative "terrorist attack" to the equally so NATO/CIA/NAVY axis of evil-bashers to the hysterically amusing "Russia is starting a cold war again" to the highly entertaining "I sent a large file to my friend, maybe it was too much". It's also interesting to note that several US bloggers and their readers seem to believe that the cutting off of Iran is the most serious consequence, forgetting, perhaps never knowing, about the others. India, for example, and the very real seriousness of that. The links are so many, I can't provide them here. I suggest a Google search. It's well worth the time.
Meanwhile, my internet access in Dubai continues uninterrupted, as you can see. I seem to have fallen within the correct 60%, in an entirely unprecedented move by the universe. Maybe it's been taken over by aliens.
Discussion among bloggers ranges from the obvious and unimaginative "terrorist attack" to the equally so NATO/CIA/NAVY axis of evil-bashers to the hysterically amusing "Russia is starting a cold war again" to the highly entertaining "I sent a large file to my friend, maybe it was too much". It's also interesting to note that several US bloggers and their readers seem to believe that the cutting off of Iran is the most serious consequence, forgetting, perhaps never knowing, about the others. India, for example, and the very real seriousness of that. The links are so many, I can't provide them here. I suggest a Google search. It's well worth the time.
Meanwhile, my internet access in Dubai continues uninterrupted, as you can see. I seem to have fallen within the correct 60%, in an entirely unprecedented move by the universe. Maybe it's been taken over by aliens.
Monday, January 28, 2008
The two-ply Indian
The dualism begins with language. Most of us in a certain socio-economic class are fluent in at least two languages – English and one other – though the reality is usually three or four. Each of these languages brings it's own cultural references, literature, folklore and behaviour systems. My Little Pony and paccha kudhira* share the same paddock peaceably. See? The Indian is already two-ply and not yet old enough to go to school.
As he or she grows, this is only reinforced by the greater exposure – books, music, movies, clothes, jokes. We speak one language to our friends and another to family. And again, one language to our cousins and another to our grandparents, and we enjoy being with both. Neither is a false front. They're both real and they live comfortably side by side, except for a few rough bits in the teenage years.
The two plies replicate themselves into subsets, permeating every little part of our psyche. It becomes (literally) second nature and so it's hard to answer questions from non-Indians about large matters of "conservatism and liberality in Indian society". Giving absolute answers to anything about India is a nightmare anyway – the minute you make a firm statement – even as you're making it – you remember fifty things that contradict it.
This is especially difficult in Dubai, where the non-Indians you meet are by and large throwbacks to Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad or life members of the Stereotype Or Die Society. One mad friend used to enliven Friday brunches by insisting aggressively: "My traditional Sunday breakfast is the same as yours – eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast". But the hash browns may have been called aloo tikkis and he would have added dosa to the mix, whenever on offer – and without it being in any way out of place.
(This particular friend headed West to spread the word, most recently heard telling Torontonians: "I am not East Indian, I am Indian. There's only one kind. Columbus could not read a map and neither can you." A few months earlier he made a visit to New York more interesting by contending that "the term doesn't even make sense. Africa is a continent, with 53 countries, not a concept for you to adopt. You're American." He survived. We expect to see his name in the Birthday Honours list any day now. Or some list, for sure.)
Anyway. Reading about India's protocol problems with Sarkozy and his girlfriend, I grinned and thought about the quaintest manifestation of them all. When you invite your girlfriend or boyfriend to stay at your parents' house, you will sleep in separate rooms, because the alternative is unthinkable. Yet, you will go on holiday together and send back photographs – which your parents will naturally, happily add to the family album.
How thin and sparse our lives would be without this duality, like a warp without a weft.
*Green horse. A very long and involved Malayalam fairy tale a nanny used to tell us. Never completed, ever.
As he or she grows, this is only reinforced by the greater exposure – books, music, movies, clothes, jokes. We speak one language to our friends and another to family. And again, one language to our cousins and another to our grandparents, and we enjoy being with both. Neither is a false front. They're both real and they live comfortably side by side, except for a few rough bits in the teenage years.
The two plies replicate themselves into subsets, permeating every little part of our psyche. It becomes (literally) second nature and so it's hard to answer questions from non-Indians about large matters of "conservatism and liberality in Indian society". Giving absolute answers to anything about India is a nightmare anyway – the minute you make a firm statement – even as you're making it – you remember fifty things that contradict it.
This is especially difficult in Dubai, where the non-Indians you meet are by and large throwbacks to Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad or life members of the Stereotype Or Die Society. One mad friend used to enliven Friday brunches by insisting aggressively: "My traditional Sunday breakfast is the same as yours – eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast". But the hash browns may have been called aloo tikkis and he would have added dosa to the mix, whenever on offer – and without it being in any way out of place.
(This particular friend headed West to spread the word, most recently heard telling Torontonians: "I am not East Indian, I am Indian. There's only one kind. Columbus could not read a map and neither can you." A few months earlier he made a visit to New York more interesting by contending that "the term doesn't even make sense. Africa is a continent, with 53 countries, not a concept for you to adopt. You're American." He survived. We expect to see his name in the Birthday Honours list any day now. Or some list, for sure.)
Anyway. Reading about India's protocol problems with Sarkozy and his girlfriend, I grinned and thought about the quaintest manifestation of them all. When you invite your girlfriend or boyfriend to stay at your parents' house, you will sleep in separate rooms, because the alternative is unthinkable. Yet, you will go on holiday together and send back photographs – which your parents will naturally, happily add to the family album.
How thin and sparse our lives would be without this duality, like a warp without a weft.
*Green horse. A very long and involved Malayalam fairy tale a nanny used to tell us. Never completed, ever.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Aquarius
Sleep was elusive all night. I stayed quietly awake in some vigil that I seemed to be required to keep.
When I got the message in the morning that my sister-in-law had gone into labour in the night, it was not a surprise, merely a confirmation. It’s not even surprising that my mind chose to keep the vigil, untold – this is merely the same instinct that makes my brother call me unerringly when I really need to talk, whether I want to or not.
Our family unit of five is now six. That’s not surprising either – it’s always been flexible, taking on any number from two to two hundred at any given point in space or time. What is surprising is that my small brother is suddenly a father. And that this wonder-child is real, here.
The first photographs brought a rush of entirely new emotion. Perhaps this is unconditional love. It was so unfamiliar and so strong that I had no idea what to do with it. My actions seemed strange but were probably just a response called up from my genes – I visited my locker to check on my diamonds.
Two years ago, as the jeweller handed me the case, he told me fulsomely I had bought an heirloom that I would hand down to other generations. My friend and I were too busy gloating over my new possession to care. Well, the heir to it was born this afternoon. The sense of continuity that gave me was most surprising of all.
When I got the message in the morning that my sister-in-law had gone into labour in the night, it was not a surprise, merely a confirmation. It’s not even surprising that my mind chose to keep the vigil, untold – this is merely the same instinct that makes my brother call me unerringly when I really need to talk, whether I want to or not.
Our family unit of five is now six. That’s not surprising either – it’s always been flexible, taking on any number from two to two hundred at any given point in space or time. What is surprising is that my small brother is suddenly a father. And that this wonder-child is real, here.
The first photographs brought a rush of entirely new emotion. Perhaps this is unconditional love. It was so unfamiliar and so strong that I had no idea what to do with it. My actions seemed strange but were probably just a response called up from my genes – I visited my locker to check on my diamonds.
Two years ago, as the jeweller handed me the case, he told me fulsomely I had bought an heirloom that I would hand down to other generations. My friend and I were too busy gloating over my new possession to care. Well, the heir to it was born this afternoon. The sense of continuity that gave me was most surprising of all.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Le bleu de tes yeux
All the cynicism in the world is not proof against someone winning something for your country. What an unexpected surge of pride when Narain Karthikeyan took the podium and the national anthem played. It’s so rare, this event.
There is cricket of course but then again, not quite. Maybe it’s just that with cricket it’s gone on too long. It’s a continual cycle; we win today, we lose tomorrow, there’s a scandal the day after. It’s somehow always the match on your street, wickets outlined with white chalk on someone’s wall.
Or maybe it's that cricket somehow does not seem to provide… theatre. For one thing, they stroll on to the pitch with terrible casualness. No team standing shoulder to shoulder, facing their fate with grim determination, like soldiers defending their borders to the death. No tearful pledges to God and mama. No opera...
If an important coach died in the middle of the FIFA World Cup, mainland Europe would have come to a grinding halt. All and sundry would have claimed the loss as their own and beaten their breasts in the streets. Church bells would have tolled across South America. The stands would have been awash in black armbands. The Vatican itself may have felt compelled to say a few words on the properties of dust, ashes and grass. And half of Britain’s male population would have taken the opportunity to kill or maim the other half.
In short, there would have been enough drama to last for the next three World Cups. That’s not easy to achieve with cricket, even with racist abuse.
Come to think of it, a racist remark was one of the many rumoured reasons for Zinedine Zidane’s problem with Materazzi, but Zizou didn’t think to have a gentlemanly word with his captain about it. He lost his temper, head-butted Materazzi and threw away the final game of his brilliant career. Drama. Most important factor of football.
It inspires it, too. My disbelieving shock when the referee pulled out the red card was very real. I shouted myself hoarse with everyone else: “No no no, not his final game”. Watched the replay of the offence that everybody missed. And then the awful silence, because you knew it had to be a red card.
For me, as for many others, the game ended when Zidane walked off the field. It didn’t matter who won or lost or how many weird bets you had riding on the result. Your mind played an involuntary edit in slow-motion of Zidane scoring against Spain. Zidane becoming World Player of the Year for the third time. Zidane dancing the ball down the field as if he was Brazilian. Now, Zidane walking into the stadium, head bowed. It was the end of the world, though we were wearing Italy’s colours that night.
You can’t help this emotion with football, the moment takes you.
This post was supposed to be a paean to Narain Kartikeyan and an erudite, enlightening comment on patriotism and sport. Instead, it’s become a personal poster-waving for one player. But then isn't that exactly where all discussions of sport lead?
Le bleu de tes yeux, Edith Piaf, 1950s
There is cricket of course but then again, not quite. Maybe it’s just that with cricket it’s gone on too long. It’s a continual cycle; we win today, we lose tomorrow, there’s a scandal the day after. It’s somehow always the match on your street, wickets outlined with white chalk on someone’s wall.
Or maybe it's that cricket somehow does not seem to provide… theatre. For one thing, they stroll on to the pitch with terrible casualness. No team standing shoulder to shoulder, facing their fate with grim determination, like soldiers defending their borders to the death. No tearful pledges to God and mama. No opera...
If an important coach died in the middle of the FIFA World Cup, mainland Europe would have come to a grinding halt. All and sundry would have claimed the loss as their own and beaten their breasts in the streets. Church bells would have tolled across South America. The stands would have been awash in black armbands. The Vatican itself may have felt compelled to say a few words on the properties of dust, ashes and grass. And half of Britain’s male population would have taken the opportunity to kill or maim the other half.
In short, there would have been enough drama to last for the next three World Cups. That’s not easy to achieve with cricket, even with racist abuse.
Come to think of it, a racist remark was one of the many rumoured reasons for Zinedine Zidane’s problem with Materazzi, but Zizou didn’t think to have a gentlemanly word with his captain about it. He lost his temper, head-butted Materazzi and threw away the final game of his brilliant career. Drama. Most important factor of football.
It inspires it, too. My disbelieving shock when the referee pulled out the red card was very real. I shouted myself hoarse with everyone else: “No no no, not his final game”. Watched the replay of the offence that everybody missed. And then the awful silence, because you knew it had to be a red card.
For me, as for many others, the game ended when Zidane walked off the field. It didn’t matter who won or lost or how many weird bets you had riding on the result. Your mind played an involuntary edit in slow-motion of Zidane scoring against Spain. Zidane becoming World Player of the Year for the third time. Zidane dancing the ball down the field as if he was Brazilian. Now, Zidane walking into the stadium, head bowed. It was the end of the world, though we were wearing Italy’s colours that night.
You can’t help this emotion with football, the moment takes you.
This post was supposed to be a paean to Narain Kartikeyan and an erudite, enlightening comment on patriotism and sport. Instead, it’s become a personal poster-waving for one player. But then isn't that exactly where all discussions of sport lead?
Le bleu de tes yeux, Edith Piaf, 1950s
Monday, January 07, 2008
Is it a bird? Is it a plane?
Reading a most fascinating blog, I came across a link that led me to the latest turn in America's war against evil.
Now they've donned their capes and turned their super-vision on travellers at various airports across the US, watching for subtle expression changes that will show up potential terrorists. What are these magic signals? Apparently, "a central task is to recognize microfacial expressions -- a flash of feelings that in a fraction of a second reflects emotions such as fear, anger, surprise or contempt."
Contempt? Anger? How is it possible to deal with airport procedures and not feel any of these things? Surprise? Like when you're the very first in line and the girl at the check-in desk tells you that only seat 49J is available? Fear? Like when you've overslept and arrived late and are worrying that your flight will take off before you reach the gate?
They say they observe reactions to simple questions put to random passengers. Well, if someone stopped me out of the blue to ask whether all my bags were mine, or even worse, how I am doing, fear and confusion (and quite possibly contempt) would be the very first emotions I registered.
And they coined a word to commemorate the exercise. What was wrong "facial"? Too much like something that ordinary people on the street (without capes) would use?
This blog happily likens it to the Bene Gesserit truthsayers from Dune.
Now they've donned their capes and turned their super-vision on travellers at various airports across the US, watching for subtle expression changes that will show up potential terrorists. What are these magic signals? Apparently, "a central task is to recognize microfacial expressions -- a flash of feelings that in a fraction of a second reflects emotions such as fear, anger, surprise or contempt."
Contempt? Anger? How is it possible to deal with airport procedures and not feel any of these things? Surprise? Like when you're the very first in line and the girl at the check-in desk tells you that only seat 49J is available? Fear? Like when you've overslept and arrived late and are worrying that your flight will take off before you reach the gate?
They say they observe reactions to simple questions put to random passengers. Well, if someone stopped me out of the blue to ask whether all my bags were mine, or even worse, how I am doing, fear and confusion (and quite possibly contempt) would be the very first emotions I registered.
And they coined a word to commemorate the exercise. What was wrong "facial"? Too much like something that ordinary people on the street (without capes) would use?
This blog happily likens it to the Bene Gesserit truthsayers from Dune.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Godstone
The most important thing about it right now is that it's written by a Dubai-based author, Stuart Land, and was launched four days ago at our very own Magrudy's. I've just finished it in one sitting.
Alex Haley meets Wilkie Collins meets Dan Brown, but it manages to be unique for all that. The plot is interesting, the twists in it are genuinely surprising and over-all you definitely want to know how it ends. Unfortunately the writing is not yet able to handle it. Not yet, because it is a first novel – as is betrayed by some gaucherie and hesitancy – so indictment is not warranted.
There are some irritants. The occasional descriptions of Dubai sound like tourism plugs (which is frankly suspicious). Now and then, there seems to be a touch of the Great White Hope school of thought (which may well come easily to a Caucasian male who's been knocking around the Middle East for a while). But, most irritating to me, there were explanations - as in, a thobe is such and such worn by so and so, in a place where the translation is irrelevant and inconvenient. I can't see Marquez, for example, allowing the explanation imperative get in his way.
But read it, I enjoyed the story as much as Da Vinci Code. And I'd like to say to Stuart Land - write the next one, but don't be so concerned with not offending anyone. When half your friends disown you and your book is banned, you sleep the sleep of fulfilment. Ask Rushdie.
Also maybe use another publisher, one that has proofreaders.
Alex Haley meets Wilkie Collins meets Dan Brown, but it manages to be unique for all that. The plot is interesting, the twists in it are genuinely surprising and over-all you definitely want to know how it ends. Unfortunately the writing is not yet able to handle it. Not yet, because it is a first novel – as is betrayed by some gaucherie and hesitancy – so indictment is not warranted.
There are some irritants. The occasional descriptions of Dubai sound like tourism plugs (which is frankly suspicious). Now and then, there seems to be a touch of the Great White Hope school of thought (which may well come easily to a Caucasian male who's been knocking around the Middle East for a while). But, most irritating to me, there were explanations - as in, a thobe is such and such worn by so and so, in a place where the translation is irrelevant and inconvenient. I can't see Marquez, for example, allowing the explanation imperative get in his way.
But read it, I enjoyed the story as much as Da Vinci Code. And I'd like to say to Stuart Land - write the next one, but don't be so concerned with not offending anyone. When half your friends disown you and your book is banned, you sleep the sleep of fulfilment. Ask Rushdie.
Also maybe use another publisher, one that has proofreaders.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Year of the space rodent
A stranger just gave me a little toy rat. First he asked me if I was finding the internet speed alright because he was having trouble. This has become as familiar a gambit as “do you have a light?”. And telling them I’m busy when I actually am is almost too easy for someone who can conjure a social force field from nothing in seconds. Anyway, this one left me this because I look like an “Indian friend” of his and returned to his table before I could do anything about it. He’ll probably resume efforts as soon as I get up. Just the thought of it means he’s intruding on my personal space from twenty feet away.
Someone once described my force field as “anticipatory intimidation”, but I don’t know if it will work on people who go in for large-scale distribution of tacky Chinese soft toys.
My waitress – who saw fit to inform me that next year is the year of the earth rat, whatever the hell that is – is going to be rewarded with a lovable little furry rodent keychain, meticulously crafted in China using ancient techniques handed down verbally through generations of softtoysmiths, from organically grown and humanely harvested polyesterworms. Not tested – or based – on animals. Any resemblance is coincidental. May contain traces of nuts.
I should go back to my regular cafe – better the psychos I know.
Someone once described my force field as “anticipatory intimidation”, but I don’t know if it will work on people who go in for large-scale distribution of tacky Chinese soft toys.
My waitress – who saw fit to inform me that next year is the year of the earth rat, whatever the hell that is – is going to be rewarded with a lovable little furry rodent keychain, meticulously crafted in China using ancient techniques handed down verbally through generations of softtoysmiths, from organically grown and humanely harvested polyesterworms. Not tested – or based – on animals. Any resemblance is coincidental. May contain traces of nuts.
I should go back to my regular cafe – better the psychos I know.
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