I feel faintly bemused as I lightly rest my oily palms against the laptop, watching Murray fighting for his life against another handy Swiss Maharashtrian, Wawrinka.
A couple of days ago, I was reminded of the Annual Dinner where I was asked the poignant question of what I missed most about India. I'd pondered the question carefully, and although I smiled, I was dead serious with my, 'A good and inexpensive wax!'. I was wrong. I miss the tree wrenching monsoons most of all.
That was then. I've revelled in a 10 minute hailstorm and been the unexpectedly reluctant participant of amateur night at home since. When your regular charming Brazilian sambas off to Brazil, leaving you with an appropriate replacement that answers to Simone, rest assured... all will not be well!
The unexpected jolt of Simone's strong English accent of some dubious persuasion make me falter (uh oh, looks like Murray might be as well) with my jeans halfway down. Still, it is Simone, right..... ? She's in a hurry. Jabbing the patently not hot enough wax, ready to daub me with an ice cream stick. It's like a train wreck - I can't look away, the power of speech elusive, as the ice cream stick pretends to be wielded by a less than gifted six year old, as uneven splotches complete the slathered on patchwork, vaguely knitting together, the all too brief segments of smooth wax on my arms. I wonder if she only works on contortionists as my arms is twisted in a most unbecoming manner to reach what used to be a straight forward bend....
Speech returns as the little miser's frugal use of waxing paper leaves more residual wax than it takes of! Resigned to my karmic destiny, I pretend not to see the used wax strips slip from the protective towel to my beautiful bed cover. I'm distracted, and watch fascinated, as the combination of stuck bedroom window, 30 C and baby fan, turns the heated wax into flaying strings, wafting magically like recalcitrant strands of candy floss as they make the perilous journey from the receptacle to my shin. The enchantment fading just as abruptly as a fairy godmother as I realise my freshly laundered sheet now has translucent, little globes of wax. An insect, and I'd have a fossil. Now, I just have more laundry.
And a nearly audition worthy smooth and oiled body. Country roads, take me hoooome......
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