I feel like a distraught heroine, falsely accused of cheating on her marriage and spitting on her mother in law by the love of her life, as I sweep through my wardrobe, emotionally yanking down a handful of wispy fabrics and piling them into my little bag. I pause, my dignity somewhat ruffled. I should have a suitcase. One that snaps shut. But I am a woman of the 21st century, so I shrug it off and count off the number of days. Seven. How fortuitous. I survey the colourful selection strewn over the bed... Eight. In as many minutes, I'm done. Dresses, bikinis, hide from colour changing cover-ups, fetching slippers. Oh. Hat. I wonder if the Hungarian will decline to recognise me at the airport if I exit with my floppy sunhat atop my freakishly small head. Hmmmm....
I've left a back up dress at work for when I come back next Thursday morning. Overkill? Naah. My heroines always have enough for a song dream sequence number. All that's left is the boring stuff. Now, or later? This naturally is pure rhetoric. I'll be demoted at Club Procrastination if I even contemplate working on Pila in Poland or Africa till I've done everything else imaginable. That might even include putting away the laundry. No, it's time to say good bye to Cala. Or maybe that can wait till after I've dealt with the tendrils of renewed hunger tugging at my wily nily, demanding attention. I should prioritise. There is no better muse than rolling dark hand made chocolate around your tongue, body heat beating it into submission. Mmmmmm. Sunblock. See, just the thought is inspirational. Oh! Check in. I can do that. Passport. Fetch. Toothbrush. Too much work. Food. Now.
Blondie in the house
I think I may actually have blonde roots. My cunning strategy of dropping my bag off at work before heading out for an 8 am meeting is not only just plain stupid, it's also impractical. Turns out the meetings not at the West End as I'd imagined it, but in the City. Also turns out, that my diet today has obviously addled my brain into believing I could actually make an 8 am meeting after having dropped my kit off in the office.
Vanilla yogurt (really yummy!) minus any cereal, because the mental note I made to myself to buy some more as I finished off last of it got filed in that part of the brain that is pretending to be Khumbhakarna. A parade of seedless grapes ably supported by a large chunk of Port Salut keeps me going well into lunch time. Three bananas in succession tides me over till I make my escape to shop for fizzy fish for the Hungarian. So far, my plan for an early exit to go home, pamper, prep and pack for 31C has been a dismal failure.
I get home to the thrill of a new baccha in the family, and it manages to divert me for all of 30 minutes as we exult over the phone. Shania came home today and is apparently the most adorable 4 month old baby. I'm so excited with the news, I forget to eat. For all of those 30 minutes. I wonder if I'm so pleased because I now resemble a pregnant bovine, and it's infectious? My brows furrow at the thought of the packing I'll have to get done tonight, my spine shudders at the thought of the 8 am call, and my mouth systematically slurps up 14 dim sums. This is not a balanced diet. But I can fix that. Dark chocolate. 5 nos. in quick succession, just to round it off (no pun intended!!). I have decided. If anyone looks inquiringly below breast level, I shall benevolently pat my bump, '9 weeks now...'
I now contemplate making a list of items I should definitely not forget to take, including passport, laptop, suncream, all manner of chargers, laptop, gifts...... put away laundry, a stray synapse whispers at me, freeze the prawns unless you want to carry it for the Hungarian hisses another. My stomach tells me to ignore them, and opens up a far more lively debate; duck noodles or pancetta pasta? I've left the other half of my chunk of cheese in the fridge at work. Em sends me dial in numbers for 8 am, telling me not to worry. Undoubtedly impressed with the stunning job I've done of hiding my fundamental blonde state. I personally like to think that it was being a supremely efficient, multi tasking goddess at work, juggling 3 rfp's, a business case, covering for colleagues on holiday, figuring out service delivery in Zimbabwe, remembering to send uberboss mail on training, yelling at a parent each for wasting my time, clinically reviewing and organising funds before calming paternal nerves.....that has left me bereft of my natural brunette abilities.
Or, I could just be hungry.....
P.S. - Should I kill Cala now, or let her die a natural death while I'm away????
Vanilla yogurt (really yummy!) minus any cereal, because the mental note I made to myself to buy some more as I finished off last of it got filed in that part of the brain that is pretending to be Khumbhakarna. A parade of seedless grapes ably supported by a large chunk of Port Salut keeps me going well into lunch time. Three bananas in succession tides me over till I make my escape to shop for fizzy fish for the Hungarian. So far, my plan for an early exit to go home, pamper, prep and pack for 31C has been a dismal failure.
I get home to the thrill of a new baccha in the family, and it manages to divert me for all of 30 minutes as we exult over the phone. Shania came home today and is apparently the most adorable 4 month old baby. I'm so excited with the news, I forget to eat. For all of those 30 minutes. I wonder if I'm so pleased because I now resemble a pregnant bovine, and it's infectious? My brows furrow at the thought of the packing I'll have to get done tonight, my spine shudders at the thought of the 8 am call, and my mouth systematically slurps up 14 dim sums. This is not a balanced diet. But I can fix that. Dark chocolate. 5 nos. in quick succession, just to round it off (no pun intended!!). I have decided. If anyone looks inquiringly below breast level, I shall benevolently pat my bump, '9 weeks now...'
I now contemplate making a list of items I should definitely not forget to take, including passport, laptop, suncream, all manner of chargers, laptop, gifts...... put away laundry, a stray synapse whispers at me, freeze the prawns unless you want to carry it for the Hungarian hisses another. My stomach tells me to ignore them, and opens up a far more lively debate; duck noodles or pancetta pasta? I've left the other half of my chunk of cheese in the fridge at work. Em sends me dial in numbers for 8 am, telling me not to worry. Undoubtedly impressed with the stunning job I've done of hiding my fundamental blonde state. I personally like to think that it was being a supremely efficient, multi tasking goddess at work, juggling 3 rfp's, a business case, covering for colleagues on holiday, figuring out service delivery in Zimbabwe, remembering to send uberboss mail on training, yelling at a parent each for wasting my time, clinically reviewing and organising funds before calming paternal nerves.....that has left me bereft of my natural brunette abilities.
Or, I could just be hungry.....
P.S. - Should I kill Cala now, or let her die a natural death while I'm away????
Wake up call!!!
COME AS YOU ARE......AS YOU WERE....AS I WANT YOU TO BEEE....
I grope for the phone even as the words 'I'm going to kill her' swirl through the fog in my brain... only to be greeted by a deep rumble, 'Hello..'. Uh-oh. This cannot bode well. My obviously sleep stained response brings forth a shocked, 'Why aren't you up already? Don't you have to go to work?'. A number of cells on the right hand of my brain struggle to co-ordinate limbs, limited ocular capability, lack of auditory stimulation from outside, and in less than 6 seconds, I'm able to rasp out, 'At 6 in the morning?!?!?!!'. '6? Isn't it 8 o'clock?'. I fumble again. 'NO. IT'S NOT!'. 'Oh, ok, go back to sleep then..'
It is now patently obvious that the little git has deliberately chosen a partner who shares the same congenital defect; a complete inability to comprehend and calculate the different time zones and my list of pros for moving back to India, just got longer. I have now had the same hours of sleep since Sunday, as the time zone that separates me, and a neck my hands would have wrapped around. IIM-B has a lot to answer for! Either that, or the boy has a peculiar desire to be on the receiving end of both Guha girls at their morning surliest. Still, they do teach them better manners than we were able to do with the little git, as a sheepish email apologises for calling at an ungodly hour.
He's a lovely boy and I like him. Next time, I'll take his head off.
I grope for the phone even as the words 'I'm going to kill her' swirl through the fog in my brain... only to be greeted by a deep rumble, 'Hello..'. Uh-oh. This cannot bode well. My obviously sleep stained response brings forth a shocked, 'Why aren't you up already? Don't you have to go to work?'. A number of cells on the right hand of my brain struggle to co-ordinate limbs, limited ocular capability, lack of auditory stimulation from outside, and in less than 6 seconds, I'm able to rasp out, 'At 6 in the morning?!?!?!!'. '6? Isn't it 8 o'clock?'. I fumble again. 'NO. IT'S NOT!'. 'Oh, ok, go back to sleep then..'
It is now patently obvious that the little git has deliberately chosen a partner who shares the same congenital defect; a complete inability to comprehend and calculate the different time zones and my list of pros for moving back to India, just got longer. I have now had the same hours of sleep since Sunday, as the time zone that separates me, and a neck my hands would have wrapped around. IIM-B has a lot to answer for! Either that, or the boy has a peculiar desire to be on the receiving end of both Guha girls at their morning surliest. Still, they do teach them better manners than we were able to do with the little git, as a sheepish email apologises for calling at an ungodly hour.
He's a lovely boy and I like him. Next time, I'll take his head off.
Sugar Alert!!!!
Egad! We have a crisis on our hands.....the Beeb says America's running out of sugar!!! An urgently distressed letter dashed off the the US Agriculture Secretary, with the dire warning "our nation will virtually run out of sugar". Quelle horreur!! I feel faint. This cataclysmic claim comes from industry itself.... giants like Hershey's, Kraft Foods & General Mills. My wrists move involuntarily, and within seconds, I have a major hand wringing concerto. Oh no! What are we to do?? What ARE we to do??!! This crisis could potential render a sharp blow to obesity figures in North America. Gasp! They might even lose their top ranking in the world's fattest nation states. Businesses will be crippled, people left bereft, the financial sector in even more turmoil if the manufacturers have to pay import tariffs on sugar....
But hark! What is this I read? Jack Roney, Director of the ASA (American Sugar Alliance!! tan ta daan...) insisting "There's absolutely no shortage of sugar here", backing the claim of the US Agriculture department that domestic sugar production were now increasing. My wrists see a respite. It's the stealthy caped crusader, SugarcaneMan!! Hurrah! We've been saved!! Delivered from that gut wrenching evil, sugar free, healthy diet!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/8200515.stm
Now that we've narrowly averted a calamity on par with the one loosely referred to as global warming, I shall return to focusing my energies on the pandemic that is human stupidity, making itself felt most particularly in Pune and Mumbai over that openly arrogant killer, swine flu. 27 lives in a population of 1 billion. Unacceptable!! Just because the UK loses 6,000 odd to regular influenza every year is hardly consolation. After all, we did gain independence from the crown this day 62 years ago. We shall throw sense to the four winds (Jayal and I agreed yesterday that common sense is a fallacy. A myth. No such thing. Figment of one's imagination. What she and I possess in abundance is uncommon sense), and shut down schools, public entertainment and boost the EBITA for mask manufacturers and pharma companies. Time to beat the recession.
Moral of the story: If ten thousand people say a stupid thing, it is still a stupid thing.
But hark! What is this I read? Jack Roney, Director of the ASA (American Sugar Alliance!! tan ta daan...) insisting "There's absolutely no shortage of sugar here", backing the claim of the US Agriculture department that domestic sugar production were now increasing. My wrists see a respite. It's the stealthy caped crusader, SugarcaneMan!! Hurrah! We've been saved!! Delivered from that gut wrenching evil, sugar free, healthy diet!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/8200515.stm
Now that we've narrowly averted a calamity on par with the one loosely referred to as global warming, I shall return to focusing my energies on the pandemic that is human stupidity, making itself felt most particularly in Pune and Mumbai over that openly arrogant killer, swine flu. 27 lives in a population of 1 billion. Unacceptable!! Just because the UK loses 6,000 odd to regular influenza every year is hardly consolation. After all, we did gain independence from the crown this day 62 years ago. We shall throw sense to the four winds (Jayal and I agreed yesterday that common sense is a fallacy. A myth. No such thing. Figment of one's imagination. What she and I possess in abundance is uncommon sense), and shut down schools, public entertainment and boost the EBITA for mask manufacturers and pharma companies. Time to beat the recession.
Moral of the story: If ten thousand people say a stupid thing, it is still a stupid thing.
Toorai Tarkari
is apparently what Jan made. For the uninitiated, online that would be badly translated into courgette curry. Suffice to say, it is more torkari than curry.... and it's what I believe my organically grown, hand picked, hand washed, individually transported courgette deserves. The absence of Bengal gram flour (ahem, besan..) from my prodigiously lacking kitchen might have had some influence on this decision. Nevertheless, the torkari was a resounding success and as I'm feeling benevolent, I shall provide both recipes tout suite.
Toorai Tarkari (Courgette Curry)
Method:
Heat oil and add the jeera seeds. When they splutter, add the courgettes and toss around. Sprinkle the haldi, dhania and chilli powders and mix well. Add the tomatoes, salt, green chilli and mix well. Cook for a couple of minutes till courgettes are crunchy but not raw, chuck in the fresh coriander, stir, and violà!
Courgette Bhaja
Ingredients:
3 courgettes * 3 tbsp besan * ½ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 tsp jeera powder (cumin) * 1 tsp cumin seeds * 1 tsp ajwain (carom seeds) * oil * salt to taste
Method:
Wash courgettes and pat dry. Cut into quarters lengthwise and then dice into 1" pieces. In a large bowl, mix the besan, haldi, jeera and chilli powders, sale and courgettes. Make sure the pieces are well coated. Keep aside.
Heat oil in a deep pan. When hot, add the jeera and ajwain seeds. Once they stop spluttering, add the courgette, and stir fry till done.
Eating this seriously reminds one of Calcutta!
Toorai Tarkari (Courgette Curry)
Ingredients:
250 gm courgettes (sliced into rounds) * 400 gm tomatoes (chopped) * 1 tsp jeera seeds (cumin) * 1 tsp dhania powder (coriander) * ¼ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 green chilli (chopped) * 1 sprig coriander leaves (chopped) * salt to taste * oilMethod:
Heat oil and add the jeera seeds. When they splutter, add the courgettes and toss around. Sprinkle the haldi, dhania and chilli powders and mix well. Add the tomatoes, salt, green chilli and mix well. Cook for a couple of minutes till courgettes are crunchy but not raw, chuck in the fresh coriander, stir, and violà!
Courgette Bhaja
Ingredients:
3 courgettes * 3 tbsp besan * ½ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 tsp jeera powder (cumin) * 1 tsp cumin seeds * 1 tsp ajwain (carom seeds) * oil * salt to taste
Method:
Wash courgettes and pat dry. Cut into quarters lengthwise and then dice into 1" pieces. In a large bowl, mix the besan, haldi, jeera and chilli powders, sale and courgettes. Make sure the pieces are well coated. Keep aside.
Heat oil in a deep pan. When hot, add the jeera and ajwain seeds. Once they stop spluttering, add the courgette, and stir fry till done.
Eating this seriously reminds one of Calcutta!
Incident at Iris
My delicate sensibilities are overwhelmed, appalled at the depravity of human nature. It's as though crime within the peaceful community of Melton/Welton was mere antipasti to the dark morass of prima patti to follow, shards of shocking behaviour cutting through the fringes of my civilised existence as a drama queen par excellence.
My parents are harbouring a fugitive, with a degree of unconcern to render those this side of the Suez wide eyed with horror. The renegade in question; Amit. Pint sized, deeply aggressive, with a cannibalistic edge to his small man syndrome. Their chauffeur. The Managing Committee of Iris co-operative housing society has decreed that they 'except you to release this troublemaker or we will be constrained to ban his entry'. Undaunted, Minu the Brave haggles as is her mettle, and cowers them into a months' suspension.
I demand details, putting aside my primness and am rewarded with the elucidation that apparently, Amit bit the alleged victim. Twice. Riiiight! The letter from the society is even more revealing. The offender, showed up on his day off, drunk, and proceeded without any mercy or provocation to attack the driver of flat 46 (Central Bank of India). Mr. Lallan, the lift man, foolishly intervened and was duly bitten on the calves (?!!?) and fingers for his peacekeeping efforts. Amit the Small, remained unimpressed by the presence of two committee members, and continued on his drunken rampage, showing a marked lack of respect for the fine gentlemen. Lallan, who by now was rumoured to be bleeding profusely, needed medical attention. My parents have been asked in no uncertain terms to compensate for the medical expenses incurred with the strong admonishment, "We are hopeful that you will comply gracefully".
My mother is not a graceful woman. The indefatigable one is not one to rest on her laurels, and ensnares Mimi as a willing cohort to try and further circumvent the society's directives. The rascal can report to Persepolis for the missing month. But wait, the car is still at Iris, and given his persona non grata status for 30 days, my mother would then have to manhandle the car outside the hallowed precincts before Amit the Small could take cover. Unsound. Perhaps they could swap cars, and then she'd only have to walk as far as the building gate and have him pick her up? Uh oh.... I feel myself drawn into this criminal quagmire, the dark side calls to me... Maaaa! Wait for me....
P.S. - penned notes on the complaint letter; Your driver has got a very bad background, he has no family.....
Pity we don't have that as a fallback excuse :p
My parents are harbouring a fugitive, with a degree of unconcern to render those this side of the Suez wide eyed with horror. The renegade in question; Amit. Pint sized, deeply aggressive, with a cannibalistic edge to his small man syndrome. Their chauffeur. The Managing Committee of Iris co-operative housing society has decreed that they 'except you to release this troublemaker or we will be constrained to ban his entry'. Undaunted, Minu the Brave haggles as is her mettle, and cowers them into a months' suspension.
I demand details, putting aside my primness and am rewarded with the elucidation that apparently, Amit bit the alleged victim. Twice. Riiiight! The letter from the society is even more revealing. The offender, showed up on his day off, drunk, and proceeded without any mercy or provocation to attack the driver of flat 46 (Central Bank of India). Mr. Lallan, the lift man, foolishly intervened and was duly bitten on the calves (?!!?) and fingers for his peacekeeping efforts. Amit the Small, remained unimpressed by the presence of two committee members, and continued on his drunken rampage, showing a marked lack of respect for the fine gentlemen. Lallan, who by now was rumoured to be bleeding profusely, needed medical attention. My parents have been asked in no uncertain terms to compensate for the medical expenses incurred with the strong admonishment, "We are hopeful that you will comply gracefully".
My mother is not a graceful woman. The indefatigable one is not one to rest on her laurels, and ensnares Mimi as a willing cohort to try and further circumvent the society's directives. The rascal can report to Persepolis for the missing month. But wait, the car is still at Iris, and given his persona non grata status for 30 days, my mother would then have to manhandle the car outside the hallowed precincts before Amit the Small could take cover. Unsound. Perhaps they could swap cars, and then she'd only have to walk as far as the building gate and have him pick her up? Uh oh.... I feel myself drawn into this criminal quagmire, the dark side calls to me... Maaaa! Wait for me....
P.S. - penned notes on the complaint letter; Your driver has got a very bad background, he has no family.....
Pity we don't have that as a fallback excuse :p
The devil is in the dementia
Despite a rousing first breakfast at 1 am, the blackberry reads 08:54. Not too shabby for a Friday morning, and I feel rather pleased as I hit delete with abandon. Hmmmm, BA seems overly keen to remind me of my impending holiday...then my brain does a double take, and my eyes focus on a pre-flight check email for a potential adventure to Dubrovnik. All my vital signs screech to a halt for a split second.
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
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