Hooked! Line & Sinker

After 28-odd years (yes, 28. No. I DO NOT lie. And Yes, I DO LOOK older in my photos. I'm not getting older. I'm aging gracefully) of my life on this earth, I have finally realised what I have been missing. This is quite apart from missing the bhel and the samosas and the paani puris and the Golas... *sigh* I digress. As is often the case when we talk about food.

Pause for a brief moment where I imagine the taste of the above bursting in my tongue.

Well, last night I had the pleasure of watching a Broadway musical. OK, OK- you can stop with the shocked noises. I haven't been to one despite having resided in London for six months. I will lay the blame for the same squarely on the shoulders of a certain baa-lamb who refused to shell out what he terms as 'a criminal amount of money' to watch people cavorting about in tights and singing. He claims that sort of thing looks better in the movies. So last night when BL's (Baa-lamb, dearies) colleague asked if we would like tickets to a musical, BL snorted at the suggestion of his ever being caught dead watching that kind of stuff, but graciously offered to babysit Pickwick while I indulged in my long cherished dream.
I reached well in advance (despite having climbed the 293 steps of Covent Garden Station Coz I was too impatient to wait for the lift- a decision that showed my general fitness levels in abysmal light). A little too well in advance- they were still cleaning out the steps when I arrived, I think. I generally hung around soaking in the atmosphere. Also soaked in a whole lotta second-hand cigarette smoke, directed two lost tourists very helpfully in the wrong direction, and grabbed every free leaflet available to read up on the musical and London's theater guide. Just when people were giving me funny looks as assessing if I was a serial stalker, my date showed up.
We promptly collected our ticket and got seated in the front rows (very good seats). Oh- did I mention I was there to watch Chicago? No? Doesn't matter. It could have been Posh's life on stage, and I would have still enjoyed myself. Still, love the songs, can sing along with most of them, and totally flipped for the movie, so the play was a good choice.
Needless to say the Play did not disappoint. I was a bit deflated with Kelly Osbourne's performance as 'Mama Morton' (after all, Queen Latifah, is a act to follow), I believed she sang, but the rest performed(huge difference). And what a performance it was! The only time I took my eye off stage was to grab a couple of spoonfuls of the hazelnut and fresh cream ice cream (very good. Daylight robbery prices, but Very Good.), and to briefly apologise to the poor chap whose foot I was squashing in my excitement, as I tried to tap along with the performers on stage (I would have clapped, but hands were otherwise occupied with the aforementioned ice cream).
At the end of the play, I clapped, hooted and whistled like a crazed Rajnikant fan at the first show of his movie. And I wasn't alone. More than half the audience was on their feet, showing their appreciation for the awesome spectacle that entertained us for about 2 ½ hours. The lobby as we poured out was something else- we had a lot of people singing their favourite ditties from the musical, the odd snatches of tunes being whistled, and short of throwing their arms of one another and offering to buy you a drink at the local pub, the general air of bonhomie was something else.
Although it was close to midnight, trains were running to full capacity, and I got home with my head still full of the musical and a silly grin plastered to my face.
I now know why the say the stage is an addiction. I 'm hooked. And they'll try to make me got to rehab and I'll say No. No. NO!

Size 12

Back home, I always felt, I was, um… how do I put it… a tad outsized for Indian clothes. It was never felt more than during a stroll down Linking road, where shopkeepers spotting an easy target for daylight robbery would very politely invite me to buy their stuff. Didn’t matter what it was. Skirts, shoes, tops, jeans… anything. On spotting something I liked (I’m not that hard to please, I generally like most things that are in a passable shape and as long as it isn’t ‘either-I’m-a-film-star-who-wants-to-be-noticed-or-I’ve-walked-out-of-a-balaji-soap’ loud), I would ask for it in my size. That’s when they’d finally appraise my size (all this while the lure of easy money having blinded them), half-heartedly rummage in the back and then shake their head sorrowfully and say, ‘ aapke size mein nahin milega’ Hmm… road block. Undeterred, I would ask, ‘toh phir mere size mein kya hai?’ scratching his head at this daunting challenge, he will point me to a man’s shirt/ shoe and say- ‘yeh milega.’ Gee, thanks! I feel special.
Which was the reason when I moved to this country, I though finally, shopping should be a breeze. I mean, I know I lie somewhere between size 10 and size 12 (does NOT mean I’m a size 11. it means that sometimes I fit into a size 10, and sometimes 12.) and considering that size 12 is though to be the average size for most women here, how hard can it get? I’m finally average!
So imaging my surprise the other day when I open to newspapers the other day to find a hue and cry being made about some pop start chappie using models of size 12 and above in his music video and extolling the virtue of ‘big’ girls’. Eh? Size 12 is now big? So what average? Size 8 is thin (It is. You have to be miniscule to fit into size 8), so is the new average size 10? But what if you’re size 12? Will you now walk into a store for the plus sizes? And does that make size 14 fat?? I decided to find out for myself.
So I march into a popular clothing store and demand to see the size 12 cardigans. ‘erm, sorry, but they don’t seem to be here.’ Says the helpful shop assistant. ‘no shit, sherlock!’ was what I thought, but ‘ well, could you locate some for me?’ was what I asked. After about 4 minutes of asking the shop manager and a couple of other people who seemed to be wandering around aimlessly, she informs me ‘ah! Yes. We’ve run out of those. Sorry.’ And then walks away beaming, confident that she has done well, already moving on to her next hapless victim. She, poor thing, has no idea that this has increased my conundrum. I now know that size 12 is very very average, seeing that they have run out of all things in that size. But that now means that everything I like will first get sold out in size 12, thus, I’m back to square 1. i.e. me minus clothes I like.
As for shoes… apparently, I just have large feet for a woman. I have to accept that and stop blaming the countries I live in. I am currently on the lookout for ultra-feminine men’s shoes. Anyone know where the gay men shop?

Great Scot!

you know how i love rainbows!

Sir Walter Scott Monument

Reminded me of Coccoon

One day, that's how I'll be travelling
Edinburgh castle
Hogwart's schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry :D

the Loch Ness


The highlands

supposedly the most haunted grave in all of Scotland- The site of the 'bloody MacKenzie' poltergeist
taht's, by teh way, is an actual working clock.

That's the underwater sonar in our quest for old 'nessie'

on teh rare occasion steh sun does happen to shine here, it gets awfully pretty.

That is the childrens museum. Note the 'dirty boy' pears toy...

that's a poster for the 'haunted tour' that they do in the city. It's one of the most popular tours

this one's a memoral for all the 'witches' that were persecuted in ancient times.

see that round thingy in the centre? thata's an actual cannonball from the time when the Edinburgh castle was under attack

Indian and Pakistani flags flying together at an eatery in E'burgh

A tobacconistanother one of the ineteresting little alleyways in Edinburgh

A Mannequin wearing the kilt. It's supposed to be worn with nothing underneath. Brr! That's called blowin' in the wind.



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This used to be a church, Now it's just a railway booking office


what's Scotland without a bit o' whisky?

Ironies

Life's little ironies:
Now That I'm working, I have something besides Pickwick to write about. But Now That I'm working, I can think of Nothing but Pickwick worth writing about.

My workplace is the one place which has so many Indians I'll never feel out of place. My work place has so many Indians, there is no place!

Lunch Hour is fun, coz you don't have to bother explaining the contents of your dabba to all and sundry. Lunch hour also means you have to bring enough in your dabba for everyone around you.

An hour for lunch is perfectly fine. An hour post 5:00 pm is also perfectly expected.

Work is challenging, it keeps me on my toes. Work is so challenging, I have to be on my toes.

Now that I'm earning, we'll spend a bit more. What we're spending on is daycare for Pickwick, which hardly leaves anything for spending at all.

Work's a great source for inspired posts. Work's the reason I don't post as often

Free? And fair???

I live in this wonderful country where for most parts I tend to forget the colour of my skin. But then, once in a while the Prime Minister , no less tends to put me sharply back into my place. Mr. Brown want to pass a resolution wherein visa applicants (skilled category) from only non-european union countries have to pass an english proficiency test. According to the BBC, this is Mr. Brown's way of addressing his peoples concern that non-Britishers are taking up all of their jobs. Right. So let me get this straight. It's perfectly fine for a Polish guy, who doesn't speak a word of english takes up what was rightfully a 'local's job', but heaven forbid an Asian trying to do the same. Oh no. We can't have that sort of thing in here.
It's perfectly reasonable to expect anyone who comes into a country to work to be able to speak a smattering of the local language. So English language tests (apparently upto GCSC level C) are fine, but why the discrimination between european and non-european countries?
Of course, I'm not too worried even if the bill is passed. Because, ironically, Asians would have a better grasp of this language than their european counterparts anyways. Ha to you, Mr. Brown.

Pickwick's Gandhian Habits

Swiss Cheez

Yes, the Cheez is Mast-mast. So's the cheese. It's a must. Switzreland- a land of snow, cows with cow-bells, belles, man-made engineering marvels and God-made astounding beauty. Not to forget Indians crawling out from under every rock, pebble and boulder.

Mount Pilatus. The one with the Dragons of Legends

On the way to Pliatus. Love the cow-bells.

The steepest Cogwheel train in the world- the way up to Pilatus Kulm

This One's my wallpaper when it'll start to get miserable in London

The Ice- palace at Jungfrau (with a huge Aditya-Birla Logo at the entrance). And no, Before you ask- I did not eat at the Bollywood restaurant at the Top of Europe.

Mount Titlis (don't snigger- that is teh name)- The journey by Cable Car

He He. This was right next door to Our Hotel In Lucerne

Mount Titlis (STOP it.) from Mount Pilatus

Glorious morning!

Aletsch Galcier at Jungfrau

I make a fine Snow angel!

Interlaken Ost

Picture postcard- The Interlaken-Lucerne Journey

aaj main oopar, aasman neeche...

Jungfraujoch

Kleine Sheidegg-Jungfraujoch Journey

Junfrau -Top Of Europe

Minus 6 Degrees. The birds don't seem to mind.

Interlaken, in front of the river Aare

The view from the cogwheel train from Kleine Sheidegg

The train from Gindlewald to Kleine Sheidegg

The first glimpse of the Peaks of Jungfrau

The plains and Mountains on the way to Jungfrau

Picture Postcards

They say you can't describe Amsterdam, you have to experience it. When have I ever listened to what they say. And who's they?

yeah.. you can see all there is to see by Bike... at least that how the locals do it. Plenty of rentals, plenty of bikes... in fact there are more peolpe than bike in the city... and apparently you have shady characters sliding upto you and trying to palm off stolen bikes. For 10 euros! We kept a sharp lookout for such characters so we could slide upto him and demand our 10-euro bike. NO such luck!


Nope, didn’t visit the cheese farm, but did try out some of the cheeses for Breakfast. Yummmm! And those clogs- well, don’t know why they sell em, actually- can’t wear ‘em- and where the heck will you display shoes in your house??


Now this is something that would sell in this city…we turn on the telly, and what’s the first thing we see? The free porn channel! And the red-light district is awesome! The window mannequins stand ramrod straight, and the women at the windows are unbelievably curvy! Oh, and the toys… wouldn’t know what to do with half of them, actually.


This is a laugh. Shopping is tax free. Porn on the telly is free. So is homosexuality. But a trip to the loo costs you 50 cents to a Euro. And in the city of canals, water certainly isn’t free!


You really think I wasted the weekend visiting this? Come on! you ought to know me better by now.



Here’s One place I wish we could visit actually, but with Pickwick in tow, we didn’t think it’s was too clever. Even in Amsterdam.


Again, with the museums… really, now.This is me we’re talking about here. OK. So we did visit One museum. But this wasn’t it.


Nope. This wasn’t it either. Try again.

Nor this.



*snort* C’mon! you’re not trying hard enough.

See what I mean about the Sex? And this poster has nothing to do with sex. It’s just about shopping!


Ohh- our neightbourhood bar. Great ambience. You can sit out right by the canal. And gaze out at the gay convention taking place in the street. Host of Pink-tees, extreme leather and some lovely drag queens. Pickwick really loved the hot Pink Balloons.


Finally. This is the one museum we did visit. It would be blasphemous if we didn’t.


Ohh… and this one, I did want to visit, but I was veetoed.


No thanks. We have one already. We call him Pickwick.