Croeso i Arddunol Caerdydd

Cardiff Bay

The sculpture outside the Visitors' Centre

View From the Visitors' Centre

Cardiff Castle

The dragon- synonymous with all things 'Cardiff-ean'

The town crest

Cardiff Bay Visitors centre

Pickwick having fun at the millenium centre

Looking up from the castle well

Peahen decided to investigate the food scraps with her chicks

Fort entry

Duck swimming at the bay

Little Britain

Stonehenge. Stones. and nothing much else around for miles. Except wooly sheep.

Yes. So there are no 'Parag heart Simmi' s on the monuments

Richmond Park

Deer sighting at Richmond park

Sighting of a different kind of beast at our apartment

Inside Victoria Quarter, Leeds

Mural opposite the Market, Leeds

Corn Exchange, Leeds (lovingly restored, as the plaque puts it)

Leeds Skyline

Leeds Church

Great Expectations

Oftentimes in life, what you expect in life is very different from what you come to accept.
What you expected (WYE): (on hearing hubby has a very mobile career) Lots of fun travelling and new places to see
What you've accepted (WYA): The 'yay' factor wears a bit thin when no sooner have you finished unpacking the last box and settled down for a cup of tea, than hubby breezes in to announce that we've got to pack up coz we're moving again!

WYE: New Places - new friends, new hang-outs...
WYA: New Places- New maid servants to break in or *shudder* no maid servants to break in.

WYE: ooh... expecting! Darling baby movements in you belly
WYA: Ooh! someone needs to tell that baby to stop stomping on my bladder

WYE: Smart baby
WYA: Smart baby using his brains for destructive purposes

WYE: (judging by our sizes) Chubby baby
WYA: baby that won't sit still long enough to become chubby

WYE: Me playing with baby and being fit enough to keep up with him
WYA: Baby running circles around me.

WYE: Me being super mom- having a neat house, clean baby and super chef, while I dazzle colleages at work with my keen business acumen
WYA: You won't die from eating slightly charred meals, you can work you way around the mess, and babies will become filthy exacly 4 .8 seconds after you've bathed them. And work? you think I have time for work after all this???

WYE: Blogs. Will read all blogs, post like there's no tomorrow, leave scintillating comments on others posts.
WYA: there's just barely enought time to publish in a post, without even bothering to run a spell check on it, before baby tries for the umpteenth time to burn the house down.

WYE: a good end to the post
WYA: To end is good enough.

Who's loss is it anyways?

While my house was being turned upside down by the packers (actually, it was the first time I saw some of the stuff that I though had vanished into a black hole – including the missing sock of a pair- which I’d promptly thrown away the other leg of. So I was still a missing a sock in a pair), Mother-in-law (the brave soul) offered to baby-sit Pickwick.
Now if you’re wondering what packers were doing at the house- well, apparently hubby was once again bitten by the one-year-itch and had the look of wanderlust in his eyes. (No. no, you dirty minds wanderlust!!!) So we’re upping and moving.
But I digress (what’s new?). Back to the glee on hearing MIL will take Pickwick off my hands for a bit. Hmm… so what can I do that I haven’t been able to do for ages? And there’s no contest! I gleefully switch on the telly! (Again, dear readers, wanderlust. Also, with packers there? You MUST be joking!). So, I look forward to watch Oprah generously hand out mansions to her studio audience uninterrupted.
The packers sensing I was going to fight tooth and nail before I handed over the remote packed everything else around before warily approaching the telly. I was outnumbered six-to-one and gave up the remote with some reluctance. With a sigh I picked up the day’s papers and the first thing I read (My eyes just glaze over anything to do with the world Cup. So my mind automatically skips those sections of the newspapers and in effect I’m left with just 3.2 pages of newsprint to choose from) is some gloriously delusional article written by some socialite who cribs coz she has to travel from town to Lower Parel for work- which she claims isn’t in real Mumbai at all.(What’s she doing on my planet??)
I disgustedly toss the paper aside and with nothing else to browse thru’,I pick up my unfinished copy of Kiran Desai’s Much hyped, much awarded, much praised ‘Inheritance of Loss’. Now call me old fashioned, but I like stories to have an end. At least do the decent thing by pretending to have an end.
Half-way thru’ this book I realized that this book had no such intensions. For all practical purposes, this book was like an Indian soap- spectacular visuals, opulent sets and no end in sight. Skip a couple of episodes, and you wouldn’t have missed a thing!
What’s also annoying is that most of the characters in the book are the sort who let things happen to them. Well, if you’re going to write a book about people who let things happen to them, at least let interesting things happen to them. If everyday things that happened to you and me made for an interesting read, every diary ever written would be a darned bestseller! There’s a reason the book is categorized under fiction, I just desperately wish the author would realize that! Even an Adoor Gopalakrishnan movie has some pretensions of conclusion for crying our loud! And NO, a ‘My salaams’ page at the end of the book does NOT classify as a suitable end.
Just so you can partake in my righteous indignation, I’m penning this post that has no point to make and has NO end. HA!
PS: Please be warned- All the hate mail I will be receiving for this post is liable to be printed, quoted verabatim, rediculed and twisted beyond recognition and pointed and laughed at.

London on a Student Budget

Images of London- when you have no Budget to speak of, and not nearly enough days...

Tower Bridge. One of the most photographed places in London

The tower of London. Infamous for its numerous executions.

The Big Ben- by twilight

The new London Bridge

The Thames- in all it's fury. Not a patch on the Bhramaputra, but intimidating all the same.

Westminister skyline

A Dali Sculpture.

The London eye. AKA a mother of a Ferris Wheel.

Buckingham Palace.

Deer. Richmond Park.

Nice, eh?

Rainy streets.

A break in the weather

another view of the eye. Notice the chopper circling it.

Trafalgar Square. We caught the beginnings of a Protest.

Nice Brit Pub near Trafalgar

Typically Rainy Afternoon...

... And then the sun peeks out.

Freeze Framed!

Yes, Boss

Early Start

'Of course we're running!' Says hubby. This was, needless to say, the indignant reply to my apparently silly question- 'are we running the Marthon?'
'And by we, you mean...' I ask. You know, one doesn't want things to be ambiguous.
'You, Me and Amma' says Hubby- clearly think I've lost it now. For hadn't we discussed this earlier- and decided that we would. You know, the family thing and all.
Good. Just so we were clear. Now for the Coup de Grace- 'So, who's going to take care of Pickwick?' I ask.
'Oh.' 'Yes, Oh. Minor fly in the ointment, eh?'
'Ah.'
'Now is not the time to practice you vowels, hon.' I say, a tad impatiently.
Hubby's brow, which had temporarily furrowed, cleared up.
' No Problem. We take him with us, of course.'
Eh? (now is was my turn to do the vowels) No Problem? No Problem?? how is it Not a problem? Six Kilometers. Bad enough for a couch Potato like me. With Pickwick? Somebody send for the lawyers. I want to write my last will and testament.
'don't worry. we'll take turns. You me and Amma. Easy Peasy.' says Hubby patting my head. *gulp* 'OK. If you say so.' I mumble, sending up a silent prayer, rashly promising all kinds of thing to about 6-odd Gods. (it would have been more, but the names dried out at number Six.)

Marathon Day:
Overslept. Ran in and out of the shower. Changed 3 track pants. Settled on a fourth one belonging to Hubby. Bundled Pickwick into whatever I could lay my hands on. Had to re-do it. he was wearing 2 T-shirts and no shorts. Halfway to the station, Hubby realises he's forgotten our registration bibs. Damn. Backtrack. Just make it in time for a departing VT Train. Make our way thru a sea of humanity to the Company Marquee. Stuff myself with a Frankie, a Narial Panee and covetously eye the chaat counter before I realise I have to Pee. Run over, wait and do the needful, and the announcements for the starting of the race is on. Well, so far, pretty normal. Hmm.. maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.
At the holding block, Hubby suddenly announces 'You know, I want to give it my best shot. If I hold Pickwick, I'll never make it in decent time...' he looks at the two of us desperately, and Amma and self exchange the wouldn't-you-know-it glance. 'Fine. we'll handle it. go ahead'. I say resigned to dropping out of the race after 2 kms and joining the cheerers.
'Thanks!' says excited Hubby, hand over the squiming Bundle and head our front.
'If you can't trace me, head back home. don't wait long!' he yells as he vanished into the crowd.
Oh great. Might as well head home now, when the trains were empty!
Pickwick and amma, however kept me entertained enough to stick on- at least til the race started. Initially all we did was walk. We couldn't do much else. Pickwick was amused and amusing in turn, and I though to myself 'well, not bad, lest see how far I can stick it out'.
Pickwick, however had other ideas and firmly settled down for a good nap halfway through. Well, nevermind. There's Amma for company. I think. A further 2 kms down, I lose sight of Amma. She has been swallowed by a crowd of enthusiastic Giant I-Pods. Ye gads! just as I entertained thoughts of wading in to rescue her, Pickwick, fresh from his siesta, decides to egg me on in his peculair way- by digging his heels into my middle if I showed signs of easing up.
I had no choice- I had to finish...
As I made my way into the Marquee once more - after squeezing through the gates along with a million other people and introducing Pickwick to the joy of Feeling like a sardine in a can, I finally locate Amma.
NO sign of hubby though. As we make our way back, Hubby calls up. 'where are you?' he asks. 'where are you' I ask in turn. 'Home.' says hubby, as if what I was asking was a rhetoric.
'ah.' followed by silence on my part. Hubby sweats. 'well, I looked. Everywhere. you weren't there. Honest.'
'Oh?'
'well, you're alright aren't you? good. I'll see you at home then. right. toodles.' says hubby with a feeble attempt at cheer.

Two hours later, outside our door. Sheepish Hubby- 'hi!'
'Why are you standing outside?' I ask surprised.
'well. The Keys. you have it. I though I'd wait til you get home. ' Poor thing. So he did keep his word about coming home together.
Hmmm... maybe next year, Pickwick can join this fun do- this time he WALKS!

Whoa, woe!

I was tagged by Loca and the rules are- I write 9 weird things about Self, Tag 6 others and leave comments on their blogs. Now admitted, this was done a good 3 months ago, but I seem to have stumbled across it just now, hence the post post-haste. which brings me to weird thing number 1.
I love limericks and funny verses. In fact I love it more than soulful poetry. Anyone can be soulful, I say, but it take a true genius to be flippannt in the company of Wordsworth nad Tennyson. That's why Nash rules. (With a name like Ogden, his parents didn't leave him much choice, did they? I mean, come on, can you think of 'Daffodils- by Ogden Nash' and still read it with the same countenance?)

I love food. But I'm not a gourmet. Now if that seems like a contardiction, it isn't. It's just that I'm as much a fan of the Vada Pav and Dhabeli as the Risotto and Wasabi. In fact a little more so, since the former is far lighter on the pocket than the latter.

I 'm one of the few women I know (women all over blogdom will be rolling up their sleeves at this) who honestly thinks that I have far too many things to wear. Really. My closet is bursting at the seams.

I'm also the woman who thinks you can never have enough socks though. I love socks. I try to collect one in every colour. I am hampered in ths quest by stern hubby, single-sock- eating washing machine and now, also joining the fray, kleptomaniac son. But I plod on, relentless in my quest.

I intend to try out sky diving soon. Quickly and on the sly before my son decides to emulate me.

I'm the queen of Freudian slips. Freud would have a field day with me. And I'd threaten to break his spine in five places if he so much as suggested that my mother was to blame for my oddities. I prefer laying the blame squarely on my brother who tormented me relentlessly throughout childhood.

I get a lot of Great Ideas while sitting on my throne. I don't know what it is about loos... (thye have to spotlessly clean though), but they inspire me to come up with some absolute winners.

I still dream of arriving at school in my underpants!

I might be married and a mother, but I still wouldn't advocate marriage for everyone. I'd much rather people live together in sin (is it a sin anymore?).
There. Nine thngs. Nine very uncomfortable things about me.
I'm leaving this open. no tagging. anyone who's interested can pick it up and run with it. Hope you don't scrape your knee in the process.

Ek Glassy, do glassy...

‘Honey…’ I say in a melodious voice
‘Yeah?’ asks hubby warily. ‘You know those headaches I’ve been having?’
‘um-hmmm’ he says even more warily. ‘Well, I think we should do something about it. I plan to visit the opthal tomorrow.’ I say.
‘You mean they were real? Wow. OK. Yes. Opthal. Good.’ Says much relieved Hubby.

Evening, at Opthal.

‘Place your chin here please’ says Doc- pointing to a large intimidating thingummy. I do. ‘erm…. Rest your forehead as well..’ say amused doc- I had poked the chin forward and was looking like I was ready to bay at the moon.- which apparently is not how they check eyes nowadays. After looking at an ice-cream truck and white picket fences with both eyes for a while I hear… ‘hmmmm…’ ‘Interesting. Very Interesting.’ - Now that is not what you want anybody who’s peering into your eyes- who’s not drunk or your romantic love-interest, to say.
‘What? What??’ I ask nervously.
‘ hmmm… lucky… I wonder…’ murmurs Doc, to himself, completely ignoring a sweating me on the chair.
Finally, he pushes the machine away, thrusts an owlish looking frame upon me and asks me to read the gibberish alphabets chart. As I real the Last line… ‘ P N O U…’
‘No? hmmm… now? Yes, yes… I see…’
He sees? He sees?? Well, I don’t… Isn’t that why I was there? And things had only become foggier…

After a series of swapping glasses, and flashing blinding lights into my eyes, he says, ‘Yes. Are you driving?’
Startled by this sudden change in subject, I stammer ‘eh? Who? Me? Now? Right. No.’
He lapses back into silence with only annoys me more.. not only does he pass sweeping statements like ‘interesting’ and ‘lucky’ while peering into my eyes, he’s now taken to asking me about my driving habits and then going into these pensive silences… well, ok… so I forget to give that occasional hand signal (while turning, you perverts, not the one you gave to the boor honking his horn behind you), and yes, there was that one time when I had parked illegally for five minutes, but I failed to see what business it was of his… ‘ Good. The nurse will put some drops into your eye that will blur your vision for the next six hours.’ he said, interrupting my thoughts. Oh. I saw all… or rather was about to not-see at all in the next couple of minutes.

Five minutes later…
‘hmmm…’ said doc. I wished he would expand his vocabulary. Even eskimos have only so many words for ‘snow’.
‘so whats the verdict, Doc?’ I ask, looking at what I though was his face.
‘you’ll have to wear glasses, of course.’ Said a voice from behind me. I whipped my head around- I had been talking to Doc’s reflection. Further proof that I needed glasses, I guess. Glasses? That was the reason I was termed ‘lucky’ and ‘interesting’? feeling oddly deflated at such a mundane reason for the excitement, I staggered out into the waiting area, trying to stuff the prescription into my bag- and succeeding after 3 attempts. Back in the Doc’s cabin I could hear the voices floating out…’hmmm… inetresting…’ followed soon after by a panicky ‘what? Eh?’
Poor Sod. I could have told him he needed glasses.

BRNAD DEAD!

well, Brad, as usual, had something to say about the last post. And here it was. So, naturally, I had something to say about that! enjoy!!

Dilli, we have a problem, yaar!

In a bid to streamline the admistration, my company has decided to print all cards/ stationery and other sundry accessories centrally from 'dilli'. Which is great, provided,
a. I get my Cards on Time (which does NOT roughly translate to sometime in this decade)
b. I don't have to handle annoying administration guys suggesting that in the meanwhile I use a colleagues card, and scratch out his name and put mine instead.
c. When I DO get the cards, I'd be ecstatic, if they'd please, please not coin new acronyms for my position, and just manage to get the spellings right.

Right. For now I'm stuck with cards with read 'Sense- BRNAD SOLUTION (pliss to note the singular) MANAGER.

My clients now have the pleasure of choosing between scratched out, overwritten- cards, or ones which introduce me as a BRNAD Solution manager. Can we get the weekend here a bit sooner?

Godfather to the fore!

Conversation between Brad and Godson!

Can also be seen Here, Here & Here

wORK wEEK

I'm celebrating a week at work. Well, OK, celebrations would be pushing it... people in my office are already looking shifty-eyed and start shuffling their feet when asked whether my joining was a good thing. Thankfully I have a thick hide, and refuse to take hints, so I simply carry on the back-thumping and the bush-esque shoulder massaging as if I didn't notice poeple scurrying for cover when they see me approach.
I must say this for the workplace though- they stand up to punishment well. I suppose it goes with the territory when you're selling media. here's an example of a typical conversation:
(over the phone)
Colleague: Hey... It's me. I'm not with ABC anymore. Yeah, I'm with XY....
Client (cutting Colleague off in Mid-flow): oh, ah... I'm tied up can you call back a bit later?
Colleague( as if no interruptions occured): sure thing.. in fact. I'll call you back. Just tell me when.
Client (pushed into a corner): er... afternoon? sure... bye!

Come afternoon...*brrrrring* *brrrrring*
metallic voice: the person you are trying to reach cannot take your call. Please leave a message at the beep.
Grrrrr!

Same Colleage and Same client, after the magazine hits the stands, and he finds his ad in the wrong posish.
Client: hey! it's me. I saw the ad. What's...
Colleague (getting her own back): hey... I'm sorry, but you've caught me at the worst time possible. Could you send me a mail on this?
Client (seething and vowing to wait till colleague comes back for business): sure, and I'll mark a CC to my boss and your boss.
Colleague (distractedly): oh? Oh. seeya then.

Next month: Colleague and client at it again.
Colleague: Hey... It's me. could we meet up ? i've got this great idea....
Client (cutting Colleague off in Mid-flow): oh, ah... I'm tied up can you call back a bit later?

-And so it goes. The Office. The best place to watch karma bite you in the arse.

All in a Day's work

*Beep* *Beep* - said a beligerent phone at 2:30 am. Then only reason I even heard the darned thing was because I had just woken up to feed Pickwick. Mercifully, Pickwick slept right thru' the cacophony.
Muttering dire threats at whoever was at the other end, I picked up the phone to see who wished to commit Harakiri. 'Twas the boss. Or soon-to-be Boss. Darn. Plans of wanting to see the colour of his insides dropped. For now. (which reminds me of a classmate who once insisted on calling all our undies 'insides' for the duration of the entire study tour. These insides are not the insides I refer to in my post. Just in case a few random readers had similar thoughts)
Bleary eyed I read the message- and Goggle. The chap wants me to call up some female in the morning and tag along with her as she heads to office at the other side of town!!! You may well wonder why I goggled. I mean, that doesn't seem like such an absurd request, does it? Ah, but there were wheels, as they say, within wheels.
Let me start at the beginning. Skipping early evolution and other trivial matters, I shall move on to the matter in Q. After a nine-month hiatus, I had decided to join the ranks of the gainfully employed. My first day was supposed be the first of December. Boss-man- who's a Diliwallah was to make a trip a couple of days prior and get me up to speed, so to speak before tossing me into the thick of things. As luck would have it, Boss-man cometh and boss-man goeth- all without having an opportuinity to have the tete-a-tete. So, boss-man sayeth- No point starting tomorrow. Take the weekend to mull over material (which he promised he'd be sending over the mail), and start afresh Monday. Good, I say. Great, even. Weekend to prep up, and Monday morning, shall be In My Element.
By Sunday evening, the plan seems to have developed a slight flaw- no mail in sight from Boss-man. No answer to frantic phonecalls. Ah. Oh well, I think. Tomorrow we shall try again, I think.
Only, that night- at 2:30 to be precise is when Boss-man replies! Now you see why I goggle!
All right, no reason to panic. We shall meet aforementioned lady, and she will give me the goods, I think. Only, Lady is Late, has no clue who I am and what I'm there for.
Office isn't much better. No one in office knows I'm joining up. So naturally no one knows what I'm supposed to be doing. Er... I shall spent the day constructively blogging about it. And I would, only apparently, there are just so many workstations, and a tad too many people. Long tea breaks? Naah- the tea is delievered into your hands! So I now know every story that was printed in yesterday's paper. Go on- ask me what was printed on page 4 of the entertainment supplement. Or page 6 of the main supplement. I shall tell you verbatim. Still, there's only so much time you can spend with your nose buried in the newspaper. So I did the only thing any good new employee would do- disrupt Work and engage everyone in so much chit-chat that nothing constructive was done by anyone for the better part of the day. Finally deciding they've had enough of me, they politely told me I could leave early (they tried hinting at first, but I was too dense to get it. They had to spell it out for me).

This morning, trying to head off trouble early on, they have given me my own workstation. I think I'm going to like it here. They catch on quick.

Pickwick Capers

Did a few rudimentary toons on strip creator- here they are
MOre to follow post refinement.

Family Tree

As my son fumbles about bravely trying to insert his tiny fingers into every available socket, it makes me wonder what kind of stock he comes from and if, as his mother I am going to survive his bumps and bruises.

Well, I don’t have too much of a reference point, considering both my great great grandfather (on the maternal side) and throw in another great and we have the paternal side; both of whom were adopted. So that leaves me with about 3 generations worth of stories.
We will dispense with the greats and get down to the grandparents, since I have personally never had the pleasure of meeting any of the greats, and hence have heard no accounts of their heroics first hand (although my granddad’s grand mom was allegedly bitten by a snake when she was pregnant, and hence they believed my great grandma was a walking antidote to venomous bites. On another interesting aside, the lady was supposed to be pretty venomous herself…That apparently accounts for my wayward tongue)

Lets start with the granddaddy (literally) of all stories- which involves the maternal grandpop (if he could see me being so irreverent now, he’d have my hide). Well, like all middle sons of families with not a lot of ancestral wealth, grandpop landed up having to support not just his family but also those of his brothers (the elder brother having pushed off to join the INA with Netaji and the younger one going about doing a fair bit of social work and bringing honour to the family- the bread and butter was really not his forte, but think honour and you had your man!). So off he want on some project with the Brits to Rangoon. Bear in mind, this was the time of the Second World War, and once a bloke vanished to far shores, it was quite often the last time you saw him. In fact the only way you knew the chap was still slogging away at some remote location was the money orders that used to arrive home every month.
So- getting back to the slogging ancestor in remote location- Grandpa was just getting into the thick of things, when suddenly, the Japanese took it upon themselves to Bomb the S*** out of Rangoon. Naturally, working with the Brits made Grandpa and his colleagues sitting ducks. Not liking the Sitting Duck posish. one bit, Grandpa decided to take matters into his own hands. NO, he did not grab a musket and charge the Japs- he was brave, not stupid! He packed a few of his measly belongings and decided to hightail it back to India. Now, since most of the ships were filled with ladies and families, and had left port long ago, the only way into India was by land thru’ the forests.
Now I don’t want to give you lessons in geography, but From Rangoon, he made his way to a place called Pittakoon and from there into erstwhile Bengal. Naturally, like all great travel stories, this had its fair share of bombs, murder, jungle fever, thuggee and wild animals. Two months later when Grandad returned home, he’d lost half his weight and most of his hair (or so he told me- C’mon, the man’s entitled to a wee bit of creative leeway after the ordeal he’s been thru’)
The grandmum, all this while wasn’t wasting away, pining for the husband (this despite it being a love marriage- Grandmum fell in love with Granddad and decided she was going to marry him, all at the ripe old age of 12.) She had mouths to feed and children to clothe. She’s also had the distinction of being the first lady in the family to have travelled from the southernmost tip of India to the north (to the Bhakra Nagal project, as a matter of fact) alone with her kids to set up house there- all this without knowing a word of Hindi at that time.
Now coming to the paternal side- Pretty uneventful life, if you consider having lost a fortune via gambling (that was the great granddad), coming to Bombay penniless and reclaiming the lost fortune for his dad bit-by-bit as uneventful. On the way he also managed to pick up a wife and have four healthy kids.
The Grandmum- ah she was a rare one. She’d come to Bombay after marrying granddad at the age of 15. She learnt to speak and read both Hindi and marathi within a short while just by watching the telly and speaking to people. The dragon lady, as I used to call her affectionately bounced back after an amputation- and was seen pottering about the building just a few months after the operation. This, despite having unchecked diabetes for ages and a heart that functioned at 20% capacity. The lady buried a husband and a child within two years of each other and came close to losing a grandchild. They say punters lost a whole lotta money betting on her early demise.

Considering the above facts, I can safely bet on a good-ish capacity to bounce back after setbacks from Pickwick. Now if only this bouncing-back thingy hadn’t skipped my generation…

Sleepless in Mumbai

*sigh* My son is growing up. Last night was the first night he didn’t want to nurse…until 4 in the morning! That of course didn’t stop me from getting up on auto pilot every couple of hours, and it didn’t stop him from wanting to be rocked back to sleep during my semi-wakeful bouts. Hubby, naturally was blissfully unaware of the turmoil in my mind (Why isn’t he nursing? Is he sick? Maybe he doesn’t like the taste of milk anymore… what if he refuses to drink any more milk? So now my milk is not good enough for him, huh? Just like a man to want something one instant, and the moment he gets it, he loses interest! Ha! ), after a restful nights’ sleep wakes up, smiles pleasantly and asks for coffee. Poor chap. It was the wrong thing to have asked. I nearly bit his head off, and he hurriedly retreated to the bathroom with his morning paper, and refused to emerge until sanity made a comeback.

In the meanwhile, the other man in my life was up and about and smiling sunnily as though he had no hand in driving his poor mother up the wall with worry. Still, I have chosen to look at the bright side of this new development.

1. Longer hours of sleep- translating to black circs. around the eyes retreating to manageable levels. Now I can stop looking like a reality show participant.
2. More time can be spent away from Pickwick- meaning we can now sneak in that odd movie or two.
3. Pickwick will (hopefully) not scream blue murder every time we step out with him coz he wants me to nurse him in the middle of a mall/ restaurant/ train/ wedding/ funeral and other public places with absolutely no privacy
4. My bust can now return to normal proportions, and (again, hopefully) head northwards again.
   
   I was just beginning to cheer up again, when Pickwick looks at me, gives me a killer smile (complete with just one tooth) and promptly settles down on my lap to nurse.
   OK. So maybe it isn’t just time yet for point four. But we’re getting there. In the meanwhile, I’m planning a killer wardrobe to be worn at the beach, all in my head.

Weekend Getaway

I spent last weekend in Matheran. I had no clue I'd be anywhere near there. In fact I'd happily made plans with Smithy to be her date at a Halloween Bash (three whole hours with no Baby or Hubby! wheee!). Then come friday, Hubby lands me with the Matheran Plan. On asking why it's taken him this long to bother informing me, he say in all earnestness, 'but honey, it wouldn't be a surprise then, would it?' Bah. Sorry Smithy, I can't argue with that!

So, off we went, with Pickwick in tow. Here are a few excerpts from the weekend:

Cottage No.13

Yeah, that's right, that was our home for the weekend. A British-era Cottage with the number 13. And nothing remotely eerie to report! (damn!)

It's a tree...it's a stump... it's...it's a dustbin!

Male Bonding

One of my favourite father-son moments during the trip
(that and Pickwick swinging his undies in the air a la Saurav).

Here Comes the Son!

I know! Corny! still, that's what i feel like singing everytime i see this picture.

NO Clue what existed below the vines.

Cool Pool
No, Really. the water was Frigid! Hubby bravely strolled out of the cottage in a towel and swimming trunks, only to return 3 minutes later, after having dipped his toe into the pool and retracting it with a howl!

P.S. By the way, i strongly recommend 'Sakville's' for all your foody needs- he may be no gourmet, but he's given us better service than I've seen at star restaurants. besides, you also get to catch all the hubub of the market place from his place!

Back Room Business

I have seen the backs of more restaurants and pubs than I care to remember. Now I know what you’re thinking… get your mind out of the gutter- that’s NOT how Pickwick was conceived. In fact it is precisely because of Pickwick that I have the … er… privilege of visiting these places. Well, it’s either visiting the back room, or flashing unsuspecting customers, making them swallow their soup the wrong way. Very unsettling. And totally bad for business. So in the interest of his regulars, the owners/ managers of these places generally give me a guided tour of their back rooms.

The back rooms Or in some cases glorified broom closets) of these restaurants are mighty interesting places. Not only do you find the occasional odd creatures all limbs intertwined (which makes you immediately want to separate them with a water hose and yell at them while holding Pickwick aloft ‘Exhibit A’) but also the friendly neighborhood spider (who’s NEVER as delectable as the movies), the inquisitive rodent and despicable stars of ‘Joe’s apartment’ (why aren’t they on the endangered list?)

What is interesting to note is you learn a lot about the place and the people who work there from the back rooms. For example, you see a neatly folded trouser and shirt all nicely tucked into a plastic bag, and you KNOW you want that man serving you at the table. You see the carelessly tossed jeans along with the body hugging t-shirt and you can safely surmise that this man is here to fulfill his tinsel town dreams. You see the worn half shirt neatly pressed, and you can imagine the wife faithfully ironing out this chap’s shirts and he trudges off to work. Once you head back to your table it then becomes an interesting game- to put a face to the clothes in the back room. Naturally these are often met with very strange looks- since this is probably the first time any patron will be looking so hard at the waiters and Maitre D’- with a knowing smirk on her face, no less…

You can also hazard a guess if the water’s safe to drink at this place, from the back rooms- I mean one look at where they store their tipple and as Wodehouse would put it- All Is Revealed. You may well wonder where all this is leading to- and I don’t blame you- in this post I have rambled on more than usual (which is like saying that the Mahabharata was just a tad long-ish). At the risk of sounding repetitive, All, as they say, will be Reveled- I’m dabbling with the idea of starting off a restaurant critique from a ‘back-room’ point of view. Just wanted to know if it would pique anyone’s interest or am I the only odd-ball restaurant voyeur in blogdom.

True Vacation

Last week, we were in Goa doing what you should truly do in Goa- no, not living it up. You have Mumbai for that, for crying out loud. We were there to hibernate. Relax. Pig out. And not move a muscle. Well, we did all of the above. Almost all. There only so much inaction your six-month old will permit you.

The weather was crap. It was raining all night- and most days. Which suited us just fine. All we needed was a bit of sunshine so we could hit the pool (which was just outside out room) and the beach (which was just beyond the pool). Pickwick loved both. The beach had him a tad confused, with what the waves and the ground beneath his feet literally slipping away. He didn’t like that. No one does, I guess. The pool was more his scene. He was basking. In the sunshine and the mini admiration society which seemed to have formed around him as soon as he stepped into the pool. So naturally he wants to show off for his fans and tried to float. To our utter amazement he actually succeeded! He even got so bold as to venture a few Kicks. Sigh! The things one has to do to please people!

The food was especially good. I pigged out on sea food while poor hubby stoically held back his urge to puke. I guess he thought it’s the least he could do for the woman who’s bravely decided to spawn his offspring (Yes, I’m going to hold that over his poor head for another eighteen years!). Having this scandalized three generations of the iyer khaandaan, I decided to reserve my second tattoo plans for another day. We don’t want to kill the poor fellow, do we?

Our return journey was another adventure altogether. After having raced to the station to narrowly make the train (thanks to a forgotten jacket in the lobby of the hotel whose pockets held a mobile phone and tickets to the very train we were about to board…), we board the one compartment in the train that is bursting at the seams with kids. You should have seen the night sleeping routine. 35 mums trying to put 40-odd hyperactive kids to bed. Sometimes, even now, when I let my guard down, I hear “Shhh! Look at that nice boy. He’s not troubling his mummy.”

So, it’s no wonder I took so long to write this post. I needed a vacation to recover from my vacation!

Mee Mumbaikar

And now, ladies and gentlemen, presenting a post for the express reading purpose of the Mumbaikar…

Overheard in the second class ladies compartment:

*self- fly on the wall- or at least plastered to the partition near the entryway*

Plump Lady (to skinny one nearer the door): ay! Dadar?
Skinny: nai
Plumpy: toh idhar kay karti hai? Andar jao na!
Skinny: kaisa jayegi? Jagah kidahr hai? Tum side se jao na!
Plumpy: ai! Kya baat karti hai? Mera size dekha hai? Tum hi ja nahi sakti, main kaisa jayegi? Ab dadar ayega to tum utarke phir chado..
Skinny: arre... main kyon utregi? Main nahin utregi. Tum side se jao.
Plumpy: getting more annoyed: he bagh! Jyada mach mach nahin karneka. Tumko malum nahin Dadar mein utrneka nahin to idhar nahin khada rahneka? Malum nahin kidhar kidhar se train mein aa jata hai.
Skinny: getting equally riled: ai! Tum idhar dekho- kya kar legi tum? Kuch bhi bolti rehti hai. Phir mai bolne lagoongi
Plumpy: gearing up for full-scale war:ay chokri- tu jaanti nahin main koun hoon. Main roz yeh train mein jaati hoon. Train mein chadhne ko atta nahin to kyon aati ho?

Skinny was just about to launch into a tirade of her own when the train pulled up into Dadar. Although she put up a brave fight, she lost her battle to the tide of people flowing out of the train and had to decend at Dadar.

30 seconds later when the train pulled out of Dadar, however, I did a double take. Not only was Skinny back on the train- right next to her was a mournful Plumpy- who was pushed back into the train by the incoming tide! Looks like Skinny had the last laugh!

Ah! It’s good to be back in Mumbai!

Irwin Lives!

It is just like the Polterigeist, only, in reverse. Somehow, the spirit of Steve Irwin has managed to enter my son thru' the telly! there's no other logical explanation for it...
... I'm not much of a fan of watching creatures behind bars for no fault of theirs, so I tend to avoid most zoos (Also, I have been asked by certain curators to keep a safe distance from the primates, as apparently, I make them nervous). I especially made this a point while I was carrying Pickwick. Neither me nor my husband have ever campaigned for the SPCA, PeTA or any such group- not because we don't feel for the poor things having to share the earth with us humans, but simply because we're really not the campaigning types. I didn't even campaign for my own elections as school captain (I got elected by deafult- all the other contestants fell ill or discovered lurrve- both of which have remarkably similar symptoms, by the way), simply beacuse it involves a lot of, you know...work!

so how else can you explain the fact that my son's favourite method of locomotion resembles that of an Aardvark- as demonstrated bythe previous post. And that's not all- he's taken to making sounds like a pelican (which causes me to go into an instant panic attack and I end up vigorously thumping a surprised Pickwick on his back). Most recently, he's started to practice hopping on our laps like a kangaroo. He never tires of this activity, and he results are evident on all our bruised thighs.
Hence I have concluded that it's the ghost of Irwin that's possessed him, and we have patiently been taking him out in the sun and urging him to 'go towards the light'. Passers-by have not taken kindly to this urging and make hissing sounds- which seems to excite Pickwick all the more. We wish Irwin to be at peace and have erased Animal Planet from the telly favourites. Pickwick in the meanwhile has learn a new word which sounds suspicoiusly like 'bee-u-tee'

P.S. Since publishing this post last night, Pickwick has develeoped strange new symptoms where he creeps up on your unsuspecting hand, and does a complete salt-water croc style stealth attack, including the death roll. Things Seem to be getting worse before the get better(I hope...)