India bit 5: Girls - friends and family

It’s Tuesday and I am relaxing at home this morning. My Best Friend in the Whole Wide World (One) is coming for lunch and an afternoon with me. We’ve been friends since we were teenagers and although we only see each other about once a year we are on the phone and email a lot. And even when our busy lives do not allow for us to be in touch due to time differences or schedules it makes no difference whatsoever. We always start every conversation right from where we left off and in minutes it’s as if we had always been in just the same place/ space. We’ve holiday-ed together numerous times, had countless sleepovers at each other’s homes and read all the Judy Blume’s and Erma Bombeck’s ever written (and laughed at the exact same bits) sitting in the sun. Our families know each other. Heck, our extended families know each other. We are each other’s history.

She has a new haircut. So do I. My father still thinks she looks like a school kid. She does. I wish I did. The three of us settle down to a lunch of baingan bharta, aloo, simlamirch pyaaz tamatar and parathas. Then dad sits in the doorway, soaking in the afternoon sun and dozing. We sit at the table and get all caught up in reminiscing, planning, gossiping. At 4pm we leave for Select City Walk in Saket where another of my Best Friends in the Whole Wide World (Two) is escaping work early to meet us. The 3 of us went to school together and even though our lives could not be more different today we have a bond that dates back and when we meet it’s as if we are once again school girls in divided skirts and rust pullovers. (One is in filmmaking, Two is in publishing & printing and I am in the Not for Profit sector).

Saket is in many ways coming home. It’s where I spent my formative school years right until at 17 we moved even further South into the wilderness. I know its markets, different blocks and secret roads and galli's, intimately. I have random memories of it, much like film flashback. There were no malls. The ground where 3 of these gigantic malls have now been built was once a barren stretch of land, the road by its side leading towards Chiragh Dilli. So much has changed in Saket. The colonies have high walls around them and spiky gates to hold out intruders as if under siege. There is a giant hospital, the Metro is being built and even the Malaviya Nagar potters look swankier and better lit than before. I still miss it.

Select City Mall is gigantic by any standards and even on a Tuesday afternoon teeming with people. We sit on a Barista sofa where we share cold coffees, cheesecake and news. We also wonder and sdiscuss who all these other coffee-ing people are - bored housewives? flush college students?or just random friends escaping work? Then we wander around and attack the Pratap Sale with a vengeance. While two of us sit on its austere bench the third tries on a pile of (not austerely priced) clothes and we provide the running commentary/ approval/ disapproval. All shopped out (or at least One is) we head for Press Enclave, a stalwart Saket development, where Two has lived since childhood, a place I have visited more times than I can count. Her delightful 4 year old is home and proceeds to beat all 3 of us at a Thomas the Tank Engine memory game that involves remembering whats on each downturned squares and picking out pairs. Age is not kind to us, although we have more accepting humour on our side. After hours of talking I am off to a family dinner, a warm fuzzy feeling cloaking me.

My mama is hosting dinner for a huge bunch of his cousins and their children i.e. my cousins. My mum is one of seemingly hundreds of cousins and as they are all close so am I with many of mine. Everyone arrives at Indian Stretchable Time and soon the room is resounding with chatter and reminiscing as 20 people talk at the same time. Dinner is delicious and we are sated on words and the joy of bonding with family. The girls make a plan for a day of wandering over the next few days. I have laughed till my too full stomach hurts.

Too many dahi bhallas later I am rolling home to sleep. Tuesday was fabulous.

baingan bharta: Smoked/ roasted and mashed aubergine, cooked in the most delightful way.

aloo: In this case, dry roasted and with some hari ka masala

simlamirch pyaaz tamatar: Capsicum/Peppers, onions and tomato's combined and cooked like a stir fry

parathas: Whole wheat flat bread pan-fried in oil

Mama: mother's brother (in this case first cousin)

Dahi bhallas: round urad dal dumplings covered with thick yogurt and drizzled with mint and tamarind chutney's, corriander, cumin powder and chilli powder

India bit 4: Caanaat Place chalen?

Both mum and the Nik have gone to work so essentially dad and I are left to our own devices. It’s a lovely sunny winter’s day and there is no way we can ignore the rays. So we decide a trip to Connaught Place (or Caanaat Place as our dear driver refers to it) to eat some divine chicken patties from Wengers is the order of the day. Also a bit of Bank work for my grandmother, a dip into Bhagwandas for some leather products and possibly a trip on the Metro. All washed down with cold coffee from Keventer’s.

CP holds so many of my growing up memories that if I did tears I would get all teary eyed just at the thought of being there. I don’t get teary eyed, except in my head, where I am recording all these sights and changes to remember when I on the other side of the planet. And Wengers, well that is like a family tradition my father had from his childhood that has been passed along like a precious legend of prowess.

We drive through Shanti Path, the gardens on either side a blooming testament to spring and hardwork of mali’s. And past the various metro construction diversions that will make Delhi more accessible for those without personal transport. We are at Wengers but as it is still so early we do not yet have the stomach to eat very much. We pack chicken patties, shammi kebabs and paneer rolls (my personal favourite, much to the disappointment of my carnivorous father who thinks paneer is nothing but flavoured cardboard). And then stroll over the road to the Bank, where they excelled at being inefficient and rude all at once.

Then a stroll through the inner circle, past the pillars and hawkers selling bric-a-brac (everything from mirror-worked cushions to sunglasses), enjoying the sunshine till we reached Bhagwandas - another of his childhood haunts that my father passed on to us. It’s a shop that sells all things leather and on a summer day its cool interiors and high ceilings with their shady tube lights used to be the most inviting thing. Somehow even on this winter’s day it did the reverse trick, being warm and inviting. I bought a passport holder (finally, after a lifetime of envelopes) and dad bought a replacement spectacle case. We walked a bit more, enjoying the shafts of sunlight that heated up the corridors and abandoned the idea of a trip on the Metro in favour of the sun. Next time?

Then we drove back towards South Delhi for an impromptu early lunch and coffee with my mum at Olive Beach. We sat in the white gravel courtyard, on cane chairs and shared a perfectly baked thin-crust pizza before devouring a hot centered chocolate fondant with vanilla ice cream. Washed down with a decaf cold coffee (an item as rare as finding gold nuggets in your garden, in India – a story that needs a post of its own), bathed in sunlight and the company of my parents, this was a perfect Delhi day

All our Wengers goodies were duly eaten at tea time once everyone was home. And they tasted as gorgeous as they looked. Paneer roll included.

Went and hung out with the Nik and his friends at our local branch of Café Cofee Day. Then we rejoined our parents and the Nik’s P and headed to Vasant Vihar with very intention of going to Punjabi by Nature. The plan was waylaid by Nik who insisted we try Paatra in the Vasant Continental and as he eats out a lot (and was the designated driver) we gave in. Valet parking and two security checks later we are seated in the very neutral environs of Paatra listening to some live ghazal-type music – neither is anything to write home about. The food however was excellent – kebabs and butter chicken and kali daal (these are a few of my favourite things) but there is no roomali roti (the pinnacle of all roti’s in my experience). I am full and happy by the time we leave. And yet I threaten the Nik with a lawsuit unless a PbN standard roomali roti is produced in the next few days.

As the night is still young and everyone is still full of beans (and decidely young) we decide that dessert should be had at Olive, whose fine chocolate Fondant is beckoning. After two in the same day and the endless, relentless eating I have no place in my stomach or heart by the time the evening is finally night. I could not be much happier. Or more content.

Wenger’s (open 10.30am to 7.30pm daily): A-16 Connaught Place, New Delhi – 110001. Tel: 23324594
Olive Beach: 9 Sardar Patel Marg, Diplomatic Enclave, Chanakya Puri, New Delhi – 110021. Tel: 46040404
Paatra: Jaypee Vasant Continental Hotel, Vasant Vihar, New Delhi - 110057. Tel: 2614 8800

India bit 3.5: Now, why I love flying less

Two hours and the world’s worst pav bhaji passed by really quickly. We should have been landing but all I could see were the white fluffy stuff called clouds. I had run out of things to read having finished the last chapter of my book and thumbed through Kingfisher’s in-flight magazine and safety card.

They announce that we have flown over Delhi because we haven’t yet been given landing permission (a 10 minute delay in taking-off just throws it all out of whack apparently. I feel cheated. My husband is not an engineer – how can I possibly find out if this is the truth?). The physical map on my screen shows that we are heading towards Karnal. Great.

We change our minds just before Karnal (thank goodness – I don’t know anyone there – do they have an airport or was the captain contemplating a daring descent onto mustard fields?) and head back to Delhi. We land somewhat smoothly, now 45 minutes late. As if the torture of delay in the air is not enough, we are now taxiing for about 20 minutes. It would seem we did after all land in Karnal and are driving to Delhi! (damn the new runway, eons away from all civilization).

Five minute bus to terminal building and then a fifteen minute wait till our luggage appears on the conveyor belt. A group of dudes are crowding around the conveyor belt, sort of evenly spread out along the belt yelling at each other, ‘Yeh Sudhirji ka hai?' (Is this Sudhir ji’s luggage?); Nahi yaar, yeh Sudhirji ka hai' (no my friend, this is Sudhirji’s). No sign of said Sudhir-ji who is clearly too lazy to come and point out his own baggage. Once his two trolleys (and here I was worried about my measly two pieces!) of mismatched baggage are trundled away and the evil henchmen disappear behind it, us mere mortals can finally gain access to our own mismatched luggage.

At last, hours later (Ok, an hour later), I am out in the warm shining Delhi sunshine, in the embrace of my family and headed to a meal of kofta curry and rice cooked by my mother’s hand.

I’m loving flying less. But I’m definitely loving Delhi more.

India bit 3: Why I love flying in that big steel bird

Its 48 hours since we arrived in India. And time for V and I to part ways for the rest of our social outing (see this is why I cannot in good conscience call this a vacation – a vacation is something I drink through a straw while gazing at the blue sea holding said V’s hand). I’m on the Kingfisher flight to Delhi and the women at the check-in counter does not even blink when my two suitcases register 32 kilograms on the weighing scale. I exhale as I collect my boarding pass, luggage stubs and composure and head to the gate.

I board the very red interiors of the plane along with a plane-full of folk who don’t look too happy to be travelling. The general air is of great boredom as if this is a chore that they have to undertake, not just a ride in a giant physics defying metal bird. I, on the other hand, am smiling like an idiot. I like air travel and in two short hours I will be home, under the watchful eye and joyous care of parents and the Nik who make me (even at this ripe old age) feel like a child who needs everything provided for them from food and shopping trips that my heart desires to advice, chatter and gossip that are good for the soul.

My seat is by the window and with no passenger in the middle I have only to contend with the pretty young thing seated in the aisle. The first sign of trouble I know is when she sits down and shows no indication of removing her OTT large sunglasses, even in the darkness of the flight. Then iPod extracted by many ringed fingers, her Gucci handbag is plonked in the seat between us. The IPod is switched on, headphones plugged into her ears and some jarring beat threatening my eardrums even at this distance is causing some sort of swaying/ convulsing movement to her neck. I wonder if I should be alarmed or amused. An airhostess walks by and stops at our row. PYT, removes one earphone thingie and while her music escapes towards me unbidden, one arched eyebrow rises questioningly above her sunglasses in the direction of the airhostess.

Airhostess: Madam, please could you put your bad under the seat in front of you. Or would you like me to place it in the overhead locker for you, just while we take off?
PYT: I’ll put it in front of me thanks. (and proceeds to shove Gucci under the seat in front of her)
Airhostess: Madam, you will have to switch the IPod off till we take off and the Captain announces that it is safe to use electronic items.
PYT (in her most nasal and high-pitched tone coming right out): But why? My husband told me it is OK, and he is an engineer you know!!!!
Airhostess: Be that as it may Madam, the rules are the rules.
PYT: But reeeeaaaaally, he is an engineer, he knows about these things. Nothing will happen to your plane.
Airhostess: Madam, I am afraid I don’t make the rules. Please switch it off immediately or I shall have to confiscate it and ask security to come on board.

And that was the end of whine-y’s IPod listening till we took off. Finally we take off. PYT/ Whine-y puts her Ipod back on, decided to dispense with her sunglasses saying ‘Ouch’ for dramatic effect as she whipped them off her head with the ring laden fingers. Just watching her antic made the two hours go by in a flash.

I love taking flights. Mainly because people are idiots, captured to amuse me.

India bit 2: Mumbai Malls and endless eating

Why do I ever bother making plans when I’m visiting India? The thing about plans on our bharat darshan is that they rarely fit all the other humans that have been factored in and since Indian stretchable time is Oh So fluid, any and all plans can and are changed till unrecognizable from the originals. You would think I’d have absorbed this lesson from seven years worth of visits but no, you would be wrong. Very wrong.

Saturday dawned bright and early but thanks to jetlag and a late Friday night of chatting I was away with the fairies till a nephew and his father came to stand at the end of my bed and stare in the half darkness till I awoke. That is the power of intense stares – a power that knows no bounds. Next thing it was back to circus-ville with a house of 10 adults and 2 children trying to make and intersect their plans, amidst breakfast and baths. As everyone and their brother had something important to do (ie, sleep, visit other people, etc) I decided to tag onto the most commercial plan of all - lunch and a wander through the mega Oberoi Mall in Goregaon. So 4 of us (mil, eldest sil, R and I) packed ourselves into one of the cars and demanded the driver brave Bombay’s much improved traffic to the Mall. Once in the shining swanky monolith we deposited R in the play area and then wandered in and out of stores, every single one of them packed to the rafters with things and on some sort of change of season (read recession) sale. I didn’t do an iota of shopping as I just felt uninspired (too early in my trip to take in all the bling and make a coherent decision) and couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of buying something and then carting it to my next destination before heading back to London. I browsed around Crossword with longing but held myself back (for now). Thankfully window shopping can be just as soul fulfilling (I find) and giving advice as my mil and sil bought stuff was rewarding in itself.

We then adjourned to the wonderful ‘in malls only’ vegetarian chain restaurant ‘Rajdhani’ and devoured a Gujarati/ Marwari thali. I cannot describe how tasty and fresh it was: two types of dal, karhi, aloo suji, aubergine, green beans, two types of rice, tiny football phulka’s, puran poli, some sort of vadas, dahi bhallas, pickles, chutneys and papad, all washed down with chaas and followed by 3 choices of sweets. The restaurant was next to but not part of the large and loud foodcourt and the decor was simple and business like with a manager coming around and directing servers to serve out whatever dish they were carrying as you finished/ needed it. Managed to roll back to Bandra and yet find place for some delicious cold coffee and chat in the Barsita on Linking Road. Wandered in and out of Mango and Zara and Nike and then headed for a much-needed haircut. Home by dusk and another evening of houseful-ness, hockey/ cricket/ ball throwing and then book reading with the niece and nephew, obligatory family photograph to mark the milestones of the years since we have all been together (3, I think) and a dinner of delicious kebabs and roti's to wash down all that talk, till the wee hours of the morning and sleep beckoned.

Sometimes you don’t need the best laid plans, just the ability to go with the flow of spontaneously made-up ones.

Khandani Rajdhani: In Malls everywhere. Goregaon Mall, 2nd floor, next to the food court.

India bit 1: A new mumbai

Just back from our annual 9 day vacation/ marathon trip to India. I don't check/ respond to the internet at all when I am on holiday - call it laziness or just the need to switch off from this virtual life. Therefore this and the next 8 or 9 posts are all written in retrospect, bits (best and not) of this trip.

Landed in Mumbai on schedule in the middle of the day but our plane taxi-ed for about 20 minutes and stopped itself at about the last possible gate it could. A 20 minute trudge through the airport to immigration and luggage, which was chaotic to say the least with people cutting in the line regularly, asking for, 'adjust karne do ji'. I couldn't stop smiling.

The road between the airport and Bandra is 4 clean lanes now and the surface as smooth as can be. We whizzed through in no time, me enjoying the sun streaming through the closed windows as V enjoyed the blast of car airconditioning. Past the teetering media circus balanced on the wall of Lilavati hospital hoping for a glance of Thakrey. And finally the large airy home of V's eldest brother and his wife.

I picked up our niece R from school that afternoon, driving there with my m-i-l. While we chatted all the way there catching up on our news and plans, it was not possible to get a word in sideways once 6 year old R got in the car for the journey home. Endless monologue on her friends, a poem about a cobbler and rhetoric questions from the babe, amongst other chatter and opinions about her fascinating life. Oh to be 6 again!

At home, more people, a deliciously simple lunch of karhi, aloo and rice, an afternoon nap and the arrival of our Singapore nephew from his jaunt through Mumbai. An evening of the 3 brothers and their 3 wives, the boys parents and the niece and nephew - endless cacophony and loads of kebabs to see us through. This is the good life.

Life is drama?

Not really, but I find that sometimes a melodramatic moment can put things into perspective. Of course there are people who live their whole lives moving from drama to drama. They exaggerate and their eyes go all wide and saucer like and even the smallest hiccup in life turns into an impending explosion of Mt. Vesuvius all over their pretty lives.

I am quick to add that while thinking about this while lounging on the daybed soaking in some Saturday sun I immediately dismissed myself as one of ‘these dramatic people’. I have moments but they pass – boredom and laziness more than noble thoughts about important world issues. What got me thinking about the ‘dramatic people’ was a reconnection with a school mate on that evil evil Facebook. To be fair I call almost all 9million and 22 people reconnections/ acquaintances because apart from the fact that we haven’t talked in 20 years is the fact that even 20 years ago we weren’t really friends. FB is shallow at best and irritatingly overfamiliar at worst. I’m stuck like in a muddy combination of yummy rasmalai (which I like) and quick sand (which I'm sure I won't).

But coming back to ‘dramatic people’ this particular school mate of mine belonged to a different section and we only ever had chance encounters as part of birthday parties for common friends or shared assemblies for the entire class. And although her features remain fuzzy in my head what I do remember was her everyday dramatic moment. She would stand in the corridor with her two friends from my section while we all filed in to class after morning assembly and at the top of her voice narrate that day’s drama filled incident. Sometimes it was the driver being SO LATE, on another the cook running AWAY WITH the MAID. Sometimes it was her BROTHER having dropped his milk ALL OVER her homework. Or her DAD being out of town (to SINGAPORE no less!) on work for a WEEK Oh my god! None of these things on their own or collectively even, were particularly dramatic but her narration and the expressions and gestures made everything seem like a crisis, one that needed IMMEDIATE and URGENT attention, else how was she going to SUBMIT her homework yaar! And then her two friends would come back to my class, clucking loudly at the problem in hand and try and hash out a possible solution before the commencement of class (She and her mum and brother can go and STAY with her nani nah, otherwise they will all be so BORED at home etc). Immediately after class they would dash back into the corridor with their advice and sympathy.

Often other classmates would chip in their two paisa of advice and there would be more serious advice to combat the problem (tell her brother to drink his milk standing up in the kitchen. Or, why is her homework on the dining table, doesn’t she have a desk? etc). And by the start of the next class the advice would all be filtered and summarized for her to take into account while solving that days dramatic moment. I never really participated in these, not because I didn’t have a vivid imagination and plenty to say, more because I was too amused by the ordinariness of the problem and tongue tied by the flying advice to add in my two-bits to the marching words.

We lost touch after school, no surprises there and if ever (once) I reminisced with friends about her, her features were all fuzzy and un-defined but this dramatic flair was as sharp as a ruler. When she FB’d me for ‘friendship’ I took one look at the name and picture and was momentarily confused as to who it was. But her introductory note, full of caps and HOW ARE YOU? OMG, it’s been SOOOOO LONG; my life has been so FULL yaar and I’ve been upto …..(and then a 20 year update full of ‘OMG’s’ and ‘can YOU BELIEVE it’)….gave it away in an INSTANT. Anyway, turns out we are now ‘friends’ on FB. But really her dramatic life and my clearly mundane one have nothing in common. And with all the invitations to groups! and events! and notes! and etc! from her I am liking Facebook less and less. I'll put up with it, but it's certainly not the love of my technological life.

The Chores of Life

If there were a competition for being undemanding (household wide) V would take the Olympic Gold medal by a fair few miles and without a whisker of a doubt. In our household division of labour is such that he will do everything that is asked of him, including but not limited to – laundry (incl. wash and iron his own office shirts if need be), maintain all accounts/ financial gobbled-gook, be the gardener and provider of takeway/ delivery service food and organize all gadget things.

I, on the other hand, have only one task besides supervising our very slow cleaner once a week and that is the task of making sure we have sometimes healthy and always tasty food to eat. It’s a good thing given the situation that I actively love food and that V can scrape together toast or order in pizza on days when I don’t. To say I love food is a bit of an understatement. For me it’s not just looking at an array of photogenically arranged plates of the stuff and pouring though my collection of cookbooks, but the act of preparing, cooking and eating it all with relish. No chore is this in my mind.

One of my slightly OCD things is the planning of meals for a week ahead. On Friday’s or Saturdays I will make up a menu plan (in my head) for the coming week which will include dinners for the two of us from Monday to Friday. The menu plan basically leads to a quick check for existing ingredients in fridge/ freezer/ cupboards – all of which are stocked with a monthly home delivery run, at which time a vague menu is usually swirling around in my head. And then each week comes the quick grocery update list, usually not more than one canvas bag of groceries from our nearest Tesco/ Waitrose, enough to complement our existing groceries and come up with a week of meals.

Friday dinner is always an iffy one with last minute plans to eat out either by ourselves or with friends, rendering any forward planning useless. But Monday to Thursday is usually sacrosanct and followed to the T. While sometimes there are aberrations due to exhaustion or alternate office commitments and often there are just leftovers, this is rare. Not many people do but I enjoy the quiet of coming home early from work, turning on the TV for some background noise or putting on some music while I spin around the kitchen organising our dinner. People call me weird. I call me hungry.

Our weekends are usually made up of multiple meals outside (restaurants, people’ houses) and one home cooked meal which could be as complex as multi-layered slow-cooked Lasagna or as simple as a packet of Maggie noodles doused in ketchup, masala chili and Tabasco. I spend all week thinking of and researching where we could/ will go in this city of a million restaurants. And this week, after a week of: 1. bhindi, kaali dal, aloo with rotis 2. Mushroom fettuccini with garlic bread 3. Mostly home-made pizza and 4. Baked potatoes with salad, I’m ready for the weekend….bring it on!

There is such a fine line between enjoying something and finding it an unappetizing chore. I have read time and again on blogs and in books, of people who can’t/ won’t cook because for them it is a waste of good evening time and space or they don’t enjoy it or someone else is happy to do it for them or they can afford to both physically and financially eat out all the time. Sadly we have neither the stomach nor money nor energy for that lifestyle. And gladly one of us is happy to cook. And luckily both of us are always always happy to eat.

Before the snow

Well, the snow came and Britain behaved like it was flying tarantula's, a never before seen insect. This is the WEATHER people - you've had it for a gazillion years AND its all you ever talk about. Anyway, it snowed, nothin melted, we ooh-ed and aah-ed at the marvel of a blanket of white-ness, everything closed, everyone complained about something (travel was top of most lists) and then it was all happy happy because no transport meant you could stay at home and stick your nose in a book.

Last week was a heady mix of irritation and enjoyment. Came home on Thursday evening to water cascading 7 floors down from a burst mains pipe on our floor. Our corridor carpet was floating and all our neighbours were shoveling water into the stairwell. We joined the party, mops in hand and bonded while swapping stories of what water damage had infilterated each of our flats. We got lucky, with minimal damage. Others hoever had ankle deep living areas and water pouring in through ceiling lights. Needless to say the lift was declared unsafe and yet another round of walking up stairs began. Thank god we got fit with the gym - now we don't even get vaguely breathless.

On Friday night we hosted dinner for 25 of my colleagues (some with partners) and they all gamely trudged up the 7 floors for butter chicken, sukhe aloo, chole and paneer makhni with safron pulao and white rice. Preceded by 6 dips and doritos, pitta, vegetables and papad. Followed by an apple tart and chocolate cake (celebrations of two of their birthdays). We had a super time, enjoying the warmth of the house (candles and alcohol) and camaraderie away from work, laughing and chatting way into the night. It was 3.30am by the time everyone finally left. We tidied up and called it a night.

On Saturday, in anticipation of being snowed in we went to meet friends in Central London and watch 'Revolutionary Road' with them. I haven't read the book but I can tell you that the breadth of thoughts that Kate's character was thinking didnt translate as well as the depth of her depair. It was wierd that just last week I had been thinking about the stagnation of life, the humdrum that we get sucked into and leaps of faith we are often so terrified to take. Of course her life and feelings were magnified a million times over and the solutions were not ones I'd ever contemplate. In summary I can safely say it was not a movie I enjoyed at all. My advice: Don't Do It.

Then we attempted to find a Tapas restaurant. After two failed attempts (one was closed during the day when I called and the other doesnt take bookings {or rather does but hasn't changed the information on its website}) we decided to go to ChaCha Moon. V and I had been before with an escaping friend, but our friends hadn't. We had been in summer when it was new and after a mile long wait in line we sat at the canteen like tables and slurped up. As a promotion every single Singaporean dish on its menu was priced at £3.50. V's duck and noodle dish was too salty but the rest of us enjoyed it very much.

This time we had no wait - we were there early in the evening. By the time our food arrived the line of waiting patrons was a mile long. The prices now vary from between £3.50 to £5.50. We ordered a mix of sides and mains and thoroughly enjoyed picking at a selection of different flavours and textures, accompanied by chilli sauce and chopsticks. The spring onion pancake, chicken dumplings and cucumber & carrot salad were super. Someone else really enjoyed the seafood udon noodles, declaring them the 'best ever', although I suspect that hunger from all that walking was the key reason. We'd have eaten anything hot at that point to stave off the withering cold. But really ChaCha Moon was super, Singaporean food YAY, good value for money and different from the usual Oriental fare on offer. Alan Yau is something of a genius. I will go back as often as I can, methinks.

Now the snow is all gone and life is all back to normal. I'm planning my next very busy weekend.

ChaCha Moon: 15-21 Ganton Street, London W1F 9BN. Tel: 020 7297 9800 (no reservations)

White. Not Christmas.

After a day and evening of watching the snowflakes dance around from the warmth of our living room (lots of ooh-ing and aah-ing from me) we've woken up to huge snow drifts covering the balcony...

The heaviest snowfall in 18 years has hit London. In February, missing Christmas by over a month. As expected there are no buses. Runways and airports are shut. The bus network has been suspended as have been most tube lines. London is so unprepared to deal with the bitterly cold weather that is routine to American cities and continental Europe. Thank god for insulation and heating and the promise of hot tea from my stove all day.

It's a day of working from home for me, a trudge to work for V and another day of living in the bathtub for our plants. If you live in London or the South East enjoy the white. It might be another few decades before we see it again.

Leaps of faith

Be warned: Long. Boring. Rambling. Personal opinion.

In the 30something household we were having a random conversation about how our personalities develop as we age. The crux of the discussion was an argument/ agreement about how with age we become more entrenched in our habits and more risk averse with our lives, loves and jobs. There are sterling examples of this amongst our friends and family and even in our own lives. And I love reminiscing.

When it came time to go to college we both traversed parts of the country, encouraged by our parents to follow our dreams, alongside others like ourselves, determined to find what our calling was. We lived in different cities to start with, did college even further apart and yet managed to work out and at our relationship with phone calls and long hand letters. And college, no matter how tough or easy it was we took on challenges to make new friends, learn new lessons and take risks like never before. For many it was the first time out of home, without the boundaries of parental guidance or the comforts of warm kitchens and soothing words, and the first of many life opportunities to draw our own boundaries and find the path for our feet to carry us along. College was tough for some, easy for others – multiple lessons, demands of continuous deadlines, hostel living (and food), friendships and cliques – they all required a modicum of planning and enthusiasm and it was a precarious balancing act to do well and have fun. I soon found that financial circumstances largely varied and I, like most, learnt to budget and live within my means with imagination and without complaint.

We leaped into jobs that required travel and long hours. We took buses and autos and ate chaat and momo’s at road side stalls with abandon. We stayed out late, went to parties, threw parties, cooked and drank, played cards and board games, watched movies and plays, travelled to unknown countries on work, lived without mobile phones or Facebook, took road trips and holidays, celebrated birthdays, hung out at people’s houses and campuses, spent our money before we were paid and generally were game for a lot. In an ever changing programme we were always ready for something new.

V sought the opportunity to move abroad, to a non- English speaking country, learnt the language and turned back into a non-vegetarian for lack of cooking skills. Then he plunged us head first into yet another country, into yet more studies, which for V meant a student loan and for me a tiny budget to manage on. We lived in a tiny studio apartment (where we had guests from India come and kip on the floor/ sofa), used school facilities, made new friends, reignited old friendships with people from India who lived here now and over time learnt to love ( or at least live with)the people, place and its dreaded weather.

We found jobs, made yet more friends at work and most importantly piled our stuff into a van and moved home to a place more convenient for work. We hosted lunches, teas and dinner parties, Diwali and New Year’s celebrations, houseguests and family for prolonged periods, embracing people new to London within our friends circles and mindspace. We travelled on holiday to far flung places and across the earth making more our friends and family than many did of us. We thoroughly enjoy life, making the most of weekends, catching up with people and pursuing our own interests.

But the larger questions in life have crept up on us and it would seem that in a small way being risk averse and habituated into the week/weekend routine is on our plates as well as many others. We were talking about how dreary and cold this winter has been and how we should up sticks and move to warmer climes. But then we started talking practicalities it turned out (in a nutshell – much wider, longer discussion) we can’t think beyond our house with its mortgage, bookshelf and recently constructed laundry cupboard. Or our somewhat safe jobs in this recession market and our wide (if often random) social life in London.

To make ourselves feel better we then moved over to the lets-accuse-other-people-of-their-risk-averseness game. This was much more fun. Like the couple we met at someone’s house recently where the man commuted 2 hours across London EACH WAY EACH DAY so that when his daughter is 5 (she is 2 years old now) can go to a ‘good school’ in their chosen area. Besides weekends he never sees his daughter awake. Or like the guy who got given a car by his in-laws so their daughter could ride around in comfort, but the furthest he would take it was the local supermarket or the petrol station. He won’t drive at night or if the roads are too crowded because ‘you never know how other drivers are, yaar’. Or like the couple that moved to the countryside for ‘fresh air’ and want to commune with the greenery but have NEVER been for a walk in it. Instead they come into central London each weekend or mope around at home marathon watching movies and complaining about the cold damp air.

It’s funny that of all the conversations with friends and family it’s these 3 incidents/ things that came to mind first when we tried to veer away from our own shortcomings. Of course then we felt bad semi-smirking at other people for their risk averseness. For all we know there are bigger and mightier influences - reasons that guide these people to behave as they do, to commute endlessly, not to drive ever and to live in the countryside but not enjoy it - that they don’t feel like sharing. Their life view may not be as simple as ours. Having children and other weighing down responsibilities may make their choices harder than ours. Or maybe they crave sameness and routine and its us that’s weird in wanting (no, in my case, craving) something new and unknown. But this is not about them. Or us in comparison to them. It's about us. And what we want from our lives. Pure and simple.

Overall I felt better because all our settled habits had to do with the bigger, mightier influences in life. Not that we made any strides in breaking free from those, but still. It wasn’t small risks that we seemed afraid to take, it’s all seemingly bigger picture steps. It was vaguely comforting to know though that with the smaller things it’s not often fear that stops us but sheer laziness or lack of the resources to back it up – and we soon get our act together and try consciously to overcome things. Like knowing we need to make changes to the house to make it more comfortable and add value before we sell and move to another part of town, for one reason or another. Or learning to drive and getting a car. Or learning a new language. Or something.

Our bigger picture however is still entrenched in the old tired habits and the inability to shake off what a big risk upping sticks and changing everything would mean. Some of it is inertia but mainly its fear. Of the unknown. And while sometimes there is nothing like a bit of stability, after 7 years in London I feel we are both ready for a change, of scene, of weather, of jobs (maybe even careers), of cities and even possibly life priorities. It’s not to say we should go live in a beach shack on some coastline (because really that would kill me, city girl, with boredom) – but to take chances, experience and learn about a new culture, meet new people and possibly feel the alive-ness that we lost with our youth. We are too young still to be mired in the stability of never moving, learning or doing anything new, of taking each other and our comfortable lives for granted, of never delving into the unknown because well, it’s unknown. I think we need to take a leap of faith. I pray that in the next few years we find the strength to take it.

Dimsum in Soho

In case nobody yet got it from this blog, I love food. And eating out in the vast smorgasbord of London Restaurants is one of my top reasons for living and loving it.

This weekend we went to Yauatcha in Soho for a (most) belated Anniversary lunch of dimsum and tea. Yauatcha was opened by famed restaurateur Alan Yau of Buasaba, Wagamama, Hakkasan and ChaCha Moon fame. We’d been to every single one in the tantalizing food line-up, in fact Wagamama and Busaba feature frequently, but Hakkasan was only for my birthday last year and somehow despite continually saying we’d be going soon, Yauatcha had completely fallen off the list.

When I first called Yauatcha a few years ago the economy was in full b(l)oom and people were spending their money like free water. All we ever managed was a rude person on the other side barking instructions about a 2 hour slot (and not a moment longer) in two weeks time to begin precisely at 2.14 pm (or something equally convoluted). I didn’t warm to the idea of shoveling the food down my throat in record time – tea and dimsum after all are to be savoured at leisure. Also, the rudeness was uninspiring and Yauatcha was off our menu.

Now that the water tap is running dry everyone is vying for a slice of our thinning wallets. At 11am the lady who answered was polite and said that a table for 2pm would be no problem, infact where would we like to sit? Booked we made our way across the dysfunctional London Tube into a less crowded than usual Soho. We were seated almost immediately, on comfortable seats made utterly uncomfortable by a table base which allowed no room for ones feet. V drank a pot of Taipei Green tea (I stole some – it was delicate and light) and I had a kiwi and lime iced tea (which was delicious although the tatse of tea was masked by the other flavours). We started off the meal with a soup each, V had crab and caviar soup (he thought the smell overpowered the taste), I had hot and sour chicken (possibly the best one I have had in a long long time). Then we shared venison puffs (delicious, lived up to its reputation – my favourite), salt and pepper squid (V’s favourite, too much batter for me - I am more partial to Busaba’s Thai calamari), Pandan chicken with a lime dip (again Busaba does a better version of this) and duck spring rolls (filled with perfectly seasoned duck and served with a delicious plum sauce.

We were full but in greed decided to order one more dish. V ordered steamed a seabass and mooli dimsum and then not wanting to be left out I ordered a spring onion pancake. The pancakes were really stuffed puffs, with spring onion and bacon, very tasty but not pancake like at all. Big mistake, as we were both full. Eyes bigger than stomachs. Greed is a vice etc etc etc.

We staggered out into the bright world a few hours later, stuffed to the gills on good food, chat and endless sniggering at our neighbouring table which had an American woman, her chatterbox stiff-upper lip English architect husband, his sister and their father. The father insisted to the American woman that he was paying for the meal and not broking any negotiation on the matter since he was in town only for a week etc etc. His loud mouthed son then proceeded to order about 20 dishes and multiple drinks and then talked continuously, not letting anyone give their opinion or get a word in sideways. He kept saying things like, “...and this is made from Taro and chicken, and isn’t it tasty?”, to which someone would say “ye...” and he would immediately interject with “which is why I ordered it. It’s the best thing on the menu, I had it when….blah blah blah”. Everyone looked bored enough to shoot themselves including his father and partner. Then he went on to talk about how people who have been vegetarian for years (his partner, the American woman) could not digest meat even if they wanted to, blah blah blah. And then ordered 6 extra things for her to try out because “being vegetarian means she eats fish, but doesn’t want anything gloopy, too obviously fishy(?!)”. And then began to expound on about air conditioning duct design, at which point I too was ready to shoot myself. Thankfully we were done and could leave.

The meal was not cheap by any means but the determinedly underlit setting, fish tanks and enormous wine coolers lent themselves well to the idea of a ‘fancy meal’. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I think V did too. The ingredients were fresh, well prepared, beautifully presented and very tasty. If a special occasion arose I would go back. Or with the wide variety of untapped London restaurants, will I?

I so owe my blog a post on Hakkasan. Next week?

Yauatcha: 15 Broadwick Street, London W1F 0DL. Tel: 020 7494 8888

Crushing weight myths - 1

Why are we conditioned to thinking that thinner is hotter when in actual fact most men like women with a bit of curve that a 40kg flat chested women can never have? Is there much point in wearing revealing clothes if all you are revealing is skin, bones and an empty starving stomach?

A wild debate that reverberated in my college days was about inside beauty vs outside beauty. And although everyone had an opinion and most (for reasons of looking like balanced, kind human beings, probably) chose inner above outer, one of my friends said he could never be with a fat woman. That for him beauty was all about extreme skinny-ness i.e. how paper model thin could you be. He confessed/ reiterated that it was all to do with media throwing thinness as the quality for women to behold at him. I disagreed because most successful actresses, be it in Bollywood or Hollywood, were curvaceous rather than anorexic – the difference is not slight. And that while it was not wrong to look after your weight and be healthy there were far more important character building things in the world than thinness. We agreed to disagree. Of course times change attitudes and the woman he fell in love with had love handles much like the rest of womankind. It was her smile, her kindness and spark that were the star attractions. He broke free of the preconceptions he grew up with, not an easy task for anyone I imagine.

A while ago I met another college acquaintance at a reunion of sorts and he was terribly excited about his forthcoming wedding. Not being very tall or well built himself he was thrilled that the bride his parents had found for him was also not very tall and quite thin to boot. How thin was the mystery that was solved when we first saw this bird like creature he had married. As skinny as a teenager, not more that 38kgs, she picked at her food lest she put on weight and looked at us (a gaggle of hAlthy girls) with shock while we gorged on kebabs and laughed into our drinks reminiscing about the horrid hostel food that forced us into become connoisseurs of Maggie. She looked unhappy and out of place and no matter what we talked about she always tried to bring health into the conversation, and how being thin was best for the body, and how salad and water were king. We never bonded.

My problem is not really with choice. Or thin people. People choose to be thin for a multitude of reasons – most of them noble and health conscious, yet many misguided and vain. Some people have health issues that prevent them from putting on weight. And yes beauty does lie in the beholder and love can be blind. People are free to choose what they think they like and can live with. And there is nothing wrong with being thin, healthy and well groomed. Similarly there is nothing wrong with being curvy, plump, healthy and well groomed. Nothing is mutually exclusive and no two people are identical in thought and looks. But be assured that your inner beauty ain’t going to shine through when all you can think about is how you look. There is definitely something wrong with being 40kgs because you have starved yourself to that weight.

My problem is with the idea that thin = hot, which is blatantly untrue. If you took 10 men and asked them to pick the hottest woman from a line up most would probably not pick the thinnest but the curviest, the one with the twinkling eyes or the sunniest smile. Hotness is a quality, a state of mind, a connection between the carrier of style, a way to hold yourself, a confidence and the eyes of a beholder. Thinness does not make hottest. Period. So stop thinking, saying or behaving as if it does because no matter whether you realise it or claim otherwise that is what you are perpetuating. Bad body image. That nobody, girl or boy, man or woman, should have to buy into believing is true.

Eating my words

I am. Eating my own words that is. I am back to blogging, though not with a bang. More like a pssst, have you heard? London is too interesting to stop talking about; my life on the other hand is not. My mind is too full of things, random sentances and phrases I want to spew to stop. Atleast this was my thought this morning. So I'm back. For now. Till I'm bored again.

Right. Before expounding to every bored and distinctly unbelieving reader out there on what my fabulous resolutions are for this year I think a short update on how last year’s resolutions went is in order. These were them:

1. Get a haircut, look more presentable, start wearing a bit more make-up. Take pride in how I look, whatever my shape. – Right, had a haircut early on in the year but barely wore my hair open even then. Bad-haircut-turned-good in early October has helped the cold from pinching off my ears. I wore/ wear make-up in fits and starts. Some days I will even glam up my jeans and jersey office outfit with a bit more than kajal. But old dog, new tricks has meant this has been more sporadic than anything.

2. Wear less black and more colour. Get new happier, less goth/ student wardrobe. And save my sneaker/ trainers only for the gym. Look less like a Hobo. Be the envy of all. – Got a lot more colour in wardrobe, although I still prefer black and dark colours most of the time. But experimented a lot and wore adventurous colours and jewelry a lot more this year than in the previous. Also bought two fabulous pairs of boots to round off the year.

3. Follow through with the cooking more & different, eating better & wiser resolution from my birthday. And stick to the gym. The ultimate Gluttons diet. – Did both these with a single minded-ness my maths teacher would have fainted at. Bought and got gifted cookbooks and continued to treat V as my guinea pig of world cuisine. Ate wiser definitely. And lost a shitload of weight I am Oh So Proud of!

4. Read a LOT more. The 33rd birthday is only 6 months away and if I want another bookshelf I better finish everything that’s stacked on the first one. And find suitable place for the second monolith. Display my greedy side. – Finished books on first one at record speed. Didn’t buy a new bookshelf but did buy and receive a lot more books to add to the growing stacks by its side. Read a lot more, shunning ipod for many a train journey into work – wires getting tangled in peoples coat buttons on sardine tin trains is not fun. Found suitable place for the second AND third monolith but have not got around to buying them yet – procrastination is indeed my middle name.

5. Practice my avatar as a sloth. Sleep more and sleep deeper. Last year for the first time I didn’t sleep as much or as well as the preceeding 31 years (and no it has nothing to do with age). Previously though, if sleeping were an Olympic sport V & I would have been strong contenders for gold. I plan to claim that prize. – Am self-declared sloth queen. Slept well, deeply and wholly for the most part. Yes, that was me in Beijing claiming Gold. V though has become more restless with age – still a champion but not as deep sleeping as in his youth. I don’t in any way let that stop me.

I'm definitely more shallow, promised results of teh 2008 resolutions - but the insides joined in and in true competitive spirit have given shallowness a run for their money. I am now shallower and yet, way deeper!

This year my 6 top resolutions are very basic and more of the same shallow-ness. If history has taught me anything then enumerating them might help me stick to them more rigourously:

1. Learn to de-clutter. Break with genetic code. Post to follow.
2. Read read read. My house and bookshelf are ripe for this. I have the books, the means to get books and the resolve to get my bookshelfs come heaven or hell. Nothing like looking for the book that will inspire me to give up work, sit in the sun and write my own piece of nonsense.
3. Treat my friends and acquaintances better. Be ruthless about people taking advantage, expecting you to call, takers not givers – cut them out. Stop taking Facebook so seriously – it is not called Friendsbook – not even 20 people on would qualify as friends.
4. Host yet more convivial meals. Am keeping good with this one already – New year’s party something of a success (do you want to know?) and a big party of 30 scheduled for month end.
5. Slow down with the blogging. But try not to stop. Stop being obsessed by blogs. And by people who write them. Just because I like what they write does not mean I like them as people. I am sure this is true in the reverse as well. But be kinder in thought. Less harsh about other people's crap.
6. People watch. An art that London is ripe for and that in my busy life I have let go of. Basically, stop, smell the roses.

So, ready or not, new years resolutions here I come!

Expectations 09

So its 2009 already, and despite every intention of shutting ze blog down, here I am, glutton for punishment and stubborn assed as ever, writing crap even I don’t want to read anymore. My own expectations from this blog have changed tremendously since I began. I initially intended it to be my letter home. But secretly, like every writer out there, somewhere in those first few weeks of writing I fancied myself as the next published Author. I roller coastered with that idea for ages - giving up the thought, then re-invigorated by a random comment, then giving up again. etc etc etc. There was superlative stuff everywhere out there. And I’m way too lazy to boot – as missing pictures and empty promises to the web are testimony to.

It became, clearly, about writing for the sake of recording what I was doing with life in the run up to and in these speedily passing by thirties. And in some part keeping the folks and friends clued up with what was on in my life. The friends all lost the url and quickly moved to that evil evil Facebook. It would seem no one wants a constant update of friends they haven’t met in 10 years - I think I am the same as I just deleted this long rambling update email from a long not seen friend. Just a status bar on facebook is enough – where I went for dinner, what books I read are all too much information in this faster than you can blink life. Yada yada yada. I don’t blame them. I too have been coerced onto the evil side although the rarely updated status bar and other networking sites before it just don’t cut it for me.

In addition to real life friends from yore, I inherited a few blog people who would leave me encouraging remarks and the odd disagreement to chew on. Some of them even became real life acquaintances and A-class friends. I think I’ll more than live.

It was sometime last year I think I realized that I was no longer writing it for the benefit of my folks as they never seemed to have the time to read it consistently or could not find the url when they did have the time and access. They never once left me a comment unless under coercion or mentioned anything in our conversations in all this time, unless I initiated a ‘did you read what I wrote?’. I assumed many a time that my ramblings had gone too wide and too long. But like an addict I still could not stop.

I still cannot stop. Last year for the first time I was sorely tempted to just delete this blog and get a real life or an alternate really anonymous blog. But each time (twice) that I have come to do it I find I cannot bring myself to destroy what (I feel) I have lovingly nurtured all this time. Or to begin elsewhere – too tedious a job for the perennially lazy, no? It’s as if my brown thumb is turning a tentative green and I cannot possibly discard the sad sad nearly dead fungus laden plant. I think this blog is here to stay. Although, really, I’m not sure. Maybe a new properly anonymous blog which nobody who reads this knows about, will help me get out of this funk. After all many of my favourites no longer write, so why should I? Maybe its time to be a new avatar. Or maybe not. The jury is still out.

Happy new year peeps. See you when I see you. If I’m back that is.

When 55 words aren't enough

Every year she buys two dozen tulips. Back from work he pretends not to notice, even though they undeniably sit in the giant unused fish bowl. He talks about watching sport and catching up on a year of under slept overworked days. As they wake up on Christmas morning, he will turn to her and say, “They are lovely darling, but not as lovely as you”

Christmas tomorrow is 7 years since we stood under a tree, adorned with jasmine strings and hanging lamps, on a sunny Delhi winter morning and promised to be together for as long as this life would allow. Happy anniversary my love.

Have and want

I have a house and life full of junk and yet I want more. Somebody stop me! The reality is that I don't have as much junk as I make this sound but enough to clutter up my mind space - and certainly more than my home can handle. The toss up this Christmas/ New Year season on what to indulge in is a pretty serious debate. And one that I am losing, inspite of my strong opinions and bossy methods. I think V has finally got the measure of me and how to say no, make me say no and make me think it’s my idea. In his tough life (ha!) he has me and my genetic need for things to contend with. Here's the current example:

I love random desk prettiness. In my first job, on my first diwali, I got a sand zen garden in a box. It looked calm, peaceful, organised and I looked after it as if it were a diamond which required daily polishing. I forget what I did with it when I left to go study. But as every desk I have ever had and all that adorned it are testament to, I love random things to sit on my desk and look interesting for when I lift my eyes from work.

My current desk has:
1. A miniature model autorickshaw from Delhi (thanks to the Nik)
2. A small bottle of holy water from lourdes (thanks to a friend)
3. Two baby clay models – one of a bolivian woman with a baby in a sling on her back and another of a little bolivian girl carrying a little cooking pot. (I bought one and a colleague gave me the other)
4. A colour cutout of a garfield comic – Frame1: Jon says to Garfield: You need to lose weight. Garfield says: Correction. And in Frame2: Garfield says: I should lose weight. In Frame3: Garfield says: I NEED cookies. (me - this always makes me smile)
5. A box of Peaches ‘n’ cream ice tea bags from Atlanta. I don’t much care for the tea but I like the little fake chest it came in. (thanks to a friend)
6. A bead figure with straw hair, from Ghana (thanks to a colleague)
7. My etsy desk calendar - (thanks to my random memory skills I have a refill for this year as well)
8. A stress ball in bright orange - (thanks to free stuff distribution in London Bridge station each summer)

On my pin board:
1. A cutout from Anita Roddick’s memorial service – it says ‘I am an Activist’.
2. A picture of a baby rhino (postcard from a friend)
3. An art card with a drawing of an American Indian in front of an oldy-worldy Coka-Cola sign (misspelled) – (picked up at an art gallery)
4. A birthday card with a police line-up of different sized/ types of dogs on the front and ‘From all the usual suspects’ on the inside. (thanks to my colleagues)
5. Another birthday card with a black and white picture of a woman sitting in front of a typewriter and a telephone. It says ‘This morning, the boss had brought in a device capable of doing the work of 10 men’. And on the inside, it says ‘A woman’ (thanks to my lovely colleagues).

As if I don’t have enough stuff, now I want one of those newton cradle thingies – although I refuse to buy something online as I want to see and test it and check it will fit on my already cramped work desk. I’m getting a really nice amnesty diary this year – thrilling in my small and unadventurous world.

No, I think I want a desk at home, so I can gather more desk junk, get another zen garden and stop using my lap or the dining table for the laptop. And maybe file things neatly. Or is that a myth? Also we have NO space for said desk. Two new bookshelves are crucial though as the stacks of books are threatening to overwhelm us. So bookshelves or desk or neither - for gifts to self this December?

I already, clearly, ‘have’. I need to curb the ‘want’.

SFO: Done, dusted and growing a redwood tree

All bullet points – else we’ll never get to the end of this.

- It’s been WEEKS since we’ve been back and nobody but seems to mind the extraordinarily slow pace of my writing and so despite telling myself each time that I would post in quick succession it NEVER happened. Why can’t I do things unless people hold me to them? Where has my willpower gone? I blame the artic London winter.
- So Chinatown in SFO. I love it. In 1998 day my donut friendly friend and I spent an afternoon wandering Chinatown. Sadly when I got there this time I didn’t remember anything beside the fabulous Chinese meal we ate a in corner restaurant. Of course the chances of finding it again were spectacularly slim. Chinatown looked totally different from my memories this time round. The streets seemed straighter, steeper, cleaner and more organised – lovely to walk through and see all the Chinese people who work and live there, going about their chores. This time we ate dinner with my cousin A, her hubby and very cute (unseen before this) son in C-Town. They lived in London once upon a time and it had been too long. So we talked and ate at the Empress of China which was at the top of a building with a great view of SFO. The décor was a bit once-grande-now-old, the entrance was a bank of lifts, after walking through a very large Chinese shop. The food was yum though we were too late in the day for any dim sum.
- We had a very heavy brunch at an all-American diner near us (YAY gallon of milkshake!), and then courtesy my cousin’s hubby and his friends (cousin and girls long gone to thanksgiving thing in another city) we drove up to the Golden Gate and joined the masses of photograph takers. Then we drove up to a higher vantage point and looked down on the foggy bay and the resplendent bridge. I like it but think that the Bay Bridge looks nice and more imposing somehow.
- Then we drove to Muir Woods, which has apart from nieces become my favourite thing about the whole holiday. I am such a city girl that I was totally not expecting to fall so head over heels in love with these giant redwood/ sequoia trees. They are lovely, big, tall and whole and yet fallen, bruised, burnt and shadowy. All at once. We walked a short trail around them stopping to take pictures and listen to a short lecture on how they grow etc. and then went to the coffee shop to get warmed up with hot drinks. Redwood trees grow from burls, tumour like growths that they develop on their bark, like a bulge of bark. These burls once cut and kept in a bowl of water sprout shoots and grow into new redwood plants/ trees, that can be planted and encouraged to grow. I bought a small burl from the shop and brought it back with me. It’s sitting pretty in a bowl on my kitchen counter and its shoots are growing green and bright. I’m still thinking about a name for my plant. I think Shoot. Then I think Tom. Then I think Sam. What do you think?
- The next day we took a guided Napa Valley wine tour. BIG MISTAKE. Over a 9 hour period we saw 3 vineyards for an hour each and spent the first 5 minutes of each of those hours being sold the wine by tasting a bit in a glass and directed to the gift shop. Not a word on how wine is made, types of grapes, climate or anything remotely related to wine making beside a plug for the purchase of the end product and its various toys like a foil cutter, wine opener, glasses etc. I recommend if you want to do Napa Valley with even an iota of sense you should hire a car (i.e. learn how to drive/ get a license – a skill we are missing) and do it on your own. The only redeeming factor of the day was the hour long stop in the (touristy yet) pretty town of Sonoma for lunch. I had delicious fish tacos in a Mexican place called Maya which I would recommend unreservedly. I warned you - save your $70 each or be a gift shop bride.
- We spent the bulk of one day and most of the next just glued to our TV’s watching the unrelenting bad news pour out of Mumbai. For what it is worth the American coverage was better, more even, than the Indian coverage – especially CNN – insightful, calm, collected and respectful of its surroundings – quite unlike the shoving, pushing, stammering, one sided Indian coverage, which had very little to commend it. Then the day we came back I watched a Barkha Dutt special on NDTV. I don’t think the baton for journalism has ever fallen that low.
- Even with the depressing change in currency rates for us, the shopping is good. We missed the bulk of the Thanksgiving sales because we were enjoying the company of friends and the outdoors instead of queuing around the block waiting to get in anywhere on Black Friday. But I bought enough stuff, mostly in dribs and drabs, to comfort the shopaholic in me.
- The windy, up down streets are quaint but a bitch to climb up and down. The streetcars and cable car were fun if a tad slow. I loved the atmosphere which is busy yet gentle compared to the rush of Manhattan or London. It hums rather than buzzes and that is always good background music for a holiday.
- One of the things I will always remember about SFO is how on 6th Avenue between Lombard and Howard ( think), at the corner, there is this white painted brick building which has random real household objects stuck to its side – a fridge, a bathtub, a sofa among others. I didn’t manage to get a picture but I absolutely remember looking at it and grinning. If that is not the point of installation art I do not know what is.
- Will we ever see pictures? Who knows?! I still haven’t put up our Paris or Singapore ones from months before, so I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.
- SFO is done and dusted. We’ll be back someday - of this I am sure.

SFO: Mini donuts vs. Sea Lions

The thing about SFO was that it was never ever going to be a rushing around visiting every tourist landmark holiday. None of our holidays ever are. The main reason is not lack of interest, it is pure unadulterated laziness. The need to relax and take in what we can rather than tick every box in the book. I had done the tourist trail in SFO many many years ago. So long ago in fact that I remembered only snatches of it, vague flashed of images and associated names of touristy places.

Fisherman’s Wharf is an iconic SanFran tourist mark. Somehow all tourists find their way there at one time or another. Fisherman’s Wharf was my one solid memory. Hanging around Pier 39 for an afternoon with my newly-married-and-moved-to-the-Bay friend, sharing a bucket of freshly friend cinnamon sweet mini donuts, watching the really loud sea-lions yell their thing. It was a fun day and we had so much to catch up on that time and the donuts just couldn’t keep up.

V and I made a lazy start on our first sunshine filled San Francisco morning. We walked the mile or so to our recommended breakfast joint and joined the waiting line outside the revered institution of Mama’s at the corner of Washington Square. The green awning is like a hundred others dotted around the city. The line of hungry people outside is the dead givaway of fame. We read the menu in the window and I changed my mind a million times by the time we were ushered into the 'pay at the counter and then sit down' place. We both chose omlettes. V because he is boring like that (and believe me when I say he ALWAYS wants an onion and chilli omlette and went for the closest proximation of it. We (no make that I) fought through breakfast). Mine was a difficult choice. I was deciding between a stack of banana pancakes, cinnamon - orange french toast and an Italian sausage omlette. I had so confused myself by the time I reached the payment point that I just SHOUTED out the thing that was foremost on my mind: Washington Square Omlette. And was it an omlette!! About the size of a small ship, balanced on my plate, served with delicious grain toast and home fries (an American concept, of lightly fried chunks of potatoes – they really do go with everything – I vote home fries for England!), stuffed to the gills with peppers, onions, tomatoes and delectable italian sausage. Of course I ogled at our neighbouring tables, where french toast and pancakes were amidst the order. I was mentally trying to eat their food, complaining in my loudest hindi about how I had made the wrong choice blah blah blah, all while polishing, and I mean POLISHING off my entire (what felt like) 20 egg omlette.

It was all downhill from there. Thankfully this was literal as the road wound its way downwards towards the Wharf. We ambled along slowly and painfully with our very full stomachs. As we approached the Wharf I saw a Steve and Barry, a concept I have always been taken with ut never had a chance to look closely at. Went in to racks of clothes and accessories, very warhouse like, and came out with a pair of small gold sparkly hoops designed by SJP. At $4.99 they were a steal.

Then along Fisherman’s Wharf, taking in the seafood shacks and touristy shops and thronging crowds, till we got to Pier 39. Wandered in to have a look, past the gigantic Christmas tree with a lone busker beneath it. Clearly my memory isn’t what it was in my 20s or I am now a jaded tourist because it all looked more commercial and cheesier than in my mind’s eye. The bay and view of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge were exactly how I remembered them though – grand and sweeping and with an air of mystery (and fog) surrounding them. V enjoyed the view immensely – his first experience of a city beside mid-town Manhattan (don’t ask) was turning out well.

The big fat sea lions were still bobbing up and down in the K-dock, on floating rafts purpose built for them. Instead of spreading themselves out nicely on the numerous rafts they all piled themselves into one another using only a fraction of the rafts, dangerously tilting some of them till one of them fell into the water. But that didn’t deter them, they’d carry on regardless, swimming right back and hopping up to find themselves a warm body or two to squeeze themselves between. It was a mesmerising few hours just leaning against the railing watching their antics and pillow fights. The bag of hot mini donuts no doubt helped. One of the sea lions did a little turn in the water for us, leaping up and down through the water like a sleek arrow, belying their huge girth and showing off their innate skill. A few others picked fights or courted their fellow sea lions - it was amusing to say the least. If I had to choose between taking home a sea lion and a bucket of mini dounts I'm not sure which way the coin would fall. Maybe I'd eat the mini donuts and then carry away the sea lion! Stomach and hands to good use.

We walked a bit more and generally chatted about nothing at all. To cap off our long day we finally took a slow mo street car all the way to Castro, crossing through the centre of the city, taking in the changing landscape of this up and down, hilly city, watching people mill around their city, going about their daily lives.

By dinner time our humungous breakfast was duly digested.

Mama’s: (On Washington Square) 1701 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94133. No reservations. Closed Mondays.

SFO: the delights of nieces abound

There is no excuse for tardiness, especially in the unpredictability of this here today gone tomorrow kind of life. So I’m pulling up my socks and making good on a new year’s resolution to post more often. Better late than never?

Our first two days in the Bay area were in my cousin 40in2006's lovely high ceilinged home. I had some serious jetlag issues and the first night just could not get to sleep before 2 am (11am in the UK, by which time I had been awake more than 24 hours). It helped that my cousin and I sat and chatted till we could keep our eyes open no more. The two days absolutely flew by in a flurry of activity. The highlights included:

We visited the Container Store – a magic kingdom of all things packaging OCD. I could easily live in this store. I managed to convince V to come as well and if he hadn’t I’d have trotted home with armfuls of unnecessary (but Oh So Pretty) junk. I limited myself to some paper thin silicon cutting boards and magnet measuring spoons. V came away with Cable ID (do not ask).

We enjoyed a summer day barbeque thanks to my cousin-in-law, who deftly marinated some steak and salmon and fed us thin, flavourful slices. We sat out under their green leafy gazebo and ate till we had no more space left in our bodies.

I went on the school run with my cousin, dropping & picking up – from school and art class, picking up from movie afternoon. Mundane tasks like grocery shopping, filling gas – all pleasurable because of the company and the novelty of being in a car on America’s big wide roads. I felt like a country bumpkin for behaving as if driving were the greatest invention since sliced bread. It's what the London tube system has conditioned me to.

Spent an evening looking at photographs and listening to stories of their European vacation, of trawling through pictures of other nephews and nieces, festivals celebrated through the years, till finally the jet lag caught up, my eyes gave way and I fell into bed

The cherry on the icing of this cake was without a doubt my nieces, whom I hadn’t seen in too long and whom I apparently love more than I knew. At 7 and 11 they could not be more different, both in stages of development and in personality. In both I see glimmers of hereditary genes, small nuances and habits that they have from their parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts. It is amazing how level headed and logical the elder one is, serious yet firm in her likes and dislikes. While the younger one flits merrily between myriad available choices, smart comebacks and the insecurities of being the younger sibling. To buy them birthday/ New Year gifts in lieu of the many years I have missed we decided to take them to the mall and let them go wild. I told them this 24 hours in advance so they had a chance to think about what they might want. The elder one immediately declared her disdain for shopping and settled on books. The younger one had a list as long as a monkey’s tail and she kept asking if she could change her mind or have everything. In the mall they each chose a webkinz (DO NOT ASK – google your curiosity) and then we went to the bookshop where the elder one picked two books after careful consideration. The younger one changed her mind about the webkinz about 5 times in the shop and then could not decide what clothes she wanted for it. As for the bookshop she soon had a small pile and could not decide which two to buy. One so decisive and the other so dramatic. Each so lovely.

They are so different and yet so similar that I’m not sure my description is doing them justice. They have these full busy lives with school, friends, activities, their sibling love-hate relationship – all balanced delicately as their parents try and inculcate the best of both world. It looks hard this parenting in a foreign land, the juxtaposition of American existence with an Indian life.

SFO: Back to front

I'm sitting in the airline lounge sipping on water and waiting for our flight to bring us back to London. I cannot believe how quickly our holiday flew by. It was sunny, bright and all things nice - a sharp contarst to the horrific Mumbai news which we spent days following across the American news channels from our hotel room. From all these miles away there was nothing to do but call all the people we love and know in Mumbai to check their wellbeing. And seethe with shock and anger and sorrow and sadness at the unfairness and hideousness of the situation. I have many thoughts that I want to write here but I need to calm down and think clearly before I do.

Our flight is in an hour and I'm hoping that we take off on time.

The Saturday we left from London dawned grey and bitterly cold. While London was expecting 'artic winds' we were at the airport, enjoying the warmth and food of our T5 airline lounge well in time for our flight. I was so over excited at the prospect of seeing my cousin, her hubby, my uncle and nieces that I just couldn't sit still. As I bounced around on adrenalin they announced our flight and of course with V dwadling at a computer terminal (something about sports scores, I wasn't paying any attention) we made it to the gate just as they made the final call.

Finally, we were on the plane. Seated in our places and chattering away about our impending holiday we almost missed the announcement. A luggage truck loading suitcases and bags onto our flight had collided with the plane causing serious enough damage to the body to be declared unfit for flight on inspection. So we disembarked to the nearest lounge where I emailed my cousin to let her know of the delay and to wait impatiently for a replacement aircraft to be found. A 3 hour delay was made shorter by a long chatty phone call to a friend. The 11 hour flight was soon on its way. Not soon enough there we were in San Francisco, through immigration quickly and with our suitcases intact, being greeted by hugs and kisses and all things family. Our holiday was well and truly on its way.

I'm hoping we have less excitement on our flight back now. There is no family to make the flight shorter or more readily enjoyable, only the prospect of a cold winter and a week of work. Thank goodness we have a weeks' worth of sunshine to hold in our hearts and minds as we fly across the pond. For there, in London, I have no doubt, it will be brrrrr.

See you sunshine

This weekend I'm leaving behind the London forecast of artic winds and 2 flakes of snow for the sunnier climes of California. I'm taking V, tonnes of suggestions of where to eat and the joy of knowing that when I get to SFO I will see my most favourite cousin (40in2006) and adorable nieces after too long. I hear that one of them, whom I have cradled in my arms when she was just a rosebud baby and I was just a young thing, is now taller than me. I'm not sure how I shall face this horror of being the shortest (yet again!) - I guess the 7 year old who is still shorter than me shall have to be my solace.

It's my first trip to San Francisco in over 10 years and V has never been anywhere in the US besides New York - so it's fuzzy memories for me and just movie scenes for him to go by. I hope to indulge in aimless wandering, friend and family mixing, excess food adventures and super retail therapy to boost the economy. Oh, and to smile ALL THE TIME.

Wish me good weather!

Rugby for all

On Sunday V and I travelled across London to the Twickenham Stoop to join a bunch of colleagues in the front row of a Harlequins versus Wasps rugby game.

Originally we thought that it was at the main Twickenham Stadium. In fact as part of my 'home of sports' pilgrimage I was quite excited – to be watching a live rugby game at THE Twickenham. But it turned out to be at the very little brother Stoop, which is a trudge from the station past fields covered with cars and a much smaller affair altogether. Not small, just smaller.

I only began to follow Rugby after I moved to London and even then I don’t really watch just any match on TV. I watched the world cup that England brought home with great gusto and under the guided patience of the sports fan in our home I now follow the rules, understand the scoring and no longer grimace at the seeming disregard for pain and torture the players seem to inflict on one another. I understand now that all that tackling and standing on one another’s head and the scrum are well choreographed and policed by rules that make serious injury only a distant possibility. And that most rugby player have amazing fitness levels that help them work through pain and injuries unlike us (me) sub-humans who cry at the slightest twist.

V, on the other hand, played rugby in school, follows it (amongst many other sports) closely and was really looking forward to the live action. I got over the disappointment of not being in the main stadium pretty quick amidst the packed cheering crowds. It was a cold, yet fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon, all these hunky men running around, chasing a rugby ball and us cheering them from our spectacular seats.

Rugby has proven that it is entertainment for all - sport for V and eye candy for me. What more could I ask for from a sport? Twickenham Stadium here I come.

Diwali - chaar guna behtar

It turns out that promises I make myself I rarely keep. I was going to blog about the many diwali’s last week but was too caught up in the whole super Obama drama and then moping because of the weather and then socialising to get out of the rut. So I didn’t.

Diwali One – Childhood, teen years and early adulthood: the scene has always been my parents home in New Delhi, India. My father is totally non-religious. He won’t go to temples or pray in any discernable way. My mother clearly believes in something, will go to a temple if I coerced her but essentially is like my father in that there is no regular form of prayer in their house. I on the other hand have had a somewhat religious bent of mind inherited from my nani and garnered over years of watching other people praying. But diwali is the exception to any rule. And this is what I remember. My parents, or more specifically my mother, will unpack her puja which consists of various inherited pictures and murtis and line them up against a wall, on a suitable table runner or duppatta. The Nik and I would have to pile up our books and pencil cases in front (to meet with Saraswati puja guidelines) and a load of mithai later hey presto(!) we looked liked we prayed everyday! After getting dressed in something new (sometimes a step we skipped) and decorating/ embellishing with kheel, khand ke khilone, batashas and diyas we would sit and sing the two religious songs we knew. And by we, I mean me and my mother, in our awful braying voices. The boys would stand sheepishly at the back, tugging at their kurtas and hopping from foot to foot. Puja concludes with silent prayer and one diya each is placed in each room of the house and all the candles and diyas on the perimeter would be lit. Then my mother would distribute the kheel, khilone, batashe and mithai onto thali’s with other diwali stuff like nuts, fruits, mathris and the Nik and I would be dispatched to each of our neighbours to be neighbourly. We’d invariably come back with more, less appetizing mithai and stuff from their houses. Then polish off a load of mithai and our chosen khilona (which were such pure sugar that we'd be bouncing off the walls by dinner). Then fireworks. The end.

Diwali Two – Two&some years ago we bought our very first home, V & I. Our very own veritable pot of debt and DIY disasters. But by the time diwali came around we could think of no invitation better than to go home to India. After a number of years as the youngest bahu I was going to be at my in-laws place for the very first time to celebrate it with V’s family. One of his brothers and his wife joined us. I’m not sure what bits I remember besides my lovely new clothes, the fact that we got all dolled up and ate a sumptuous feast mostly prepared by my mother-in-law (I contributed one dish I think). Then we lit diyas everywhere and finally at midnight we did the puja as is tradition in their household. In jodi’s, with many an asking for grandchildren(what?!) and long happily married lives (now that I am fully on board with!). I remember it being a laughter filled evening and how happy we were to be together. And how sad that the other sibling and his family hadn't joined us. I’m glad we chose to go - I think it was the best decision in ages.

Diwali Three - Of course 2007 was going to be THE year. V and I would take time off, decorate our OWN flat, embed traditions we’d inherited and started in our married lives as renting people. Does my life ever turn out like I plan? Um, no. Long story short, we didn’t take the day off. Came home late in somewhat freezing rain, joined our hands in prayer in front of an agarbatti, an Ikea tealight and our prayer shelf and then ate Maggie and cheese and tomato tasty toasties in front of the TV. Diya in every room and then blissful sleep. Not what I expected at all. I was upset about how little effort and time I had put into it all. And I carried that with me all year long.

Diwali Four - In 2003, a year and a half after we moved to London, we finally had an apartment that was big enough to fit in a proper sized crowd. So that Diwali (or rather the weekend before it) we had a HUGE party. 60 people, including loads of screaming children. Snacks and dinner and taash. It was a roaring success. But so draining that we never did it again. This year my beloved aunt and uncle will be in town. This is a sign we need to do something big. Or relatively bigger and better and more celebratory than the last dud year. So we decided to have a mini-party on Diwali day. It was an exercise in planning and precise execution considering it was a working day. From the select invited guests to a small spread of vegetarian food, it all worked to plan. We had diyas all over the house and lit our fabulous pair of valakkas (a wedding gift from the same aunt and uncle – so utterly apt). The house looked great and we all cleaned up pretty well too. It was not a long evening, having been a working day to be followed by another, but it was a fun evening, full of chatter and laughter and all things joyful. Even the lashing rain and mini-snowflake dance did nothing to dampen our spirits

So those are my chaar diwali stories, each different in location, shape and character. Each one a memory that I hold, some more dearly than others. I think we’ve set a good precedent, V & I, for diwali in our own home, borrowing from our many diwali’s before. I’ll be carrying the warmth of this one all year long. And looking forward to the next one.

Puja: prayer
Kheel: puffed rice
Khand ke khilone: animal shapes/ toys made of pure sugar
Batashas: candied sugar shaped like coins
Mathris: flaky salty biscuits/ crackers

Diyas: tea lights, these made out of teracotta/ mud

bahu: daughter-in-law
Jodi: couple
Agarbatti: incence stick
taash: card games
valakkas: free standing oil lamp from Kerala

chaar: four

chaar guna behtar: four times better

P.S.: I will add in a few pictures tonight.

This day, like no other

Dear Blog,

Morning. MORNING. MORNING. MORNING.

Point to note for www posterity: Barack Obama has won the 44th presidency of the United States of America in the elections held on the 4th of November 2008.

I'm not American. But today it's just a good day to be a world citizen. I've been watching the news with a silly grin on my face all morning. Despite so many people's gut feelings that colour would trump all and the Bradley effect would not allow an Obama win, today America did the rest of us proud by making the choice that was right in character. That it broke the colour and ethnic barrier as well is no small accomplishment.

I'm hoping the world will be a better place for his presidency. More fairness, justice and inclusion. Better relations, less colour discrimination, more forgiveness, less war.

I know that the world is a better place today than it was yesterday. I hope fervently that it's going to get even better.

I am happy. Oh So Happy.

33in2008

A place in history

Today I woke up thinking it would be a good day to be American. Or that instead of being American for the day (I won't give up my Indian passport you see) all sensible and logical people in the world (i.e me) needed to be added to the electoral register for something as monumental as this American election. After all, no matter how much we disagree with it both in principal and practice, it is the American President who is the leader in many ways of the free world. Whose lead and licence allow the remaining countries to forge ahead. Or not.

I went to a school where we were taught democracy by electing a council from amidst our student body. Every civics class was made to count as we learnt both in theory and practice how democracy worked and how each voice counts. What free and fair meant. How campaigning could be ethical and how secret ballots worked.

In college the life lessons continued. The lesson of each voice counting was brought home when we were electing a student president from a senior class. After days of campaigning for two strong and fair candidates, voting day was upon us. The geeky lot like me made it our duty to go and vote having given great thought to whom we wanted as our student body leaders. Others however thought of this as just a childish exercise and stayed away. When the votes were counted it was a head-on tie. Not a vote askance. This then for me was the most important lesson of them all: If you didn't vote, your voice didn't count. Why let everyone beside yourself go to the bother of lugging themselves to the voting booth - do you not want your voice to be heard? It was a right not to be taken lightly no matter how childish it may seem when you are at school or collage I think.

I like to think I am a conscientious world citizen and voter. I take an interest in the world around me, how politics and economics and philisophy and religion shape it. I read manifestos and editorials, watch both the news and popular opinion polls and whether I have a vote or not, in my mind I vote and I know the best way forward for my world. Today I wish I were American for the day. Or had the chance to be added to that electoral register as someone sensible.

You, if you are American, have that choice today. To be sensible. To do the right thing. To take the time to think about it, how you have a place in history, a chance to right the wrongs of the past 8 years. And how your vote COUNTS!!!!

GO AND VOTE. AND PLEASE VOTE OBAMA.

Still running

Right. So Diwali. That will be my next post. And if I manage to get my act together then it will even have *gasp* a photograph. Note to self: Yes, I know I am inefficient and always late with my blog posts but dear Lord I have so much to do these days that you would think I ran a country, not just my house and my life, so forgive me.

Instead I want to note all the events of last week, which was so hectic and so wonderful that I am in danger of waking up exhausted but happy, seeing as some of it might have been a dream.

Tuesday: Diwali. See above. Let me just add that it was wonderful.

Wednesday: Work all day. Walked halfway home in lieu of any sort of gym activity in the face of late nights. Only to find that our lift had given up the ghost. Knowing that we were going out for dinner and not wanting to contemplate climbing the stairs twice in one night I left a complaint with the porter and then went and bugged my neighbour for about an hour. Then I complained about the lift again. All the flashbacks to our just moving in and the lift dying on us for a WEEK came surging back. Of course then we were unfit clowns whereas now we can climb the seven floors without stopping or our hearts threatening to explode all over the stairwell. Still. I didn't want to do it (unless it was my choice - this is my favourite self punishment on days I miss the gym - climb every staircase to and from work including moving escalators) and I certainly had no intention of making my poor aunt and uncle suffer. So I sat in the shopping mall and read a book and listened to my ipod till V appeared and we went off to meet my aunt and uncle in East Ham, where they were joining us after a day of London touring. It was my aunts 60th star birthday and in lieu of anything remotely like a sadhya I decided that a spot of idli-dosa at Saravana Bhavan would have to do the trick. It certainly did. Once sated and home, 7 floors later, it was a delicious apple tart and vanilla ice cream to top off the day.

Thursday: Work all day. Endless meeting about a meeting. Endless calls to the porter and Management company to complain loudly about the lift. Despite assurances that they should have come and had a look within 4 hours of the complaint (YESTERDAY that is), and that they were being strict with them, no sign of any lift working when I got home with two bags of groceries. A dinner of Breton chicken and garlic bread at home as my aunt and uncle had already spent the day out and had no intention of climbing those stairs again. V out for an office thing and only home at 1am, when he informed me in hushed tones as I was half asleep that the lift was working again. YAY!

Friday: Day off. Marvel at the working lift. Wandered up to the Greenwich Observatory in a chauffer driven car. Such luxury I have not known in all my time in London. It was a bright blue sky, sunny day although the cold necessitated scarves and filter coffee. Walk across the prime meridian and then through the galleries and we were off. Driven to Borough Market near London Bridge, a thing I hold dearly and which clearly delights tourists. Being Friday it wasn't as crowded as a Saturday, when Londoners join the hoards of tourists inspecting the brownies at bakeries and marvelling at the giant cheese wheels. After a wander through and the purchase of some brilliant chorizo at Brindisa we ambled to the fabulous Fish! for a lunch of fish and chips amidst the bustle contained within its glass roof. A drive to our nearest mall for a last minute whip through the home section and the purchase of doughnuts to mark the end of their stay. A short rest at home and then the long drive to Heathrow to see them off. Leaving on a jet plane. It has been so great having them come to stay for this whole week - 3 celebrations in one - their anniversary, diwali and her birthday. Then a drive back into town where I caught a train to North London to a colleagues house for a proper send off for two very pregnant colleagues. Large and boistrous office crowd, snacks and drinks for the evening. Got home at 11 to find V and next visiting friend, Sher, ensconced on sofa after having polished off the diwali leftovers. Chatted for a while and then went off to collapse in bed.

Saturday: Woke up late. Fed the Sher some breakfast and sent him off to see his other friends. Tidied the house and generally kept busy all afternoon while the wind and rain railed against our glass fortress. Decided to keep the momentum of the week going and braved the horizontal rain, traipsing off to west London to eat at Dalchini, our favourite Indo-chinese joint. Only to find that their menu and chef seem altered and everything now tastes exactly the same. One gravy, multiple meats. Not sure when I'll be back again.

Sunday: Sher back after a night at his friends house. We went off to find some lunch, the boys at Gourmet Burger kitchen and me at Wagamama. Endless talking talking, planning planning. Then he left to catch his plane and we wandered off to meet other friends and watch the new Bond movie. I've never been a big Bond fan and this must have been the first or second one I've seen on big screen. The Quantum of Solace was smooth and Daniel Craig is a hottie. Good action, tight story and amazing sights - it was good - I might have to see the first one that he starred in. A dinner of tapas and then home where the heart is.

It's a new week but things look set to be hectic hectic hectic. Note to self: Finish the diwali post before next diwali. Preferably this week.