If only laughing made me thinner!

Week five

I’m still the exact same weight as when I started. Not one ounce less. But four completed weeks on, I am still motivated enough to get up at 5.30am and move my behind to the Gym. Early morning is the best time for people watching and the cardio machine floor is the perfect vantage point to do this from.

Two desi guys are regulars at the Gym during the unearthly hour that I am mutilating the machines. Their swagger and general demeanor suggests that they think of themselves as dudes (in a cool way) – I think of them more as duds than dudes and for the purposes of this post I shall refer to them as Desi Dud (DD) and Bug Eyed Boy (BEB).

Desi Dud is short (by the standard of men and even short old me) and apparently prides himself on wearing nothing unbranded. His single minded motto: If you market it loudly enough I shall wear it. Reebok shorts, Nike T-shirt, K-Swiss Trainers, Puma socks, NBA headband & wristbands, Timberland cap, I-pod strapped onto his arm – on any given day you can see him in at least 6 branded things, swaggering around the gym like a walking billboard for a sports store. He does not seem to do very much except walk around, pause in front of different weight/ resistance machines, take of his cap to unattractively tousle his hair, attempt a set, give up, wipe his brow and move on to the next one. From where I walk the treadmill I can see him looking confused and slightly irritated, as if the sweat and machines are conspiring to ruin his carefully put together outfit.

Bug Eyed Boy is tall, lanky and naturally, bug-eyed. He wears sleeveless vest-like Ts to highlight the hideous tattoo of a skull and dragons that adorn his very thin left arm. His right arm is permanently attached to a water bottle from which he noisily slurps water. He walks for about five minutes on a treadmill and then stops to hang off the machine and pant as if he has just completed a marathon. He then slurps some more water and goes off to have a wander. Comes back in a bit and walks another five minutes. By the end of this ‘extremely’ strenuous workout BEB has become almost cartoon like in dimension, eyes popping out of his skull in a yo-yo like manner. Then he gives up and disappears out of view. Probably to re-adjust his eyes back in their sockets.

Oh, and his mother must be so proud of that Tattoo.

Week six

I am still the same weight as when I started. It has taken 5 weeks to get myself booked into an induction with someone from the fitness desk. For all I know everything I’ve been doing from week one to five is completely incorrect. This would explain why I have not lost one fluid ounce of weight.

Fitness Aunty (FA) is all muscle. She probably works out about 6 hours a day seeing as the other part of her job is quite boring - as standing behind a desk and looking like you are filling in forms can be. She clarified that I wanted to lose weight (Duh!) and then proceeded to give me a long lecture about food groups, carbohydrates and low GI diets. All in a very s-l-o-w monotone. Like, if I’m fat I must also be deaf.

FA then proceeded to lecture me on the ‘merits’ of working out while taking me on a tour of all the machines I have been using for five weeks. Hello, is this is why I pay an exorbitant amount each month – to be told what I already know? That too five weeks late.

Then we reached the dreaded elliptical cross trainer 95xi she makes me train for 10 straight minutes to ‘warm up’. This is just what I needed, to be trapped on a machine while being talked at by FA. She continues in her monotonous vein, all about how its not how much weight you lose but how much muscle you gain. She told me not to be disheartened by not having lost any weight yet. “All your fat is turning into muscle”, she simpers. This makes me more healthy. So instead of rolls of fat I shall now be the proud owner of rolls of muscle. Surely there is something wrong with this statement. I give up. And instead concentrate on the TV screen in front of me which is showing a beleaguered Tony Blair smiling and waving at some poor hapless crowds. Imagine. Even this is preferable. Soon this will be over and I can go home.

After demonstrating the use of various machine and some floor exercises FA tells me to come back in 6 weeks and to use a tape measure as a guide to how effecitve the gym is, not weighing scales. It completely goes over her head when I say I want to weigh less, not turn into muscle woman. Declaring that our time is over she shows me where my card (another perk of expensive gym is a drawer with alphabetized cards) with my routine written up. As I’ve already been doing this routine for five weeks, I wonder if this is for her benefit?

Saw BEB wiping his sweaty arms after just 5 minutes on the treadmill. Bug eyes popping out and victorious smile on his face (5 minutes is akin to climbing Everest for this charlie) he was dabbing his tattoo lovingly before striding off to refill his water bottle. A sight to make sore eyes.

Week seven

In the lift up to the Gym on Monday morning I was struggling to banish sleep from my eyes. DD and some Girl get into the lift right behind me. Ever the brand master, DD is carrying the world’s largest sports bag, emblazoned with Slazenger on every side. DD proceeds to ask Girl why he never saw her at the party organized by the gym. I can see Girl thinking (something like a cartoon balloon of thoughts), “because I have a life”. But she politely answers that she had another commitment. DD continues to press upon her how he flew back from a busy schedule in Tokyo to be there and it was a wonderful evening. In one fell swoop DD has attempted to tell her that he is busy, flying across the globe to the other side of the world and how cool he is for attending this party. We reach our floor and I can almost hear Girl exhale a sigh of relief. As she attempts to get out of his way he tells her she must come to the next Gym party as it was a ‘hoot’, amongst other adjectives. Girl smiles, weakly says “Yeah, cool” and disappears into the locker area. I bet you she turned around and left the gym without working out that day, just pausing to make sure she escaped unnoticed.

Tomorrow brings week seven to an end and I suspect that I have still not lost any weight. As the nights get longer and mornings get chillier it is harder to persuade myself to get out of bed. The hilarious characters that populate the Gym in the morning make it just a little easier and a lot funnier.

Everyone is learning from their mistakes

Wouldn't it be cool if this was because someone read what I wrote about their warehouse of hideousness, idiot design, rubbish customer service and 243 screws for 3 drawers?

MFI to be sold for just £1
By Elizabeth Rigby and Eoin Callan // 16th September 2006

The board of MFI is poised this weekend to approve the sale of its struggling retail business to Merchant Equity Partners, in a deal that will see the furniture chain pay its acquirer a "dowry" of about £100m. Under the terms of the unorthodox deal, the 42-year-old furniture chain is thought to have agreed to pay MEP, run by Henry Jackson, the veteran investment banker, a dowry to take the lossmaking business off its hands so it can concentrate on its profitable Howden Joinery trade business.

The deal, which is set to be signed this weekend, still has to be agreed by MFI shareholders. The generous terms being offered by MFI reflect the dramatic erosion in the retailers value over the past few years. Once priced at close to £1bn, MFI is now set to change hands for a nominal sum of £1.The UK's biggest furniture-maker has been one of the casualties of the tough recent trading period for retailers, which has seen costs rise while the prices have fallen.

Or is it I who should have known this in advance and never set foot in their store?

Building the beast

The weekend was calm and relaxed and I did less than a slug. The triumph of the weekend was all V’s as he completed assembling a chest of drawers without the help of any ‘promising’ friends. Now this may sound like nothing to expert DIYers and regular IKEA goers but please, allow me to explain.

We have built in cupboards with nothing but a rod to hang stuff off and a shelf above it. The shelf is too high for me to use on a daily basis without the aid of a step ladder. At the moment our stuff is stored neatly in baskets arranged on the floor of the cupboard. It’s inconvenient to get to anything not on the top of the basket but an achievement in my mind to be out of suitcases. So from the hanging rod to the floor there is no option but to fashion some sort of shelving system. Or else buy 300 hangers.

Intent on not trudging out of town to IKEA we hunted around a bit and decided on checking out the options at a chain of cheap-ish furniture stores. A few weekends ago, measurements in hand, we went to MFI. For those not in the know, MFI is a chain furniture store selling everything from bedrooms to bathrooms to kitchens. Their slogan is ‘You dream it. We’ll make it happen’. Whoever thought that one up was either blind / dumb / had never visited a store/ never purchased something from them / been brainwashed / paid a load of cash.

So anyway, drizzly morning and a warehouse type store filled to the gills with ugly furniture. Amongst the monstrosities we found the prefect candidate. The most basic chest of drawers with a plain, neat maple finish and dimensions to fit our cupboard. Its three drawers making it the perfect height. There was the small question of whether it came assembled or would need to be magic’ed into something useable.

The very large store and huge pieces of furniture made it difficult to find the very well hidden store assistants. Once we found one, the question of assembly was swiftly answered. It was a do-it-yourself situation but, and I quote, “you will not need anything more than a screwdriver”. That is what swung the vote for us. We bought three sets.

A week later they were delivered. Flat packed. With instructions on how to join them with other bedroom furniture (into a wall of furniture) but no instructions on how to build the actual unit. Idiots. It took us three days, numerous phone calls, email exchanges with the ‘customer support team’ (who, what?) to get the correct instructions. And so it began.

V opened out the flat pack for the first set and spread it around himself. I took a mental picture at that moment. Of V, sitting amidst a forest of wood with 243 nails and screws, two types of screwdrivers and the instructions akin to building a small jet plane in the comfort of our home. Picture taken I fled the scene, never to look back again.

It’s a good thing our second bedroom has nothing but an ironing board and piles of books awaiting their shelves. In the past 3 weeks it has been the epicenter of construction. Every evening, after a long hard day at work, V has attempted some part of DIY. The initial triumphs were the making of the drawers. And here let me interject the numerous ways in which MFI is so user unfriendly. Instead of simple instructions, all the tools and wood with pre-drilled holes (like IKEA stuff) this MFI carcass came with rocket science instructions, superglue, the need for a drill and a small piece of wood. I have a good mind to go and thump the store assistant who told us otherwise.

First the drawers, which had to be nailed, glued together and left to dry. Then the outside walls needed runners fixed to them. Then the side walls, back wall and top needed to be joined together. Then runners needed to be fixed to the drawers. V refused to buy a drill and instead improvised with a 3pence nail. Ever so often I would be summoned in to hold two pieces of wood together while nails were hammered in at the appropriate spaces.

All these weeks while V has slaved away bit by bit with the drawers of wonder, I have occupied the day bed and watched endless TV. Full credit to V for tackling what I would not have even begun to take on. This Sunday evening a shout of joy indicated that the exercise was complete - all with just measurements, screwdrivers, a hammer and a good eye. Oh, and I forgot, some grouching about bl**dy MFI.

One set of drawers sits resplendently under a row of business suits, fitting perfectly in the space albeit without door handles (which are for sissies and people without perfectly smooth runners). His baskets have been banished and cufflinks have been arranged to neatness. His ironed clothes will remain ironed. His eyes gleam with the joy of accomplishment and he walks around looking like he's tamed some wild animal. I understand.

Only two more sets to go.

Meanwhile I’m still wearing the shirts from the top of my basket.

I dislike MFI more intensly than ever before. And I would not recommend them to anyone.

Take it on good authority - this will be a long autumn.

Get shorty....err

I was thin once upon a time. And tall. As a child. A bit of a beanstalk with golliwog curls and lanky limbs. All that went out the window when I turned 13; puberty met me and I met rice. Suddenly I stopped growing in height and instead started growing into what the Delhi punjabi’s call ‘halthy girl, ji’. At 5 feet and 3 AND a half inches I stopped and grew upwards no more. I was sorely disappointed because I have lovely tall parents, a tall grandmother (maternal), grandfather (paternal), uncle (maternal) and cousins (paternal). My genes (which I am assuming also decide height besides every other human characteristic) had ignored all these tall people genes and given me the genes of the short people of our family, my other grandparents and adorable aunts.

Life is just not fair.

The Nik who was always instructed to call me ‘jiji’ (which is what you call your elder sister in UP) consistently ignored the instruction and just called me ‘shorty’ or ‘moti’ or ‘fatty’ (the latter two meaning exactly the same, just in different languages) instead – both more than somewhat true. The ‘shorty’ is a far more hurtful reminder of my errant genes. The ‘fatty’ is being addressed by my saintly 6am visits to the gym. Nik, the lucky fella, got the right genes, and well within his teens overtook me to reach his present height of over 6 feet tall in his socks. So now he and said parents loom over me, walk in longer strides and sit at the tall peoples table while I languish at the shortbread table.

I won’t bore you with the details but I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday during which they wanted to check my height. And what did they find? That I’m five feet and two and a half inches. Can you bl**dy believe it? A WHOLE inch shorter than I have always thought/ been told/ measured at. I was so upset when the doctor first told me this that I rather angrily asked him if someone else could come in and check this fact as I was pretty certain of my height. A rather surly nurse came in, instructed me to ‘stand straight child’ and reconfirmed the doctors findings. By this time I was more agitated than angry and insisting that I had had my height taken a million times before and there was no way I could be only 5’2”1/2. I insisted on being checked against another height chart. So nurse, doctor and I traipsed across the hall to another office and checked my height against the chart there. Still 5’2”1/2.

Completely leaving aside why I had originally gone to the doctor I went into explanation demanding mode, demanding to know how I could have shrunk. The poor doctor had no answer except that ‘maybe in India they took your height measurement wrong”. What? My whole life, numerous times – how likely is THAT?

I came into office in the middle of the day still very upset about this change in my height. And I told anyone who would listen to my woes about this shocking shrinkage. Stood back to back with loads of colleagues who all seemed to think they were more than 5’3” and it turns out I’m taller than them. So either the doctor or his charts were wrong or everyone is living in dream world about their height.

There is no rational explanation for how this has occurred. I’ve either started shrinking naturally 20 years too early (the doctor thinks this is highly unlikely). Or I’ve always been this height and in a race to be giraffe like convinced myself that I’m taller than I am. Or I’m 5’3”1/2 and the doctor just got it wrong. I prefer the last explanation thank you very much.

This is a very upset (and apparently very short) 31 year old signing off.

And Nik, if I hear laughter, even at this distance, you are in DEEP trouble young man!

Gym Tales

Week One. Day One.

Sunday. Knowing that Monday morning is our first outing to the Gym I pack my bag in advance. A bit like a school bag run where we had to find out which lessons were on the next days timetable and pack textbooks & notebooks accordingly. My big Crumpler bag is ideal. I knew someday I would be able to justify why I spent all that money on a newspaper-delivery-looking-water-proof-bag. This is the day.

Bag has office clothes (what was the point of ironing them if they are going to be rolled into a ball?), office shoes, hairbrush, soap, shampoo, conditioner, assorted nice smelling things (deodorant and perfume) and cosmetics (which I otherwise never use) to complete the ensemble. After all there will be other women in the locker room while I get ready – I have a reputation to keep up (not so much keep up as build from scratch – this is only day 1). Bag also has handbag within it which has wallet, card holder, lip balm, Polo mints, travelcard, book and ipod for journey. Bag weighs 34 kilos.

Monday. Alarm set for 5.30am. I am up as soon as the alarm goes off. My sneakers/ trainers (depending on where you are from!) with new socks tucked in are at the end of the bed, near my already packed bag. Gym clothes – non-slogan T-shirt and tracks – are resting on the bag. Out of bed like an eager child on Christmas morning (still blissfully unaware that Santa was in fact mom and dad) followed by hurried-get-ready experience and at 5.55 we were out the door and legging it to the Gym.

Gym is full of scary, scary thin people. The kind motivated enough to get up and be at the Gym in their colour coordinated gear before the crack of dawn. V and I are motivated but not even vaguely colour coordinated – forget with each other, even just as ourselves. Ignoring the running masses we decide to diligently exercise for 45 whole minutes.

While I walk on the treadmill at the pace of a snail doing the marathon I marvel at how for someone who has often been described as a ‘slow walker’ this is an achievement. For someone who will not move an inch unless absolutely required this is inspired. As for getting up at 5.30 am to be in the gym at 6am, this is the equivalent to walking on the moon.

I go to office full of beans confident that I have already lost some weight and look better in my clothes. Excuse my delusions. I need them instead of coffee.

Week Two

Went to the Gym for four days out of five in Week One. Skipped it on the weekend because there is still so much house setting up to be done that I think that is exercise enough.

Found the class for fat people. It’s called – say it together people – “aqua aerobics”. It’s at 6.50am on a Tuesday morning. Being ‘aqua’ it is naturally in the pool. The class is great for my self-esteem. I am the thinnest person there. I swim 30 laps before the 40 minute class starts. All the roly-poly’s come to this class mainly because the water provides good resistance making the workout make your body work hard while also cushioning it from injury. It’s lovely, a coordinated whale workout if you like. The teacher is fit and energetic and has us all feeling like we’ve had a workout rather than just aimlessly splashed around in the pool. I’ve met some nice people and in just the second week of us taking this class together we are chatting after class. "Did you enjoy that? Where do you work? How many days do you come in? How long have you been a member? Do you always use this locker?" A bit like a secret club this is Gym-talk, if you like.

Besides losing weight my only aim is to get them to switch off that Brittany Spears music.

Week Three

Can you believe I am still getting up at 5.30am to use the Gym before work? I hit the snooze button almost as soon as the annoying alarm goes off. 8 minutes later I am awake and getting ready. I think the sheer cost of the Gym membership is keeping me going.

6am gym sessions are not to be laughed at. It’s that time of year when winter is closing in on us and the sun lights up the sky a few moments later each day. It’s not cold enough to need even a light jacket yet but the skies are darker when I wake up. The thought of not going is a fleeting one I have managed to overcome so far. Like the preceding two weeks, in Week Three, I managed to go to the Gym for four out of five days.

I feel lighter although the scales tell me I have not lost anything. They lie methinks.

Week Four

I’m used to the alarm now and wake up just a few moments before it's peeling begins. I like waiting in the dark for that first ring to herald this new day.

I’m still pre-packing my bag (although I have done away with handbag inside a bag and various other unnecessary items – who needs blush-on when freshly scrubbed pores show red cheeks to their best?) and being well-organised.

I feel a little bit saintly.

I wonder how long this madness will last?

A long long way from home

V & I are noticing women in Indian clothes roaming around central London with far greater frequency than before (as in there are more such women than before, NOT we are suddenly becoming more observant - we are very observant thank you very much) . And these are not just salwar kameez and saree aunties who have come to look after their children/ grand-children. These are bona fide tourists. Backpacks, cameras and sneakers. All the way from India.

I know this is not new. Once upon a time I worked in the tourism industry in India. Till that year traveling abroad on holiday was the pleasure of the rich and well heeled. Let's be brutally honest, you needed black money and loads of it. Alternately you could travel in a huge group,with mummyji's, auntyji's and uncleji's, a busload full, whizzing around Europe with a maharaj cooking all your Indian food as you took in the sights in double quicktime. (No point trying out any new cuisine as god forbid we bite into a forbidden onion or eat on dishes once used to eat meat). That year foreign currency regulations changed and because people could take more money legally with them they were able to consider holidaying abroad with just their own families. My job became the most interesting one of all time. I got to travel around the world, negotiate and create individual holidays for every category of holiday maker from the 3 star wanderers to the super-deluxe craving few. Initially it was a steep increase and as the years have gone by the number of Indians on holiday has steadily continued to grow. It’s amazing what a good exchange rate, a higher disposable income, a competitive holiday market and a world of destinations brought closer by new age travel can and will do.

Yesterday I was sitting near a Manhattan-style tube station, reading the Times, enjoying the odd breaks of sunshine through the quick marching clouds, while waiting for friends to turn up for lunch. An Indian, with his bag on his back and his camera slung around his neck came up and very politely asked for directions to the DLR station. While he made his enquiries his family stood behind and discussed possible routes amongst themselves. A mother draped in the most beautiful Chaderi saree, a father in his neatly pressed trousers and shirt, a wife in salwar kameez – all with appropriate walking shoes. Instructions taken, map consulted and they were off. Explorers of the best kind.

London in the summer is a lovely place to be a tourist. There is an efficient (for the most part) tube system that connects you from one corner of the city to the other. There is an award winning tube map that shows direction and stations clearer than a bright blue sky. The Tube station staff are friendly and helpful. There is a wonderful bus system (at least for central London) that will take you the short distances. And there are so many touristy things to see including five world class museums: National Gallery, Victoria and Albert, Tate Modern, Natural History Museum, British Museum. Small cafe's to buy an innocent cheese sandwich and cola from. There are also a huge number of desi's like me who live here and know the city well enough to guide a lost person. Being of the same colour makes us more approachable.

I don’t want to sound like a blurb for the London Tourism Board but I am glad that more and more Indians are shrugging the fear of traveling abroad and venturing to newer and further sights. I like that there are more people who look like me and will smile back at me as I make my tube journey across town. People who, in that moment, across the aisle in the tube carriage, are wondering where in India I am from, while I wonder where they are from and whether we can prove the six degrees of seperation and find people we know in common back in just six short steps. Just the sight of beautiful intricate saree's will bring a little bit of India into this sometimes parched life. Living so far away from my original home this brings me just a small smidgeon of comfort, for just a second. Till the odd person leaves their litter behind and I remember one of many reasons why I think people should be given a litter 'black star' on their visa/passport for the next time they plan to visit. Three strikes and you're out.

I'm glad people are taking these chances to explore the world beyond their own backyards. While I agree that there is so much to see in India, I am adamant that it's beauty would be enhanced by the experience of having travelled abroad and having something to compare it with. I’m glad that we too have the capability to take holidays, short and long, to appreciate other cultures and cuisines, to see other landscapes and ways of life. I’m glad the world is a smaller place.

Dining tables, exercycles and gyms - all good for round people

Where have all the long lazy weekends gone? This house settling in is taking up way too much of my time and energy to be believed.

There was a time when I would wake up on a Saturday morning, peer at my mobile phone clock digits through one eye, be shocked that it was 7am and that my bloody body alarm had kicked in 5 days too late, and promptly curl myself deeper into the duvet, promptly shut that one eye and go straight back to sleep. And be asleep within an instant, till noon at least. I can no longer remember the last time I accomplished this feat.

Now my Saturdays have taken quite a different shape. And I do not like it.

As with all recent weekends this was a busy one. Furniture delivery in the morning – a four drawer, four door reclaimed teak sideboard and one round teak dining table to go with the chairs that arrive 2 weeks ago. The sideboard weighs in at over 100kgs and looks solid. I can almost imagine what those teak trees look like. In the time it took to find the prefect place for the sideboard to live it magically grew roots and rooted itself to the spot it has been placed in – there is no hope of ever moving it or taking it with us when we leave this flat. Look at me, talking about leaving before even having been here 3 weeks!?

The dining table is a revelation. The perfect size for the little alcove in front of our kitchen. So now whoever (me) is cooking can be talking to their guests while throwing pizza dough into the air to form the roundest lightest crispiest pizza bases for dinner. Of course I don’t make pizza bases. And anyway with my luck it would probably stick to the ceiling. Coming back to the dining table - I am a great believer of eating at the dining table. I hate eating off my lap and I hate the idea of crumbs everywhere – or drops of gravy gravitating to the floor. It’s all the legacy of my mum and dad who insisted that every meal be eaten, not only at the table, but off beautiful dishes and a well set table. I believe that a meal is better digested if eaten of a table. Call me old fashioned if you must.

The afternoon was spent in John Lewis with me trying to convince V that beautiful patterned curtains were the way to go. With a little 'effective persuasion' (ie. do what you want) from Shoefiend I managed to win half the battle. We’ll have bright red flowers on pale ivory curtains in our second bedroom. Absolutely exquisite. V says he is never going in there again.

It took about 3 hours (I kid you not) to order curtains that will now take 5 whole weeks to be made and delivered. My guess is that the cloth is woven in India, measurements are taken in John Lewis stores here and relayed to workshops in India. All that too-ing and fro-ing is what takes 5 weeks. Meanwhile I will have paid a small fortune to pull down masking taped sheets and replace them with real curtains.

Our first meal on our beautiful table, and not precariously balanced on our laps, was Pizza out of a box, greedily eaten with our hands. Disappointing. I had wanted the meal to be more dramatic. Table mats, cutlery, an array of pickles. Curries, gravies, dal, subji’s – all vying for the opportunity to fall off our plates – surprised to find their descent cut short by our solid table. I shall have to call our friends over again, for a proper meal.

Sunday was no less tiring though the pace slackened a bit. Had lunch with possible new friends; i.e we’ll see how it goes. Then we traipsed around a Greenwich furniture store till we found the perfect ‘media’ cabinet to house the various bits and bobs of electronic equipment needed for ‘pleasurable cinema quality home viewing’. That is to store sky box, dvd player, amplifier and woofer. V is thrilled. And it nearly matches the rest of our furniture so except for the plastic steel of the boxes and 300 wires it should look quite nice.

There’s an exercycle shaped space on our floor. No, it hasn’t died, and no, we weren’t robber by exercise thieves. Colleague came over in the evening to pick up our exercycle. I had put up an advert for it in office and within a day my colleague had walked up to my desk and said she wanted it. So she came along on Sunday evening with her 6 year old daughter in her Skoda, admired our flat and left one cycle richer. This exercycle has been our main form of exercise for well over a year now. Either V or I would place it in front of the TV and cycle for between 30-45 minutes in the hope that our hearts and bodies were getting stronger. While it made no discernable difference to our physical beings it was all I was willing to put myself through.

Things have changed. From a time when I was not willing to use a gym I now live too close to one to have any excuse not to. So the exercycle has been sold and a gym membership bought. What I think of gyms and attempt in the gym are stories for another post. I am feeling nostalgic about the exercycle. A bit like a pet that’s been given away because we are traveling to places where the quarantine is too long. I am glad it has gone to a good home.

Getting back to the rest of our Sunday evening, we then had M&A round for our new ‘apartment approval programme’. They approved and so we fed them a dinner of pasta at our shiny new dining table.

I feel tired but it was a weekend well spent. More than tired I feel grown up. I own a dining table. And some day in the future we will have curtains. Who ever thought that these facts would rock my world!?

Independence Day

I always stand up if the Indian national anthem is playing. Always. And I will deny this if we ever meet in real life – I even stood up when it was sung in uber corny movie K3G. I’m not sure if initially it was patriotism or just ingrained habit or just school parades for Independence Day. I am sure that now it's patriotism.

I am not going to wax lyrical about freedom from the British, partition and modern day India. Others do that far better. For me it's about being patriotic, if from a distance. And this year I shall do a better job of it than the short post last year. Although I must say that Nehru's speech was brilliant and maybe at that point no more needed saying.

There is something about living away from my homeland that brings out the patriotic in me. It’s akin to never having been closer to my folks than after I got married and moved out of their house. Suddenly my bones, blood and skin are more Indian. My brown-ness and strange neutral accent are special (only to me; they are just strange to people here).

Now that I live 8 flying hours away from India I take every opportunity to talk about India, the culture, the people, the food, the festivals, the gods, the cities, Delhi. And mainly I’m defending everything to the Brits who have no inkling. (I must give you an example here. Recently an American volunteer at my organization has announced that she is leaving us to go and live in Bangalore with her Indian boyfriend. Her line manager sidles up to me the other day and asks if I think “she will be alright in Bangalore. I mean do people there speak English? Will she be able to go out of the house on her own?”. What should I say?!)

I try and find a connection with every desi I meet: “So where did you grow up/ go to school/ college/ work?”. And if we find even the slightest of connections I work to make them my friends – another usually unsuccessful operation (but why is a whole other story)

I celebrate as many festivals as I can remember: Diwali, Holi, Karva chauth, Onam, Vishu and some. I celebrate them with more seriousness and piety than ever before. I have a more beautiful ‘puja’ than ever before. I visit as many temples as I can while on holiday in India.

I still think of Republic Day, Independence Day and Gandhi Jayanti as ‘my’ national holidays even though I haven’t been there for any of them for the past four years.

I hunt down obscure Indian recipes made by ancestors and try to recreate them. Mainly to disastrous results. At least I try.

I suddenly love dal – all kinds, cooked in all ways - something I successfully avoided eating till I hit 25.

I am suddenly more aware of my Indian-ness. I like accessorizing with nice Indian jewelry and patterned shawls/ scarves. I try not to stand out like a sore thumb but to wear the odd ethnic piece that is so far removed from the standard English Black and Blue.

I watch the news on the Indian channels everyday. I read the news on a number of Indian news sites. And I hurt when India hurts. I even try and read the BBC South Asia in Hindi so I don’t forget how to.

I call home and random family members all over the world on a regular basis, trying to cement that Indian connection. I have large phone bills.

I even miss the dreaded Delhi winters and am constantly favourably comparing it to the grey English one.

I miss the sunshine and the extreme temperatures it beats down on us. I miss the coolers with khus khus in the soaked side pads.

I miss the rain because it breaks and beats down in sheets, lifting the smell of mitti (which the English don’t have). And I compare that too, constantly, with the dripping Chinese torture rain in England. They are also missing any serious, meaningful thunder and lightening.

I never thought I would say this but I miss cricket. I only ever watched it live once in India and that was a blinder of a match but for the most part I just ignored it. Now I watch snatches of it with the ardent V when I can, cheering on the Indian team, screaming at the screen till I’m hoarse. Or better still watching the scintillating NatWest final against England, live at Lord’s, where Yuvraj and Kaif chased 325 to win. Sachin meeting us was a big deal

I miss the mess, the chaotic roads, the markets, Dilli Haat, the fabrics, the textures, the chaat, the unending curiosity, the people. I miss it all. And I love it like I never did when I was there.

I cry (not out loud or even with tears, just a strange internal crying) at strange hindi movies that show India so beautifully. Also when I hear the ‘Rang de basanti song’. And thanks to S I have a load of hindi music on my ipod that is prioritized over the English for when I travel to work.

I miss India – in case you missed what I’ve been drumming on about - very very much. And no, before you ask, we are not going back “in the foreseeable future”. As plans stand “we will live life day by day and see where the road takes us”. Besides I can’t imagine packing and moving – again - quite just yet.

I don’t think I have ever used the word Homeland before.

Ever had a weekend so busy that you wished for a workweek?

I did. And here I am sitting at my desk in my lunch hour blogging about how good it is to be sitting at a desk instead of running around the city organizing things for the house.

Our weekend was heavy duty running-around-packed. The lift is back to normal service. We went for a riverside wind & drizzle–swept Barbeque on Friday evening and came back to a fully operational though ill sounding lift just past midnight. Being swept up to the 7th floor instead of painful trudging up and wheezing is akin to angels singing in my ear. I cannot emphasize the strength of the YAY rushing through my exhausted veins when we reached our floor and casually walked the short distance to our door.

The lift being functional does mean that all the mundane tasks that could have been spread over the whole week of evenings was to be compressed into two days of hectic activity. I could not be more tired if I had run the half marathon.

Numerous trips to myriad stores - supermarkets, electronics superstore, furniture showroom, sound specialist. Numerous taxi rides with big bulky boxes and bags. Numerous trips up and down in the lift. A whole new path worn into the corridor carpets. A layer off the soles of my aching feet.

As if we didn’t have enough boxes and junk we have added more stuff to the little spare floor space. As with Mars-Venus, women-men, this stuff is essential to me and V on whole different levels. For me there is an ironing board, dishrack and dustbins. For V there is surround sound speakers, amplifier and unending high tech measuring tape. I’m glad there are two of us though because it made running around less tedious and carrying stuff much easier. Also in retrospect I think that different ‘essential’ lists are helping us choose, co-ordinate and buy stuff that will give us a complete house all the quicker.

We are still weeks away from a complete house. Our whole Home Theatre experience is yet to be set up. We have no real storage till the sets of drawers, sideboard or bookcase arrive, staggered over the next 4 weeks. We have open overflowing suitcases, towers of books threatening to topple over, and unattractive bin bags/ boxes of stuff in every corner. We have sheets tacked up with duck tape masquerading as curtains.

On the positive side we now have super cool spotlights shining on down in every room. These are brilliant and outshine the gaping holes still in the ceiling, left on purpose to enable wiring in the Home Theatre (when that happens!). We have a fully functioning kitchen and are getting used to the different shapes and sizes of appliances. The shadows and uncertainty of a space not mine will soon disappear.

It is not easy, this setting up of a home from scratch. There are lessons to be learnt each day. How the hot water boiler works. Which direction the key turns to open the doors to our heavenly abode. Where to store the cleaning products so they don’t mistakenly poison us. Where to place the dustbins so as not to trip over them. Where to place all the furniture that fitted so beautifully in the showroom and our minds. How to eat a meal balanced on ones knees without dropping some food on the newly cleaned floor.

We are getting there. Bit by bit. By hook or by crook. People visiting in the meanwhile will not be impressed.

I'm so tired I'm going to have a mini nap with my head balanced precariously on my keyboard. Toodles!

Good v Bad - nobody wins

The bad news: We’ve been eating all our meals out for 7 continuous days while we got organized, packed and moved.

The good news: The most nutritious thing has probably been the idli’s at Saravana Bhavan.

The bad news: I, the queen of all things Wagamama, have now sworn off them. For a bit at least.

The good news: We cooked our first meal in the new place on Monday – Bhindi, aloo subji and rotis. Never have I been so enamored with home cooked food.

The bad news: UFO light removal has left big gaping holes in the ceiling. Bare wires with sockets and dim bulbs do not make for a romantic setting. Or encourage unpacking with speed.

The good news: We hunted down and agreed on spotlights. Electrician uncle is fitting them in all the rooms today and tomorrow.

The bad news: I have to sit in the rubble and work (as my boss has kindly allowed me to ‘work from home’ rather than sit in office and yell at the electrician down the phone) . Then I have to clean up.

The good news: Once we can see the light maybe we will want to unpack and live like normal people.

The bad news: On Friday evening our lift broke down. It was the day after the movers and the evening after a morning of hectic furniture delivery. It was after all our stuff was in but this is still bad news. We live on the 7th floor.

The good news: Now we are walking up and down. 7 flights of stairs. Apparently this is good for my heart.

Life in a cardboard box

I moved to London on a cold winters day in early 2002 with my bright shining new Samsonite (wedding gift from aunt) containing the 20 kgs of life that the airline kindly permitted**. Now 20 kgs may seem a deceptively large number but when moving from parents home where every possible utensil and all design of linen is available, it is hard to decide what is essential to steal for the new home being set up. I decided that to make life slightly less complicated I would first pack my clothes and then depending on space/ weight available choose a few utensils.

Having heard all about the legendary London winter I ended up packing nice thick clothes, gloves, beanie hats, a variety of woolen socks and solid shoes. Needless to say my 20kgs filled up really quickly.

And I brought no utensils.

When we began packing up our things last week for the move my initial thought was that we didn’t have too much stuff. We'd been careful about collecting junk and consciously clearing out the unessential. Nothing a few cardboard boxes and suitcases couldn’t hold. I was so wrong.

In our 3.5 years in the rented flat we seem to have collected 20 large files of paper (bills, leaflets, notices, letters etc.) that could better be used as nest materials for some poor birds, numerous pieces of ‘decorative’ items – mirrors, wooden statuettes, assorted candles, paintings and etchings, 5 x 4ft stacks of books, a mile high pile of MAD and National Geographic’s and plenty of other things. When I say ‘we’ I mainly mean me – I have become a bit of a hoarder and till DNA proves otherwise I’m blaming it on my genes.

Most of this stuff is not what I need, just what I want. I am the Accumulator. Seemingly I need to be surrounded by these materialistic things – wood, paper, plastic and ink.

Moving day was an eye-opener. 24 small, fairly flimsy cardboard boxes and 6 medium-big strong cardboard boxes later we were three-fourths packed. A kitchen of stuff lovingly brought bit by bit from the Indian kitchens of my family and procured from supermarkets here, packed with care. Pressure cooker. Idli-maker. Belan and tawa. Woks and pans. Home ground masalas. Matching storage baskets. Cleaning materials. Plates and bowls. Crockery and wooden salad servers. Table mats. Table runners. Hand embroidered napkins and holders. Fondue set. Dals of different shapes and sizes. All the essentials to create the meals for our bellies.

Clothes got dumped into suitcases. The all important footwear took up more space that we thought possible. Knickknacks sorted into piles to take with us, give away or recycle. Packing was done in a wonderment of where all this stuff had been hiding all this time. We even resorted to bin bags at the end of it. Our movers arrived early and within an hour and a half had moved our rented lives into what we hope will be our very own home for the next few years. Up and down in the lift, several trips through the corridor and into assigned rooms. The new flat looked oddly empty even with all the boxes.

Our furniture arrived the next morning. Or rather its parts did. The assembly men efficiently assembled solid pieces in a few short hours. Hey presto, we suddenly own furniture – a bed, sofa’s, chairs, dining apparatus’. Now it looks less bare but not complete. Just a higgledy-piggledy mess of boxes and bin bags.

Now we must disassemble these boxes and find storage space for all our things. A shelf for linen, hangers for clothes, shoe rack for the millions.

Slow and steady. Breathe deep. Don’t let stress headache take over. My entire motto’s for the mo.

**This is my firm view: the people who decide how much luggage can be carried when you move abroad (anywhere but the USA) are all idiots. Period. Why is it that when you travel to the US you can have 2 pieces of baggage each weighing up to 32kgs but when moving anywhere else you can only carry 20kgs? Do people in other parts of the world need less? Idiots.

See, I told you I'm exhausted

This is what exhaustion does. Takes all comprehension, rolls it into a ball and chucks it into the deep blue sea.

Sorry Labile......

I did the wrong tag.

So listen up you 7 whom I have tagged. It was the wrong tag. I was meant to list seven bloggers that I do not know in real life but who I would like to meet and a hypothetical setting that would be ideal to meet them in.

Jane Sunshine - she sounds like fun and on a similar wavelength. I would have to say somewhere like Regents Park, in the sunshine.

Shoefiend - Ok, now her I already know and have met a few million times. But hypothetcially lets say I only knew herfrom her blog. Then I guess she sounds kind of like the person you would bump into at Burburry or Mulberry.

Rohini - She sounds wise and levelheaded and logical - all traits I admire muchas. A Mumabi coffee shop like at the Oberoi at Nariman Point, over cold coffee and club sandwiches.

Mumbaiwallah - Would be hoping for some of that intellect to transfer itself in a handshake (like osmosis(?) perhaps). I think the British Library would be an ideal setting.

Neha - Ah, for being a Jill-of-all-blogs and the courgae to voice her opinions. To ask her how she got so famous. Meet her maybe at an Amnesty movie screening!!?!

Sambhar mafia - For being the collector and disperser of all information it would seem. Knowing that much trivia must surely make for an interesting person! I would say over a dosa and filter coffee in a saravana bhavan type place.

Just another - For being quirky and interesting, for letting the fears and triumphs of youth be the meat of his blog. Somewhere like a gadget show - I doubt we could tempt him to a museum!

And last but not least, Labile - For letting us into the life of a student/ doctor/ american desi. Body Worlds sounds a good idea.....

So people go blog and tag.

Not too tired to tag

I’m exhausted with the move. My mind is not functioning as it should – I blame the exhaustion, others would probably say this was normal. I will post about the move and all its crazy moments. But for now Labile has tagged me.

Labile - It’s uncanny but I have been thinking about the Body Worlds exhibition lately and whether going would be cool or just downright creepy. If you are ever in town….

I am thinking about ... our next holiday
I said ... life is too short so don’t sweat the small thingsI want to ... write a funny family history

I wish ... the world would really become a better place
I hear ... muzik on my oh so cool new ipod

I wonder ... how people can be unpunctual and callous
I regret ... not having learnt an instrument as a youngsterI am ... calm and well planned – mostly!
I dance ... to 80s music I sing ... only when I am sure no ones eardrums can be damaged
I cry ... alone and very quietlyI am not always ... as organized as I seem
I make with my hands ... this simple food we eat
I write ... endless posts on this blog
I confuse ... daylight saving time all the timeI need ... 48 hours in a day

And following on from Labile tagging seven bloggers, here are my seven:
Jane Sunshine

Shoefiend

Rohini

Mumbai wallah

Neha

Sambhar mafia

Just another

Whump - the sound of my face falling on this keyboooooooooooo

Meet the 30s: all grown up, living in debt and loving it

YESTERDAY

Keys jingling in a handbag. A fob heavier than the keys to the last place.

Bare wood floors. Massive glass panes. Three thin pillars holding up the floating ceiling. A hole in the wall where a plasma TV once lived.

Sepia light pouring in through the windows of the living room. Two people sitting on the cool warm floor. One playing with the remote for the electric blinds. The other gazing through the window at the terrace that is to be known as ‘outside space’ even at this height. And flipping through a folder of manuals for various appliances.

Our first evening in our new flat.

X-------------------------X

RIGHT NOW AND WAY BACK WHEN

I have a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart right this very minute.

Our very first home together was here in London. A studio apartment on a leafy street. Since we were young, starting out and basically living like a student and his wife, our apartment was minimalist. We consciously avoided buying junk and stuff that was not desperately needed. Or could afford. Clean my house meant throwing a bedcover over the bed and hey presto it was all neat.

We moved to our next rented place in the month of December. We found it after looking at about 30 apartments within a close commute of V’s new workplace. And we fell in love with it in an instant. Bright, airy, modern and by the water, we’ve been very happy in this flat. We’ve entertained like crazy, had friends and relatives treat this like their home and thoroughly enjoyed growing into the space, buying stuff to equip it well, bringing treasures from India to make it feel like a bit of home. Our 3.5 years of bliss are over. Morphed into something even better: Ownership.

Yesterday my heart was in my mouth all morning waiting to hear from V that the solicitor had confirmed completion. That is money transfers and now we own this ship!!! And once he did (the solicitor) and then he did (V) my heart was aflutter with joy. Like good Indian children we quickly called our parents to share the good news. All the while marveling at how grown up we suddenly were.

Our age slowly creeps up on us draping us with an ever thicker shawl of responsibility. Before we know it we fall in real love and out of teenage drama. Then we get married and play ‘house’ for a bit. Then we buy our first home together and suddenly it hits us. Thwack is the sound I imagine in my head.

We are all grown up. And there’s no way but forward from here. I feel a little bit older, a lot more responsible and somehow a bit more secure knowing we own a bit of a bit of a city. It’s like all our life’s accomplishments coming to some fruition – all our seriousness and wise investment play dough-ing into something tangible.

I know I sound a bit sentimental (or is that mental?) but I am just a bit weepy. I also sound corny but that’s only because some of these clichéd things are coming to mind right now. Is that age or circumstance or both – we’ll never know. The day we never thought would come is here. Nearly a year on from when we started down this road we have finally reached our destination. Our journey is complete for the moment. Satisfaction guaranteed till we outgrow our box.

X-----------------X

NEXT

We have not moved yet but we have taken possession of our first ever home. Hence the jingling keys and everlasting wonder with electric blinds. The biggest purchase we are likely to make for sometime to come. The debt that is an investment. We went to have a look yesterday evening and finalise our plans for the rest of this week. We ended up trying to layout our living room with just our imaginations. It was fun.

Our furniture arrives on Friday. We’ll have to decide on some sort of layout by then or else risk our backs to move very heavy stuff once the assembly chaps have gone. Not so much fun.

P.S. Meanwhile, at Casa 30s we are still struggling to fit all our stuff into cardboard boxes and suitcases. Why did we ever buy all this stuff? When did we buy all this stuff? How expensive is all this stuff? Think we could ebay it? Where will we fit it in our new place? When will this move ever end?

Who knew we had this much stuff?

Last week we should have been packed. Or atleast semi-packed. We weren’t. Sheer laziness and procrastination.

Hurriedly bought 20 flat-packed cardboard boxes, un-flattened them and proceeded to fill them up with frightening speed. They weren’t very strong and being sure they would not take the weight of our kitchen stuff I asked around my office for any spare strong boxes.

WH offered us 6 ‘indestructible’ boxes leftover from her recent move and destined for the recycle pile. On Thursday she bound the 6 flattened boxes with tape and carried them to office on her head. Literally.

She walks to work from nearby and insisted this was the easiest solution. Knapsack on her back and boxes on her head she trotted the 10 minutes to work.

On the way she passed a construction site and the guys working there called out, “Oi, nice hat!!”

WH who is white white white turned bright bright bright red.

She didn't thump them with the boxes which is a miracle. Instead she brought them in calmly, and recounted the story with a laugh.

I so owe her lunch.

Bring out the candles

Always remember this: New flat things are never as simple as you’d imagine or hope.

I keep forgetting it. So now I'm saying it as a mantra to keep my head from exploding.

On our furniture and fixture list, beside the lighting fixtures row, scrawled in black pen: All light fittings to be removed and only bare wires left. Let me stop you right there. Leaving bare wires is definitely not THE problem, seeing as Vendor man had hideous UFO-like acrylic lamps hanging about 3 feet down into the room from the ceiling. In multiple places. Removing said space-ships to his new abode is doing us a favour more than anything – we’re saving hundreds in doctor’s bills by not being blinded by his bilious lights.

The problem is getting new lights sorted.

After much discussion V and I decided that the simplest best option would be rows of spotlights. We would buy them, electrician would fit them, light would shine, Ta-da!!!

Vendor man kindly gave us the name of his electrics and do-it-all guy with the warning that pinning him down to a time on the day ‘might be a problem’. The advice was ‘Just be firm’. So I call Ricky.

Me: Hi. I got your reference from RJP in Flat4. He says you very efficiently sorted out his electrics.

Ricky: Yeah.

Silence

Me: So we are now moving to his flat and he is taking all his fittings. We were thinking of putting in some spotlights throughout the house. When is the earliest you think you can do this and can you possibly give us a quote?

Silence

Ricky: Well, Let’s see. I have 10 chaps but……(silence)…..we’re mostly booked up. This is July. Almost August.

Me: So what’s the earliest you CAN do?

Ricky: Time is flying past, ain’t it? Soon it’ll be September.

Me (getting more high-pitched with every minute): So then, when is the earliest you can do this? Or just even give us a quote?

Ricky: That’ll be end of November. Sorry Mate.

As of next Thursday we will be living in darkness.

A long ride indeed

If you think finding a house/ flat that both partners-in-debt will like is the hard part, think again. After looking through what seemed like 3 million flats – literally at least one in every building in our chosen area – our to-be flat was something like an “a-ha“ moment from an Oprah show. Suddenly all doubt vanished, potential shone through the glass walls and we were ready to gift away our lives to the mortgage underwriter.

Once the offer was in we just moved to the backseat of the car and waited for the car to drive off the cliff. It’s not an unlikely situation. Most people have at least one gory story of sales falling through or gazzumping or some such wonderful terminology dooming a house purchase. We had heard so many stories that we kept our levels of enthusiasm to a bare minimum. After much to-ing and fro-ing we have exchanged and in a week we should have the keys to our kingdom.

The ride between the offer and the exchange of contract was not fun. Everyone goes on about how labour dense ‘developing’ countries are and how much bureaucratic red-tape there is when you need to apply for something in India, like a passport or ration card. Where do you think the Indians learnt it from? The British are masters of the red-tape system. They are only a bit more stiff upper lip about it.

So here’s the chain of events that a property under offer in the UK must endure (and I have spun it from our own morbidly long experience, humungous phone bills and sore throats from yelling at people):

Week 1 & 2: Offer to the agent. Agent lets the vendor know. Refusal in the first instance. All conspiring on how to leech us dry. Small bidding war as another couple also wants our kingdom. They lose. We win. Since we offer more money than them, we also lose.

I buy my first design magazine under the guidance of Shoefie – Living etc. Mind-boggling.

Week 3: Contact a few mortgage brokers for quotes. Everyone says we are in a prime position to buy. That is just sales speak as they want a big fat fee from us. No way Jose. We shrewdly take on the mortgage broker who will get paid a commission by the bank instead of us. Go to his office for a talk. Turns into a 4 hour marathon of explanations, form filling with mundane details and endless photocopying of documents. With the press of a button the form is submitted to relevant bank. Papers to follow and hearty handshake mortgage broker assures us we’ll be approved in 2 days.

Week 4: Valuation ‘expert’ from the bank goes to check out said flat. Finds the value to be the exact amount we have offered (as told to him by accompanying estate agent). He charges us obscene amount for doing basically nothing but checking out our flat and producing a 2 page letter re-iterating all the things he’s been told.

Meanwhile hearty handshake mortgage broker has passed us on to his Head Office where incompetent liaison lady now has our file. She writes us letter of reassurance that is not reassuring in the least. Discovers that wrong side of bank statements has been photocopied and asks us to produce copies and original again. In Notting-something. No way Jose. Harass local mortgage man into looking at them and taking proper photocopies this time. You would think since it’s a major part of his job he would know which side is up. Incompetent idiot.

Cleared a drawer and a cupboard. Big bag of clothes and 15 pairs of shoes for charity. I feel like an angel. Am exhausted with the effort.

Week 4 & 5: On suggestion of friend-who-has-done-this we appoint a solicitors firm to handle the legal higgledy piggledy. Now they are in touch with vendors solicitors through agent. Reading 10 million documents, conducting searches of random things like the environment, sewage and council issues – it’s a busy life for solicitor Santa.

In the excitement of having a flat we decide to trawl through the 10 magazines I have so far bought for ideas on furnishing. We do not agree on anything.

Week 5: Liaison lady comes back asking for more documents. All irrelevant and making us feel a bit criminal like. Try to prove good intentions by showing required documents and not yelling at everyone concerned.

I want minimal, V wants minimal. Neither knows what that means in real time furniture. We both want a modern streamlined look but cannot agree on a colour scheme let alone any single piece of furniture. Oh hell, this is going to be a long ride!

Week 6: Mortgage approval letter arrives with copies to everyone. Solicitor Santa is slowly wading through documents. We go and meet him in his very tiny office and sign our contract. Pay up a whopping 10% of the dosh as deposit.

We go and look the furniture shops of Tottenham court road. Heals. Habitat. Cargo Home Shop. Lombok. Suddenly we’ve moved from modern to heavy traditional wood. Sea change hits us like a Tsunami.

Week 7: Cheque with 10% takes about a week to clear. Bloody inefficient retail banks. Talk to Santa’s secretary everyday, chasing her to check if the money has been received. Soon she recognizes the voices, pretends to be a garden centre and offers us mulch.

Week 8: The vendor does not back out – in fact after many hair-turning-grey nights he signs his side of the contract and the exchange is done. Now we are both legally bound to each other – him to sell, us to buy. 2 months on something is happening

Also in week 8: I go and meet vendor in ‘our’ house. Take measurements to see if world’s largest pieces of furniture will fit. They will; but we will then have to walk on skirting boards and jump from chair to chair. Like monkeys. Am pointed toward appliance manuals, am offered names of electrician/ plumber and cleaner and am offered advice on installing an air-conditioning unit for the 2 hot weeks in an otherwise grey year.

Week 9: Went to shop and signed away what’s left of our arms and legs to get 13 bits of heavy solid looking wood; from a sustainable forest; made by workers paid above the average wage; ethical (for all you sunflower seed chewing organic earth and fair-trade lovers!!).

Today: We are off to sign deeds and stuff. So in a week we should complete and own a piece of London for the next 992 years.

I’m off to live in a cardboard box with a roll of duck tape, scissors and 25 pairs of shoes.

The evolution of post

I’m not going to talk about the rights to freedom of speech, liberty, expression etc. The desi blogworld is doing that well enough. If you want the updates on the action you had best go here.

Before technology intervened we relied on paper, pen and the post. It was a more romantic way I think, writing in your neatest hand, trying to get down all your news in aerogram or on embossed letterheads, in the best possible order, making as few scratched out mistakes as possible. There was also the anticipation of receiving a letter from your parents or friends or lover, covering the distance between you with words of affection and bringing you all the action you’ve been missing. The joy of reading and re-reading letters from dear ones, imagined bent over their desks in concentration composing just the right things to say. There were birthday cards, anniversary cards, just because cards and made up tapes of music, all reliant on the whim of the postal service. There were cultural missives from pen pals in extreme corners of the earth asking if we rode to schools on elephants or owned any tigers. There were our own replies setting the record straight and often trying to gauge the improbable cultural stories of a land unknown. There was the trepidation of mail lost, the short bursts of static conversation reiterating that you had written and that the mail service or the weather was to blame.

All in all it was an art to be a letter writer. An art that has now given way, buckled under the pressure, to a keyboard and an internet connection. E-mail, chat, informational websites, personal blogs and even on-line phone calls.

My parents are tech saavy. After a lifetime of working in an office where paper was dominant, my father taught himself how to use the whole MS suite on our dinosaur computer. And once she knew I was going to be living away from her home, my mum set-up an e-mail account and taught herself how to e-mail. Today they would not know how to go back to the old ways. They both use chat and e-mail to keep in touch with me and the Nik on a regular basis, to keep our phone bills manageable and to tell us things too mundane to waste on a phonecall. They also use computers extensively for work, e-mailing work related stuff back and forth in a way far more practical than smail mail. It’s the rare occasion that warrants buying a paper card and posting it.

I have veered so far away from my original thought that I have dropped off the side of the flat earth. Before I blogged I wrote a monthly e-mail to friends and family (which was so long that certain people admitted never getting to the end!) that was a newsy single version of the hundreds of letters I wrote in the days of snailmail. It was meant to give an essence of our lives here in London, far away from home, family, friends and all things familiar. It was meant to be a record of our lives in this new and exciting land. The most frustrating thing was the absolute lack of replies. It made a once joyful task a burden and I was soon looking for a suitable alternative to keeping in touch, to keep writing. The blog seemed a brilliant idea and the blogosphere a whole new world. I could write what I wanted, let everyone I previously e-mailed know where I was at and then it would be their choice to read it or not. The pressure was off my broad shoulders. The form of my writing changed from ‘We did this last weekend’ to more generic, often fictitious stuff, reviews for books and restaurant I liked, records of important times and memories in our lives. It somehow captured the essence of who I am without revealing who I am. It’s read by more unknowns than knowns and has opened up a whole new parallel world of interesting people, thoughts and ideas, all for a fraction of the cost and the saving of a rainforest of paper.

It took me an eon to explain blogs to my folks. It’s only recently that my mum has started to regularly look at my blog. And although I don’t write nitty gritty life detail on them she reads what I’m writing in the context of knowing me as her child. In some ways it is her window into my world. This blog is my letter home.

I won’t join in the ethical debates about blogging, its consequences and it being used as a possible harmful conduit of hate. I’ve heard all the arguments and seen all the interviews on NDTV (you know who you are!). Banning blogsites won’t achieve anything as the resilient human will find an alternate way soon enough.

In the meanwhile though my phone bills are set to rocket.

Turning 31 without incident

It was hardly what you would call a celebration. Besides voices on the phone my only other human interaction was with shop assistants and the charming waiter at lunch. Went to the Royal Albert Hall to try and get myself some tickets for the proms. Everything was either too expensive, too late or just not what I wanted to see/hear. Walked along Hyde Park for a bit before deciding on Oxford Street as my destination.

I wandered around Oxford Street in the sweltering heat amidst the throng of sale seekers. I’ve had my eye on a bag in River Island for a while now and decided to treat myself to it even though it was not on sale. Mini dilemma as I could not decide on the colour and even contemplated buying it in all three. Eventually I went for the black – tried, tested, boring and the ideal replacement for one of my dying black bags. Then wandered in and out of shops till I got to St. Christopher’s Place which is a charming alley leading to a square of restaurants and shops. The square (more rectangle really) was packed like a can of sardines. Somehow the beating sun and small band of singing Spaniards added to a sudden feeling of claustrophobia and I escaped across the road to the quiet calm of Busaba Eathai. Enjoyed a quick and very tasty lunch, all the while fielding phone calls. Thank you, you know who you are, for calling*.

Took a long and leisurely bus ride that ended by the perfect park. Sat by a babbling fountain/ artificial brook and read for a while enjoying the setting sun and cooling breezes.

It was a calm day, the first birthday not celebrated with some form of partying. By the end of the day I was bean bagged in front of the telly watching double CSI and Law & Order, eating my dinner off my knees and chatting with V. And although all day I kept telling myself silently that it was indeed my birthday and I was REALLY now 31, it didn’t really feel like anything much. I plan to make up for it when V gets back and have a fantastic birthday celebration!

A day for quiet reflection. On what my 31st year will be. That’s what my birthday turned out to be.

**For those of you who will read this subsequently and had forgotten, yes I was expecting you to call and yes I am upset enough not to forgive you for it without some serious bribery!

And thank you bloggerworld for bothering to leave me birthday wish comments – they meant a whole lot!

A whole new year

365 days later the earth has circled the sun once more. I am a year older, a step closer to the big 4-0 but strangely more content and excited than I thought I would be about the 30s.

With V away on work and me on my ownsome lonesome everyone is making up by being extra kind…..

My office just went bananas yesterday. I came in to a huge happy birthday banner across the wall by my desk. Lunch time saw a well planned game of 'pass the parcel' with an old braying radio, something in every layer, mostly mini toblerones. And a game of pool. Then a surprising 8 big shiny purple balloons from 3 breathless colleagues and a small tea party with a home-baked carrot and banana cake from my boss. A card and a £10 coupon later I was nearly in tears. This is why I have always wanted to work in an office bigger than a two man show! I feel ever so justified in waiting to work here in this small friendly office.

It was not over. Went for dinner with 2 colleagues to ‘Little Bay’ on Farringdon Road. Hideous red and gold décor that was a sorry cross between Grecian, renaissance and plaster of Paris art. But the food more than made up for it: Garlic Portobello mushrooms followed by red snapper with spinach and potatoes. I will be going back. Only with my sunglasses on inside this time.

Today is the day. It’s been a big morning already

Today I’ve been up since 7am, woken by a call from b-i-l in Singapore. Dropped off again till the Nik rang to sing to me at 9am. I have given up. Sleep is for the young and bored.

Just finished reading and blubbing over 16 e-cards – I love technology for saving trees, chopping off the cost of postage and adding music to the cards. So many people remembered! I do feel blessed.

My friend P called and invited me out for a birthday lunch today. She is so kind. Have altered the plans though so that now she can spend today with her other half who is about to take off on work. And we will meet tomorrow with a third friend and have a lovely lunch out, gossiping.

As V is away on work on another continent I have to be content with phone calls and texts (I do love technology). I am getting a fabulous gift (?) and another whole day to call my birthday when he is back. So double whammy!!!! YAY!

I am off now, out into the sunshine, with no real plan in my head except that its my birthday and I should be out and about and having some fun. So seeya peeps….woohoo 31 here I come!

Little Bay: 171 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3AL Tel: 0207278 1234