Women's Day...I Just Don't Buy It!

Call me a cynic, but I am just not comfortable with all this Women’s Day stuff. “Let’s celebrate Women!” Yeah, let’s celebrate cats while we are at it. Do we need celebrating? Would the men folk like to be celebrated too? Or might they find it a bit demeaning?

Giving the li’l’ ladies their very own special day, I feel, undermines the struggle for equality. I expect Emeline Pankhurst will be spinning in her grave.

The HR woman at my husband’s office thought it would be a lovely idea for all the women to go home at lunchtime. You can just imagine their male colleagues thinking: ‘Hang on a minute, you want equal pay but you also expect special treatment because you’re a woman?’ You can’t have it both ways. This sort of thing breeds resentment between the sexes. And see how the whole Women’s Day thing (like Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day) has been totally hijacked by the very businesses that seek to exploit women. Today’s papers are full of adverts peddling bullshit to women who feel inadequate about themselves.  

“Saluting the spirit of Womanhood!” says the ad for ‘Nurture Health Care’ which invites women to lose weight without exercise or diet. There is a photo of a gorgeous, slim woman and absolutely no mention of how this can be achieved but whatever it is, it’s 10 per cent off because it’s Women’s Day!

And then we have ‘Desire’ (strap line: ‘Women of 21^st Century are Fat Free’ - really, is this true?) which is advertising a special ‘Women’s Day’ package where, for a little under 11,000 rupees, you can have your fat melted away by massage. Now, I’m no scientist, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that this is utter bull. And now I see that politicians are jumping on the bandwagon. "Women vote now, yeah? OK, let’s run on that ticket!"

I was at a festival of Music and Arts on Saturday night as my daughter was performing with her dance troupe. The festival had been organized by some political bigwig who used it as a platform to promote himself under the guise of promoting the arts in my neighbourhood.  Most of the seats were empty when we arrived so we plonked ourselves down in the second row, behind the politician and his family.

Eventually the sound system erupted with some ear-splitting jingle on a loop (which didn’t seem to bother anyone but me) This went on for a good 15 minutes until a disjointed voice announced our hostess for the evening: “And welcome on stage, the face of Whirlpool for the past six years, Miss………!”

The face of Whirlpool was certainly a looker but her presenting skills needed a fine tune. She had a wonderful gift of undermining everyone who came up on stage.

“Hey, has anyone here ever seen a funny female comedian? I certainly haven’t, so let’s give it up for……”
Turns out the comedienne was very funny and would have made a much better hostess than Whirlpool Face. Shame she wasn’t considered for the job. (I wonder why?)

The highlight of the evening was an appearance by  'heartthrob actor Varun Dhawan who delivered an emotional speech about two friends of his who were killed in a fight as they tried to defend their girlfriends. Whirlpool Face was so busy swooning and choosing who would be allowed up on stage to touch Varun that she didn’t hear him and asked him to repeat what he had just said. The poor guy looked mortified at having to deliver the same heartfelt speech twice. Then it was the turn of the politician to stand up and proclaim his great respect for females as the screens showed a film of women around the world being raped, attacked and felt up by their horrible bosses. Emotions running high, the politician pontificated about how everyone should be given equal respect. Perhaps he was not aware that his mother, a rather hard-faced and porcine lady in an expensive sari, was all the while ordering security to eject people who were sitting in the front seats as her relatives had now turned up. I guess everyone is equal but some are indeed more equal than others.

About a Girl

There’s an advert on the telly for a pressure cooker which makes me want to leap off the balcony because I find it so utterly depressing.

 The husband brings all his mates home from work – unexpectedly – and tells wifey to get in the kitchen and rustle up something quick sticks. The look in his eye suggests she might get a whack around the head with a frying pan if it doesn’t pass muster. 

While all the suits make themselves at home, checking their Blackberries and probably stinking the house out with a heady mix of Playboy and Axe man spray, wifey chucks some lentils into the pressure cooker and hey presto, dinner is served.

The tension is palpable but hubby gives her the thumbs up and we can all breathe easily. She smiles nervously as one of the guys sidles over and rather creepily puts his hands on her shoulders and murmurs: “Whose wife is she anyway?”

The ad implies that if you knock up some tasty grub in a pressure cooker, guys might even notice you in your own home. Nice.

The ad comes on while I am watching ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ (except me) with my 13-year-old daughter, Polly.

“This advert is so annoying,” she says.  

“Yeah, I know, it really annoys me too. Advertising like this defines women in relation to men, whereas men are usually defined in relation to their work, their creativity or their play.”  I say, rather eruditely.

“No, it’s not that,” she says, “it’s just that in reality she wouldn’t cook the dinner herself, she’d get the maid to do it.”

Perhaps we’ve been living in India for too long.

“That’s not the point, Polly. He was treating his wife like a servant, not an equal and that is not acceptable.”

“When you ask Lucy to cook the dinner, are you treating her like a servant?”

“Lucy gets paid to do a job…”

“Shut up now mum, it’s coming back on”

And so we’re back to Raymond’s plaid shirt-wearing world of circa ‘96 America.

Raymond’s mother moves in with her son and his wife Debra after an argument with her husband, Frank. Her babying of Raymond drives Debra out of the house.

“You see, when sons are put on a pedestal by their mothers, they expect to be pampered by all women.”

“You put Hugh on a pedal stool.”  I want to laugh but I let it go because I’m trying to have a serious mother-daughter conversation here.  Polly will be starting at the same UK boarding school as Hugh in September and our telly-watching days together are numbered.

I watch my smart little girl eating with her fingers in front of the telly. She expertly mops the dhal with the folded chapatti and scoops it into her mouth.  The meal has been cooked by Lucy - in the pressure cooker.

We turn over to Comedy Central and shout in unison: “I’M NOT A SELL OUT! WHAT’S A SELLOUT?”  They must play that catch phrase a thousand times a day, it’s beyond annoying but we’ve learnt to live with it after all this time.

Finally, we settle down to watch the only decent thing on telly, ‘Two and a Half Men’ but the one with Charlie Sheen and not Ashton Kutcher (which is rubbish). We’ve been watching this show on and off for the past four years, though not necessarily in chronological sequence. One minute Jake is 17, the next he’s a chubby eight-year-old kid. It’s always funny though - if a little misogynistic.

“So let me get this straight,” says Polly.  “If your mum pampers you as a boy, you grow up expecting all women to pamper you?”

“Er yes, generally.”

“But if your mum doesn’t pamper you as a boy, like Charlie Sheen’s mum, you should grow up to treat women as equals, right?”

I am horribly out of my depth because I know what’s coming.”

“So why does Charlie treat all women as sex objects?”

“Yes, that is ironic,” I say, making a quick exit to the kitchen for a pre-weekend gin and tonic.

There was a time when whatever I told the kids was gospel but now even the youngest is questioning me and challenging my all-knowingness.  It’s a good thing I know but all the same I feel as if the last vestige of something is slipping away.

When we first came to Mumbai, Polly was nine and very gung-ho about this new family adventure. She travelled to school in a rickshaw and integrated seamlessly with the other children, adopting a Mumbai accent and wobbling her head with the best of them. Soon it will be time for her to leave and I wonder how much of India she will take with her.

Samir, our driver of three and a half years, asked me how old I was when I lived in South Africa. I told him I was exactly the same age as Polly is now. He wanted to know if I remembered much of it and I told him I did, very clearly, why did he ask?

I want Polly to remember me when she grows up.” He said.

The two of them sing along to Hindi pop songs in the car and share a mutual love of ‘Gossip Girl’. If ever there was a meeting of cultures…

“Mum, can you bring me a coconut out of the fridge please!”

I take my gin and tonic and her coconut and straw, back into the lounge.

“Anyway, I was thinking” she says “what do you mean when you say ‘ironic’?”

"Well, it comes from the word ‘irony’ which means, erm, you know, let me think…erm.... ”

Polly: “I know, it’s ironic that somebody like you, who is supposed to be so good at English, can’t give me a definition of ironic!”

“Come over here, and give me a cuddle” I say, buoyed by the gin, “I’m going to miss you!”

 

Life's a Beach

The first time we went to Goa, we stayed in Candolim in the North because we didn’t know any better. Drunken, sun-burned Brits staggered about in the hot sun and Russians in two sizes (miniscule or massive) sat around in bars drinking beer and vodka for breakfast. You could select your menu option in most restaurants from a laminated photo and enjoy a BOGOF bucket of Long Island Ice Tea with your meal.

We got wise after this and picked the brains of long-term expats in Mumbai: Where’s the best place to go for a beach holiday in Goa? After a lot of cajoling we finally managed to extract, from good friends, the name of their secret Goan destination.  I can’t tell you where it is or I will have to kill you. Oh, alright then, it was Agonda Beach in the South. We loved it so much that we stayed in the same ramshackle beach house the next four times we visited Goa. The kids spent the days digging a hole in the sand and Mick and I read books or played Scrabble on the verandah, occasionally looking out to sea and wondering if it was too early to pop next door to Madhu’s for a beer. We would have carried on like this every time we had a few days off, but when Hugh shipped off to boarding school, Polly decided we couldn’t go to Agonda without him so we had to come up with a new short-break destination. As luck would have it, I was chatting to beach wear designer Sophie Paget Stevenson, when she mentioned her pop-up shop, Beach Candy, on Morjim Beach. She told me Fashion Designer Jade Jagger had a chalet in Morjim and also a boutique on the beach. As I am the sort of person who is very impressed by this level of name-dropping, my decision to go was made then and there.  Sophie said she always stayed at Palm Grove on Ashvem Beach so this was duly booked within the hour.

The journey was almost too easy. Getting out of Mumbai and arriving in such an idyllic spot really should take more than a few hours door to door –but it doesn’t.

Palm Grove is a small boutique resort run by a Swedish couple, who looked as though they’d arrived in Goa 20 years ago and made the decision to stay on and make a living for themselves in Paradise. It was a bit pricier than our place in Agonda, but hey ho, it was a lot more glamorous.

Our new home for the week ‘Honey Bunny’ was a large, half-brick, circular house with a palm frond roof and en-suite shower room. The majestic four-poster bed was rather romantically swathed in mosquito netting and fragrant candles were placed about the room.

Having set off from Mumbai mid afternoon, by the time our bags were brought to the room, we decided to pop down to the beach restaurant for a swift half and to watch the sun set.

After a few swift halves and a magnificent light show from Mother Nature, I nipped back to the room to use the loo. It was dark but I could make out the white toilet seat by the light of the moon slicing through the roof fronds. I had earlier noticed a large spider at the base of the bamboo wall facing the toilet so I thought I’d better just find the light switch in case it had moved. It’s a good job I did because there on the loo seat sat a shiny red frog. I dread to think what might have happened in the dark. By this time I was desperate so I banged the bamboo wall and the frog jumped to the floor, just as the spider leapt forward. They stood facing each other an inch apart. I don’t particularly like frogs but I am more scared of spiders. Especially this one as it was very big. The three of us stood there rooted to the spot until, rather spectacularly, the frog shot out its tongue and whipped the spider into its mouth and started chowing down on its big, black, hairy legs. It was the best thing I have ever seen in my life. I sat down and marveled at the wonders of nature and then kicked myself for not filming on my phone which was all the while in my hand. It would have gone viral! I couldn’t wait to get back to the bar and tell Mick and Polly how exciting my trip to the loo had been.

I wish this was a video clip of the frog eating the spider - soz

That was the highlight of the week, which suited us just fine! I spent the rest of the holiday collecting shells and building sand castles with Polly while Mick read his book and slept around the clock. We tried sun-bathing on the beach one day but felt too inadequate next to the bronzed and athletic bodies of professional beach people, mostly Russians. One of the knick-knack sellers on the beach asked me why I was so white. You wouldn’t think I’d lived in India for four years! I guess I’m just not the tanning type.

And so, every evening at sunset, Mick would wake from his day’s sleeping/reading and accompany us to one of the many beach bars so we could enjoy a cocktail and a piece of fresh, meaty fish and watch the hippies do yoga poses on the beach. I suppose they will have to get a job one day, we muse to each other as the sun goes down.

There are definitely some upsides to living in Mumbai and this is one of them!

The name's Kunte, Sitaram Kunte

Ah, Mumbai Mirror, I love you. Every day you bring me joy and laughter as well as sadness and tears. The moment you slip from the virgin folds of the mostly unread (in this house, anyway) Times of India, the roller-coaster begins.



Mr Kunte

One minute I am devastated by the deaths, by intentional poisoning, of 10 pygmy elephants accompanied by a photo of a three-month-old pygmy elephant calf trying to wake its dead mother, the next you tell me that the BMC chief is called Sitaram Kunte. Hahahaha. I still haven’t got over the Chief Minister of Delhi being called Sheila Dikshit. Hahahaha. What’s wrong with me? I am a delinquent 47-year-old mother-of-two with a weakness for toilet humour.



When my son came home from his first day at school here in Mumbai, aged 11, he couldn’t wait to tell me the names of some of his classmates.

“Guess what, mum? There’s a girl called Pooja and another one called Ishita! But best of all… a boy called Aasman. It sounds like ‘arse’ doesn’t it, mummy?”

“Yes son,” I said, “and what if his surname was Pandit, it would be Aasman Pandit like Arse Bandit, wouldn’t it!”

Both of us fell about laughing. Hahahaha. As a mother, I should be discouraging this sort of behaviour, but I can’t help myself. This is not responsible parenting.

When I was a cub reporter at the Kentish Times, I used to cover the inquests at the Coroner’s Court in Dartford and the names of all the officials caused me no end of amusement. The coroner was called Coroner Warrener, his wife, also a coroner, was called Coroner Helena Warrener, the pathologist was Pete Jerreat and the Doctor, and I kid you not, was Doctor Dot. Hahahaha, I thought as I sat looking serious on the press bench. I would listen and take notes on the most gruesome and tragic of deaths, all the while thinking hahahaha every time one of the officials was mentioned by name.

There is absolutely no depth to this post (is there ever?) so please don’t expect any. I am writing it because it is January 30 and my resolution this year was to post entries other than my once a month 'Chalo' column. I cannot break into February not having made the effort. It is also borne out of envy of Bombay Jules, who I just had lunch with, a most prolific blogger who notches up at least ten beautifully crafted and witty entries a month (with photos!)  I am also curious to see what happens to my hit counter which only has four boxes to contain the number of hits which is currently at 9857. What happens when it hits 10,000? Will I have to go back to 0000? These things trouble me because I am a technospaz but I am hoping this too can be improved upon in 2013.

Big Mouth Strikes Again

 

A  Chalo reader gave me pause for thought today when she suggested this column was anti- Mumbai and seemed out of place among the travelogues and festival articles. Believe it or not, after nearly four years here, I am actually very pro-Mumbai, I just don’t like some of the stuff that goes on. I could write about how colourful all the saris are and how funny it is to see a cow in the traffic but I don’t want to. There is more afoot.

 I love living in Mumbai and the people are wonderful but the facts are:  A) it’s been in decline for years and B) it’s been over-developed to within an inch of its life - all at the same time!  Haphazard planning together with a total lack of civic vision have led to a chaotic city in need of a great deal of TLC.  I know I am a guest here but I can see as well as anyone else that the powers-that-be are corrupt and apathetic and in need of a good shake up. Can I say this as a foreigner without coming across as a closet Imperialist?

I have just read a story buried on page NINE of the Mumbai Mirror about a baby girl who died after having her face ‘nibbled’ by a rat while sleeping between her parents in Borivali. The father says: “Rats are a problem but we have no choice.” Whaaatttt! It’s 2013! (And ‘nibbled’ is such a delicate euphemism – is it an attempt to make it sound less horrific?  How about ‘chewed off?’ ‘cos them’s the facts) The BMC has asked its pesticide officer for a report on the number of rats killed in the area. End of (I suspect).  We are always reading stuff like this in the newspapers. Must I avert my eyes?

Another euphemism commonly used is ‘Eve-teasing’ - that’s sexual harassment to you and me.  It’ll be interesting to see if this quaint term gets kicked to the curb now that the eyes of the world are fixed on India, watching to see how the authorities - accused of not taking it seriously enough - deal with the recent gang rape and subsequent death of a young woman in Delhi. This is a case not just about women’s rights; it’s also deep-rooted in caste so it will be interesting to see how it unfurls.

Yes, India, you are indeed a mystery to the rest of the world and we are intrigued by your contrasts and contradictions. In Mumbai, we watch open-mouthed as billionaires and beggars move around cheek by jowl. Cows are sacred yet we see them eating rubbish piled up on the roadside. Stray dogs roam in packs, all skin-‘n’-bone-‘n’- ripped-off ears, while pet shops/spas on every corner sell all-organic birthday cakes for pet pooches. What gives?  Sometimes it’s really hard for me, as a foreigner, to process the information in front of me. Toddlers run about in the traffic looking for coins while chauffeured Bollywood wannabes in eight inch stilettos “Yaaaa, Nooo” into their Blackberries.   

Where I live there is a swanky jewellers called ‘Daily Diamonds’ right next-door to a grim-looking roach-coach called ‘Fisheteria’ (formerly ‘I Heart Prawns’) I don’t know why but this is too much of juxtaposition for my little brain to cope with.

There seems to be a great pride in the nation - when you go to the cinema everyone stands to sing the national anthem – but where’s the civic pride? Mumbai has few green open spaces, death-trap footpaths, polluted rivers and open sewers. I’m confuuuused!

On the one hand we have booming India striding into the future; its young and dynamic population taking over the world yet on the other, there are enclaves where time seems to stand still.

Most Saturday mornings at 7am I go for a run in Aarey Milk Colony, a dairy farming area in Goregaon with jungle-crested hills and clear(ish)-running rivers. At that time in the morning, a low mist and thick smoke from hundreds of small fires add to the other-worldliness and people and animals go about their business uninterrupted by the modern world. Suddenly I come bursting into this rural idyll with my new Asics trainers, heart-rate monitor and ipod blasting out a bit of Alt-J, I feel incongruous, like a ghost from the future who shouldn’t be there. Last week I ran past a figure standing alone in the mist, thin as a pin and wrapped in a dark wool blanket. I glanced fleetingly at the wrinkled face but couldn’t make out if it was a man or a woman. The figure would not have been out of place standing there 500 years ago. I don’t know what was going on in his/her mind but I’m pretty sure he/she wasn’t worrying about getting an organic birthday cake for his/her dog.  

As I run by people are performing their morning ablutions. Men in loin clothes lather-up their sinewy bodies and use water from a broken pipe to rinse. I dare not look left or right into the sparse woods because if I do, I might catch the eye of one of the many squatting figures quietly doing the needful.

 It seems cockamamie to me that there are so many spas for dogs but not nearly enough toilets for humans. Apparently almost half of all the homes in India – the world’s largest democracy- do not have a toilet. Go figure.

When India’s minister for rural development - Jairam Ramesh - recently announced that India was more in need of toilets than temples, an angry mob descended on his home and yet he still went on to say that women should refuse to get married unless they could be guaranteed a toilet in the new home. High-Five Jairam-ji! It’s not what everybody wants to hear so it takes a Big Mouth to say it!

 

P.S The title Big Mouth Strikes Again – is, of course, an homage to the world’s most eloquent poet, Morrissey who was this week strung up by that most insidious rag - The Daily Mail - for daring to say, amongst other things: “If I kicked a dog I would be fined 200 pounds yet we are asked to accept (David) Cameron shooting down a majestic stag for a hoot.” The DM refers to this perfectly reasonable comment as ‘a rant’. I attempted to add my own online comment in support of the great Mozza but the DM (like Stalin) does not allow any comments which are not wholly favourable to them.  A very sinister publication indeed.

 

Great Expectations

 

Whenever I hear Wizzard singing: “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” I always think: Yeah, I bet you don’t really. It would soon lose its appeal, too much of a good thing and all that. Like the time I told my Dad I loved Nestlé’s Golden Nuggets so much that I wanted them for every meal for the rest of my life. He said he doubted it and that I’d soon go off them. I said I wouldn’t. So off he went and bought five packets of  Golden Nuggets and I set about eating them for breakfast, dinner and tea (as meals in our house were called in those days) On Day Two, I’d had enough. I had to admit defeat. It’s the same with Christmas; no one in their right mind would wish it could be every day.

I used to work in a book shop in London where American students came for temporary work placements in the summer.  One sweltering August afternoon, one of the students came in from his lunch break with a Christmas compilation CD.

 “Why are you buying Christmas music in August, John?”

I still remember his answer to this day, although it was nearly 20 years ago.

In a thick New Jersey accent: “Hey, every once in a while Christmas rolls around and I’m gonna need some choons!”

He is right, of course, every once in a while, Christmas does roll around and that’s how I like it! (ie not every day)

I think of John every year the moment I spot the first Christmas item in the shops. I do love Christmas and I am as excited today as I was in 1971 when I received an ‘Etch-a-Sketch’ on Christmas morning. I honestly thought I was going to have a heart attack and die of joy.  

There was a period in my 20s when I went off Christmas a bit. It meant going home to stay with my parents, sleeping in my childhood bed and going to the pub to see long lost school friends on Christmas Eve. I would wake on Christmas morning (sometimes in a pool of vom) with a thick head while Mum poured the Buck’s Fizz and Dad ran about the house knocking on doors and shouting: “He’s been, he’s been!”  I’d haul my sorry self down stairs and wear a rictus smile while opening practical gifts of soap and socks. (Nothing has ever matched the ‘Etch-a-Sketch’ moment) Then, feeling as rough as a buzzard’s crutch/badger’s arse, I would be forced to get dressed and peel the Brussels sprouts. Later in the day, when everyone was asleep in front of ‘The Two Ronnies’ I would slink back to my room to sulk over the unsolicited toiletries and slippers, consoling myself with a tin of Quality Street and yearning for  the day when someone special would buy me stuff from Tiffany’s and Agent Provocateur.

The Joy of Christmas returned when I got married and we went to Bermuda for a Christmas Honeymoon. On Christmas Eve we went into Hamilton and agreed to spend no more than $20 on each other. I went into Trimmingham’s of Bermuda and bought a pair of loud Bermuda shorts (obvs), a bottle of rum and a Cuban cigar (naturally I went over budget)  Turns out Mick panicked, bypassed the perfume and lingerie counters and came out with a Gordon tartan woolen scarf and a cribbage set.  I could see where he was going with the Gordon tartan, ie that I had recently become Mrs. Gordon but the cribbage set? WTF?  I had to tell him that this was not acceptable and he would have to try much harder in future. Simple guidelines…perfume, lingerie and jewellery. That was 17 Christmases ago and I am pleased to report that he has adhered to the guidelines ever since  - with the exception of a very nice ceramic owl that I had admired in a shop window. Good work, Michael xx

The nicest memory of that first Christmas together as man and wife, was waking to find the hotel management had left us a gift outside the door of a glass bauble filled with pink Bermuda sand and decorated with a tiny starfish. Amazingly, after all this time, it is still intact. Since then, we have collected Christmas decorations from everywhere we’ve visited and un-wrapping them each year is always a fuzzy time to remember their individual histories.

When Mick’s brother got married in Mexico City just before Christmas in 2002, we bought two painted wooden figures from a street seller. As we walked off, she followed us, shouting in Spanish but we didn’t understand. A minute later, we stopped in our tracks, looked at each other and shouted simultaneously: “THE THREE KINGS!” We realized we had bought only two of the three kings so went rushing back through the market to find her, which we did and duly purchased the third king. Much laughter all round. One of the kings has lost his crown now, but he will never lose his place on our tree.

We bought a blue and white porcelain Santa icicle in Delft, a Baby’s First Christmas bauble when Hugh was born in ‘97, and a felt Fox Terrier with a Santa hat on when we got the dog.  There is a glass London Bus, an Eiffel Tower and a Statue of Liberty. I’m kicking myself I couldn’t find a glass Burj Khalifa bauble in Dubai this summer! (But I do have a pink glittery camel!)

 I confess that I stole a lovely red bauble from a table setting at a hotel in Thailand in 2010. I’d had one or two glasses of Champagne as had the wife of the Hungarian Ambassador to Pakistan who happened to be sharing our table (a bit random, I know) We both concluded that the Christmas Gala Dinner was a bit over-priced so felt justified in nicking a bauble each.  Good times.

The most precious thing on the tree, besides all the little cotton wool snowmen and robins the children have made over the years, is the spire at the top, hand-blown by my Uncle Arthur who died years ago but is fondly remembered every year when we crown the tree. This year I am adding some exquisite hand-embroidered red velvet hearts I bought from an NGO here in Mumbai. I am also on the lookout for a sparkly little rickshaw.

For me, the best thing about Christmas in Mumbai is Hill Road with its market stalls selling ‘kwality’ fake trees, plastic snowmen and tinsel - all glittering in the hot sun amid the Catholic churches and tombstones. It’s as far removed from Liberty’s Christmas Shop in Regent Street (another one of my favourite haunts) as it’s possible to be, but it makes me just as excited!

I think the secret of a good Christmas is to lower your expectations - the greater the expectation, the greater the disappointment.  I have always felt vaguely let-down when it doesn’t snow on Christmas Morning even though I can never actually remember this happening. And don’t be crestfallen if you un-wrap a set of coasters from someone to whom you have just given a basket of Lancôme products, it’s not necessarily a reflection of what they really think about you or if it is, get over it! Expect cribbage sets and coasters, that way, anything else is a bonus!

This year my dog (who resides in the UK) has gifted me a lovely Mulberry purse and phone holder to match my Bayswater. I had to help him buy and wrap it,of course, but I really appreciate the care and thought that went into it. Good boy, Otto xxx

Be kind and generous to everyone, including yourself and that way you can be sure of a very merry Christmas!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Will Reading Mumbai Mirror make me Pregnant?

I am a big fan of Dr Mahinder Watsa’s Ask The Sexpert column in Mumbai Mirror.  In fact I keep a scrap book of all my favourite problems and believe me, it’s an interesting read.

Dr Mahinder must be a very patient man because he deals with the same ‘problem’ again and again and the answer is invariably: “No, it will not make you go blind.”

Because this is a family publication, I’d better not go into too much detail about the sexual problems of the poor souls who pen these letters, but I will say how shocked I am at the level of ignorance.

If I were a skeptical person, I might say that they must have been concocted by a couple of reporters having a laugh at the readers’ expense but then, if this were the case, wouldn’t the problems be a little more varied? They are, as I say, almost always concerned with one topic and one topic only - and that is the solitary past-time of young men.

Occasionally we see a variation of the theme. Here are a few of my favourites but bear in mind; I am going to have to paraphrase… a lot:

“I stole my aunty’s knickers off the washing line and enjoyed some sexy time with them before hanging them back. Will she get pregnant?”

“How long can I keep wearing stained pants?”

“Recently a mosquito flew into my eye and got stuck. Will I get Aids?”

Most of the problems are triple-X rated and funnily enough seem to happen to people’s friends rather than to themselves. “My friend had oral with a girl and the spunk trickled down her neck and onto her underwear…… Can she get pregnant?”  His ‘friend’ seems to know an awful lot, doesn’t he? It is almost as if he were in the room with them.

I have just read through the whole scrap book of problems – three years worth- and I laughed so much that the maid came in to see if I was alright. Sadly, I cannot repeat any of them here because they are way too blue but it makes me wonder how Mumbai Mirror gets away with it in a city where public displays of affection between men and women are few and far between.

We’ve all seen the couples canoodling far from home on the Sealink and Worli sea face, hidden beneath scarves in case they are spotted by a passing family friend. But you don’t see them going about arm-in-arm or kissing openly because Indian Society is quite buttoned-up about stuff like that.

I understand that sex is not spoken about in the homes of most Indian families and many schools do not have a sex education programme. No wonder there are so many messed-up questions flying about. The good doc Mahinder must be run off his feet but always finds the time to impart wise words to all those anxious, head-scratching would-be lovers out there.

But there’s more to Mumbai Mirror than Dr Mahinder’s marvelous column. I also enjoy the entertainment listing section Fun Zone. I am tempted to pick out one of these events at random and then just turn up for a laugh. I might really enjoy a play called ‘So Many Socks’ or ‘Moments with Pankaj Udhas’ (a soulful-lookin’ dude who looks a bit like Bob Carolgees, you know…him off Tiswas… Spit the Dog)

But then again, maybe I wouldn’t.

 I’m usually on my second cup of chai by the time I get to the adverts for miracle body treatments and marvel about how they get away with it. Don’t the trading standards people read this stuff?

 “Skin Whitening All over body in few days Whitening from within!!”

“Stem cell Hair Multiplication, best price Rs 12 per hair!!!”

“Look 10 years younger in three hours with long-lasting endoscopic face lift!!!!!” 

One exclamation mark is enough to indicate surprise, there is never any need for a double, and triple and above just makes me plain angry.

One minute I’m scoffing at the absurdity of it all, the next I get drawn in and start writing down the phone numbers. I could do with some hair multiplication. Maybe that endoscopic face lift might really work? (I might even have considered it if it were presented without the exclamation marks) (!)

And so onto the News which is mainly either something incomprehensible about a Housing Scam or something I won’t bother reading because the  headline is written in acronyms which I am not familiar with: 

“Now, hold FSs, insurance, PO funds in demat”

How unsnappy is that?

Or how about: “Arrested IM men plotted attack ATS HQ”

Yeah, can’t be bothered to read that either.

But amongst all this political hoo-ha there are stories of such human pain and suffering that sometimes they stay with me for days or even weeks -  the stories of abused and depressed women hanging themselves by their dupattas from the ceiling fan or of children who are taken from their homes and later found in gunny bags in abandoned buildings.  Today I read the story of a rickshaw driver who was hit by a bus as he chased a passenger for three rupees and lost his leg. He was the only bread winner in a large family who will now all suffer. Sometimes the news is too much to bear. Sometimes, it’s easier to think of what we read as just stories rather than things that are actually happening to the people we are driving past in our air-conditioned Innovas.

The woman looking out of the window on the crowded bus might be worrying about a missing child (or else daydreaming about a moment with Pankaj Udhas), the man behind her might be angry at his wife for not giving him a son while she is at home eyeing up the ceiling fan, wondering if it will take her weight. It won’t be long before the one-legged former rickshaw driver is tapping at your window for small change at the lights.

It’s all getting a bit dark, isn’t it? I guess what I am trying to say is that it is hard for us to comprehend the suffering of so many people we see every day on the streets of Mumbai, people who are desperate and real. Our coping strategy is often to detach ourselves because the problem is too big for us to change. But let’s do what we can, where we can to make small differences to people’s lives. A little goes a long way…and that is one of Dr Mahinder’s favourite sayings! (!!)