Return to Innocence

Am stuck in a bad traffic jam. (are there good ones?)

I blame the heavy shopping bags for my decision to drive the 750 mts to the supermarket. The traffic which is always bumper to bumper, is bumper to bumper, window to window and door to door today.

Pearl of Wisdom 1 : ‘Switch off the ignition. Don’t you know you can save upto 10% fuel by keeping the engine turned off' says my 8 year old companion S.

I am proud of her. I oblige.

Traffic inches ahead. In the 2 ½ nanoseconds that I take to restart the car, the restless jerk behind me starts to honk. It seems like the longest 2 ½ nanoseconds of my life. Doesn’t he have an 8 year old in his car to explain the ill effects of noise pollution on the fragile environment?

It is 2 days to Holi. Daughter and friends have pledged to celebrate a water-less Holi.

What! Holi! Without water?

I was raised in Madras where Holi is not a recognised festival, but I have spent enough time in Bombay now to know all about rain dances, pool dunks and the full lyrics of ‘rang barse’.

Pearl of Wisdom 2 : ‘Of course, we can’t play with water. Do you know the kids in our neighbourhood slum pay Rs 12 for a bucket of water that an entire family of 5 has to share?’ she says.

Ok, I resign. Have to be politically (and socially) correct. What next?

The children want only home-made, non-toxic vegetable colours. There goes my holi – I could see myself spending the next two days preparing vials of colour out of spinach, beetroot, turmeric and anything else I am able to lay my hands on in the kitchen.

It’s the same story with Diwali that just went by. A small fortune has been spent on crackers by uncle and aunt who are thrilled to have us over for the day.

8 year old is aghast.

Pearl of Wisdom 3 : ‘Do you know they employ children in those cracker factories? And what about the pollution?’

Now I am aghast. When we were 8, our only worry was whose door front will have a greater pile of rubble the morning after diwali (our social standing depended on it). I probably couldn’t even spell pollution back then.

Now, I'm a mixed bag of emotions. Is it wrong to want my children to enjoy their childhood the way we did – footloose and fancy free? Later that night, as I'm deep in thought about how to balance this with their social consciousness, I hear a loud wail coming from the kids’ room.

I hope they weren’t fighting over who will save mother earth from the evil  grip of mankind.

Thankfully, one has kicked the other over a Barbie doll. The victim has packed her life’s belongings, namely 3 stuffed toys, 1 musical pencil case and a bar of kitkat to shift to my room permanently. Right then she didn’t look like she cared if the environment collapsed or the entire water from the ocean evaporated.

I was overjoyed. Yippie! My kids had a kiddy fight! ‘Aalll izz well after all’. I make a high five in the air with god almighty!

Pearl of Wisdom 4 : Kids love the environment; but they love their barbie dolls more. Thank god for that!

Dinnertime

Met a few friends from ex-workplace for lunch today. They envy my life as a home-maker, while they had to battle bosses, race against deadlines, commute to the other end of town for that 6pm meeting that doesn’t start till 7pm. (I secretly envy their exciting and relatively easy lives but don’t say anything)

Cut to dinnertime scene in our household:

N is trying to float tiny pieces of roti in her bowl of soup and timing it to see how long before it goes out of sight.

S has a math test tomorrow and expects to be excused for making number patterns with her index finger and half eaten gravy on her plate.

I’m tired of explaining the beneficial effects of green vegetables to my kids. Today will be different. I follow the carrot and stick approach. If they didn’t eat their carrots, the stick will be put to use.

Meaningful dinner time conversation:

S : 'Why can’t we have maggi for dinner'

N : 'Can I watch TV if I finish what’s on my plate?

Me : 'TV slows your ability to think independently and ruins your eyesight'

Husband enters just as kids settle and are ready to fall in line. His timing never fails to surprise me. I really wish he would be in time to join us for dinner or wait in the carpark till we are done.

‘Hey lovelies’ (that greeting is strictly for the under-30s in the room) he beams after what seems like a great day at work before vanishing inside.

Dinner that was briefly interrupted by husband’s entry continues now.

Meaningful dinnertime conversation resumes:


Me : ‘Eat your dal’

S : ‘I don’t like exams’

N : 'See mommy, red and white make pink' (tomato soup + curd = something unpalatable in pink)

Husband returns briefly to grab a plate, piles it with carbs and is off to settle in front of the TV.

N : 'Mom! See! dad is watching TV. He is going to lose his ability to think independently and ruin his eyesight!'

The conversation that was so far restricted to dinner table now includes lone participant from the TV room as well.

S : ‘Dad what is 7/8 + 6/7?' (let me guess: is it the amount of time the average Mumbaikar spends on the road in a single day or perhaps it the time spent by our family over a single meal)

Me : ‘You know, the maid didn’t show up today, N grazed her knee while playing, the car got a minor dent outside the supermar.......'

Dad : ‘Hey K, did u watch Sachin’s brilliant double century in today’s one dayer against South Africa ? I missed the last portion as I had to get into a meeting.’ (I always had the suspicion he had a good life at his workplace)

Ok, I've decided. It's about time I got back to easy things like bosses, co-workers, deadlines and late evening client meetings...

Blogjam

I think my blog has gotten off to an above average opening, going by the response that has been trickling in, mainly via email, and some via facebook. Friends in Bombay have been kind enough to call and tell me my stories brought a smile to their face. Thank you all, for all the encouragement.

Even my mom called to say that she wasn’t totally unimpressed (coming from her that’s a huge compliment). Though, being a patriotic retired central government servant, she did take offence to my POST OFFICE story and has warned me to steer clear of Government run agencies in future, else run the risk of losing her patronage.At this stage even trespassers are welcome to my blog, so can't lose a valuable reader in mom. So the perennial road digging BMC, killer Government buses, the RTO and the Railways will be spared.

I have been receiving negative reactions too, pertaining mainly to the length. Good friend MV actually mailed me asking for a summary of my 'Masala Movie' story, stating he couldn't get past the 1st para. It is classic MV in action. He has that uncanny ability to slap you back to reality just when you are getting off the ground. If there is an opposite of ‘wind beneath the wings’ it’s him.
In hindsight (my brain functions only in hindsight; it is my heart that functions in the here and now) MV is probably right. My posts are rather long, longer than the average blog post. So now, in order to keep brutally candid readers like him in, I will consider shorter pieces in future.

I also got feedback of another kind. Dear friend A, after reading my blog, told me watch ‘Julie and Julia’, a movie that she said was right up my street. I saw it, that very night. It was about a young aspiring writer trapped in a job she didn’t enjoy (this could well be me, if you take out ‘young’) who takes recourse in writing a blog about her experiments in the kitchen (this can’t be me). The blog is a non-starter initially, but becomes a huge hit and gets featured in the NY Times, and eventually the young aspiring writer gets her own book published.

What a great movie to kick start my writing career! Husband says I should hold my horses – you want to run before you can crawl. Or as my gym trainer might say: you want to get into a LBD (little black dress for the uninitiated) before running a mile on the treadmill.

In the midst of all the fan mails and fan(g) mails, I have learnt one thing in common between me and my readers.Like me, most of you are yet to figure how to post comments below a story. Some of you told me you struggled, as I myself did. Some of you have asked me how to subscribe, follow and get updates, none of which I have answers to yet. I need to get in some pictures too, that’s another technical aspect I’m struggling with.

There’s a lot to be taken care of, till then real stories have to wait!

Slow Post

I had been given a task by an NRI cousin to send her some ‘quintessentially Mumbai’ (I quote) junk jewellery. Now, these are items she wouldn’t have touched with a barge pole while she was still living in India, calling them too loud for her urban taste. Somehow, they seem to be the rage in the US and I was fulfilling an order for the entire state of Oklahoma and its neighbours.

I spend a whole day shopping and trudge to the nearest courier service to have then despatched.

‘Sorry ma’m we don’t do jewellery’ says the clerk not looking the least bit sorry.

‘It’s artificial, practically worthless’ I plead

‘Sorry ma’m, company policy’ says the clerk with a smile that was more annoying than a slap.

Off I go to the next one on the block, which was dubiously called ‘Pigeon Services’ or some such thing. Meet with the same response here too.

I wish someone would sympathise with me at least for the hours of hard work sunk into the noble cause of bridging the sartorial gap between two countries.

My quest finally takes me to the post office. I had managed nearly 10 years in this city without visiting a PO, and my record was just about to be broken.

I reach the PO to find it half shut. Sign painted on the wall says lunch break : 12 to 2:30

In a country that is in the throes of the 24X7 call centre fever, only a govt run PO can have a 2 ½ hour lunch break. I return at the stated hour of 2 30. Shutters are up, but the ‘speed post’ counter is still empty. There are 3 other counters that are staffed but without customers in front, so I request them to help me out. One handles money order while the other two don’t seem interested in replying, but speed post is definitely not on their list of tasks. So, I am stuck in front of the unmanned counter, wondering about the irony in the name ‘speed post’.

I wait. As I wait I look around. A harried customer, struggling with a blue jar of glue and what appears like a piece of broomstick dipped in the jar is trying to seal a document. Another is frantically trying to find a pen, to make a last minute change in the address. Not a single soul in the PO has a pen to help him. Another is searching for that one friendly staff who will help him find the pin code for a remote location in Madhya Pradesh.

By now a serpentine queue has formed behind me and has almost reached the door. To make matters worse, the person right behind me is breathing a combination of garlic and tobacco down my neck.

Finally at 2 50 the speed post clerk surfaces with a relaxed gait and not looking very pleased with this forced diversion from the pleasures of the past 2 ½ hours. It must be a good life to be a counter clerk at the Mumbai PO.

She seemed neither apologetic nor interested in me or my parcel. Which worked fine for me, because I dint have to worry about assuring her of the worth(lessness) of my purchase and why it should be transported immediately. She takes her time settling down in her seat, and the computer takes even longer to crank up, pure vintage, I gather from the looks of it( both computer and clerk).

She could really help herself by taking some typing lessons. After 20 minutes of hide-and-seek with the key-board, my address has been typed in, with at least 3 mistakes I could immediately spot. Now we come the crucial part –the receivers address. Here she can’t afford mistakes. After I spend another 20 minutes trying to spell, write and show the name and address, she’s done and I dare to check what she’s keyed in. She’s managed to make ‘Ann Nabar’ out of Anna nagar. If the postman at the other end delivers the parcel, it’s a miracle. I know the parcel is now destiny’s child.

My ordeal is not over yet. The parcel is weighed and I’m told to shell out 157 rupees and 90 paisa. They really don’t help themselves, these PO people. I would have gladly shelled out a well rounded 160 or even 200 rupees to finish the transaction and be a free being once again. Three copies of invoice are made with carbon paper in between. One goes into a tray, one the lady writes something on and the third is handed over to me.
Job done, I rush to the exit. As I do, I get a fleeting glimpse of the mission and vision statements of the Indian Postal Service, hanging on the wall, next of a picture of Mahatma Gandhi, the man who taught us 'Customer is King'.

MISSION :To provide high quality mail, parcel and related services in India and throughout the world ; to be recognized as an efficient and excellent organisation exceeding the expectations of the customers, employees and the society;

VISION: A socially committed organization connecting individuals and
businesses.

Well, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing they mean well, even though there are far from getting there.

Masala Movie

Ever since the new swanky mall opened up in the neighbourhood, with its 7 screen multiplex and a 180 degree reclining cine-diner, not only have I been watching more movies, but also shopping a lot more than I should. The tickets cost a whopper and the pop-corn a double whopper. This mall alone is enough to drive me and my neighbourhood into bankruptcy.

The theatre people are smart about the pop corn though. They make you feel you are getting value for money, because a ‘small’ popcorn is usually large enough to feed a small country in Africa. So, do we buy one small and share it between the four of us? No, never, because S wants cheese, N wants caramel, I want salted and husband thinks he can dig into all and have a pack of samosas by himself too.

It’s a well earned mid-week holiday. With all of us home after a long while and little else to do, off we drive to our favourite mall to catch the latest movie. Its N’s first hindi movie and we are brave enough to pick the marathon 3 ½ long tear jerker that promises all the masala that the popcorn lacks. It is packed with romance, disability, well-dressed wise-cracking kids, foreign locale, tragedy, valour and patriotism. The director sure needed 3 ½ hours to cover these wide range of emotions.

Before the national anthem is over, the kids have managed to create a carpet of pop-corn on the floor and are busy negotiating for whatever little is left in the other one’s hand. I in the meantime, have dived to the floor to rapidly clear away the pop corn carpet along with any other garbage I can lay my hands on. Behavioural experts call this classical conditioning, a situation which produces a certain kind of instant response (cleaning) to a certain kind of incident (mess) and it usually comes with years of practice and training, and I sure did have a lot of that. Husband in the meantime is enjoying samosa like he has nothing to do with the rest of his family.

Ten minutes into the movie, N wants to use to toilet, and off we trudge to the washroom, even before we have settled in our seats. Job is finished, but N is in no hurry to leave. She takes her time to test the sensor controlled faucets and automatic hand dryers for the 200th time, before she’s fully satisfied that they can be left alone.

Back to the movie, I've already missed 50 rupees worth of drama. Now I want to enjoy the rest of the movie in peace. There is a kid behind me (I always end up in the seat that comes with a noisy kid attached to the back.) This time noisy kid has also decided to dig his heel into my seat at 2 minute intervals . With each shove, I'm pushed further to the edge of my seat. Husband thinks I'm enjoying the movie so much that I'm already at the edge of my seat. What I am actually is at the edge of my wits. Deep breathing techniques learnt in the yoga course are brought into force. Anger subsides. Attention shifts to movie once again.

It’s a crucial scene. I'm in the middle of some serious waterworks when N wants to sit on my lap. I have paid for her seat, does she not understand that? I take a deep breath first before taking stubborn child on lap. She demands to know why I'm crying. ‘Did your mama scold you?’ she shrieks with horror as she wipes my tears, and suddenly I can feel 60 pairs of eyes turning back to gawk at me. In the middle of all this, elder daughter S wants to understand why the hero chose to run 40 kilometres in the lashing rain with heart rending sufi music playing in the background, rather than use his phone to ask for help. It will be a while before the logic of hindi films grows on my daughter.

The movie is finally over, my eyes are puffy from all the sobbing. By now N is sobbing too as my deep breathing technique fails me and I have spanked her. S is on the verge of tears as she has just been told she can’t have donuts for lunch for the third day in a row.

The makers of the film wanted the viewers to connect with their emotional side, and our family sure did, though each for a different reason.

House Proud

Congratulations are in order – we are proud owners of an apartment in one of the upscale suburbs of Mumbai. Translate as ‘proud, penniless and deeply in debt’. The good news is that we no longer have to pay rent; the bad news is that our EMI is four times the rent. We pray that interest rates will plummet, real estate rates will skyrocket, and salary hikes/promotions/bumper bonuses will all happen together and help us through this. The house is there, but we can’t move in yet. We need to ‘do it up’, which broadly includes custom furniture, fully fitted kitchen, electrical fittings and soft furnishings; with a little stretch it could include designer bath fittings, parquet flooring, textured wall finishes and false ceilings among other things. We can’t be seen cutting corners on this one – the world shouldn’t know we’ve sunk in our entire life’s savings and the next 20 years’ expected earnings into this project already. The house needs to become a home and it was going to cost.

‘Let’s hire an interior designer’ I say.

‘Why, can’t we do it ourselves?’ asks spouse who hasn’t as much as bought a shirt for himself or a bulb for the kitchen, leave alone design anything.

The sign of a healthy marriage is healthy debate on issues.(By that token, ours was quite a robust, healthy marriage). We debate and I win. We settle on ‘sensational young designer S, who has been making a mark with his unique design sensibilities and bold use of material’ as the design magazine proclaims. First hurdle crossed, or as I soon find out, new hurdle added. Two way debates have now become 3 way debates. We realise young designer S is too unique and way too bold for our comfort. I think he is gay. The husband thinks he is retarded. We can’t even concur in our opinions of people. It’s a difficult journey. But there’s no turning back now.

We think it is better to start with designing the child’s room as it is neutral territory, hence fewer chances for disagreements. We forget child has an opinion too. She wants the room to look like Barbie’s castle - pink and gold with 4 poster bed, net and lace trimmings (fairies embroidered on the trimmings if possible – she is a details person), matching dresser complete with pink hairdryer, pink hairbrush, pink flower vase, (thank god the pink cat from the Barbie set is momentarily forgotten), chest of drawers and carved chair. There is no mention of study table or book shelf. I make a mental to destroy everything Barbie from the new house. We meet midway on the colour scheme - white and sliver - and I get to squeeze in a small corner for her educational needs.

On to the master bedroom – husband wants a contemporary look, I want a traditional Indian look, and hotshot designer recommends the oriental look that is currently in vogue. Robust healthy debate ensues once again and we finally settle for an English country look that no one particularly likes. Now that theme is taken care of, husband’s single minded focus is on where to install the 52inch plasma. My focus, which so far was on whether I should freeze the colour of the wall or curtains or veneer first, has now shifted to how to prevent said 52inch plasma from entering the bedroom. Designer’s focus is on how to create a small study nook in the bedroom by pushing a window and scraping off portions of adjoining walls. Did I mention his fee is a fixed % of the total project cost? So putting the need for a study in our heads and then suggesting complicated, expensive and seemingly impossible ways of achieving it is part of his job description. In the midst of all this debate and excitement, no one remembers about providing for a telephone socket in the bedroom.(Now, whenever the phone rings, we curse the caller and run to the living room or curse the caller and just wait till the phone stops ringing.)

Shift to living room – designer offers to take us on a guided a tour of the art galleries in SOBO to pick up some works of art that will match the colour of our cushions. We dutifully comply – somehow no artist has used the right shade of rust and purple in his palette, so we give up on that for now. I think a tree-of-life painted on the living room wall would bring in much needed prosperity into our lives. Husband vetoes; he would rather put that money on a giant 180 degree recliner to go with the 52inch plasma that has found its ways into the living room. He chooses a shade of brown that is somewhere between sewage water and rotting leaves. That the recliner is an eyesore and will take up more than 6/7th of the room space does not deter him. So what do we do? Yes we indulge in healthy debate once again.

Ok, I confess, this time the debate is not so healthy, as our decibel levels have touched the top notches, blood vessels are on the verge of popping and we are not very far from pulling out each others’ eyeballs from their sockets. Eventually size (read husband + recliner + 52inch plasma) wins.

The house is finally done. I realise we have just passed the acid test of marital endurance. Though a little battered and bruised (only figuratively) we are still together in the house that put us through it. I can now even visualise the husband and me retiring and growing old together in this house, perhaps with two recliners side by side and a tree of life on the wall too!

Gym

It was all around me – gorgeous young women with impossible figures in little black dresses, screaming for attention from the back cover of magazines and newspapers, tempting me to join the slimming centre that has made them so confident and beautiful. Next to the sexy woman’s picture is usually a picture of a middle aged ugly woman in salwar kameez who appears to have lost the will to live. Read the copy and you realise the two women are the same, the one in salwar kameez taken 6 months earlier. What in heaven’s name happens inside those slimming clinics? After sucking out the fat, do they also replace body parts by putting you through a machine? I was too afraid to find out. I once went as far as taking an appointment at one of these clinics, but that was about as far as I got.
If miracle clinics were not your thing, you could choose from slimming pills, aerobic sessions, Pilates classes, Kick-boxing, tai-chi, Power yoga, Iyengar yoga, Bikram yoga, your retired neighbour’s home-made yoga, or the friendly gym across the street, which promises 20 kilos or 20% off in an improbable six months. Seemed like a win-win situation. If you didn’t lose weight you at least had the satisfaction of getting some money back. Basically there was no escaping the slimming mania that has gripped the nation. If you can’t beat them, you just join them.
I had always considered myself genetically blessed with a good body and efficient metabolism. But two kids and arriving on the wrong side of the 30s proved me wrong. This is how I came to join forces with the battle against the bulge. I enrolled at this swanky new gym that in addition to making me fit, promised discounts on foot reflexologies and ayurvedic massages. I heard the juice bar offered some neat mocktails and sandwiches too. It was worth a try, if not for the fitness, at least for these other indulgences. I have spent a small fortune for my new gym-wear, training shoes, arm band, head band, matching gym bag, and water bottle. I had better make this gym thing work for me, and not let it go my singing and salsa classes way, if I am to recover the investment already made.
It is my first day. The place is abuzz with beefy male trainers and uni-dimensional female trainers getting sadistic pleasure out of making flabby men and women do sit ups, chin-ups, squats, lunges and other seemingly impossible body contortions. Some of these people looked like they were not used to getting from the bedroom to the bathroom without support. There were some others who looked straight out Vogue magazine and were doing some mean reps on the ellipticals and rowing machines – I wondered if the gym had made them like this or, as my devious mind chose to believe, they were on the gym’s payroll to boost its credibility and image.
I found myself a beefy male trainer, though less menacing looking than the rest. (The uni-dimensional girls wouldn’t do much for my self esteem) The boy’s looks turn out to be deceptive. He asks me questions no gentleman would ask a self-respecting lady, starting with my age, my inner thighs and upper abdominal girth and what I ate for breakfast. My answer to the last makes him reel and his first instruction to me after gaining composure is to reduce the quantity and improve the quality of my intake (the cheek of this boy! Wait till I unleash my mother on him; she still feels her daughter is undernourished and underweight)
I am put on a routine that involves running (on a treadmill) and strength training (read lifting weights thrice what my body is designed to carry) on alternate days. Every morning I had to report the contents of my previous 24 hours’ meal, which was met either with an approving nod or a sorry shake of the day (the latter happened more often) At times I lied to take my average up.
I don’t know if my mind plays tricks on me, but neither time nor distance seems to move when I’m on the treadmill, reminding me of something I read in physics about the theory of relativity – whoever came up with that theory must have been on a treadmill when the idea first dawned on him – like Archimedes emerging from the bathtub to give the world the theory of buoyancy. After what usually seems like 3.5 hours and 32 kilometers on this machine, I look at the display panel to realise I haven’t got past 1.6kms and 25 minutes. Every month my vital statistics are measured. Month after agonising month, there is no change - not an inch this way or that. I showed such consistency that would have made my father proud had it been my school report card. I start to blame the beefy trainer. ‘How did Kareena Kapoor become size zero in 3 months?’ ‘How did Malaika Arora Khan get back in shape after child birth?’ ‘Find out what regimen they are on and put me on it right away’ I bark in my no-nonsense, office tone that produced good results on erring flunkies in the days I used to go to an office. It cuts no ice with Mr. Beefcake here. My metabolism, genes, food habits, dedication and self-respect (whatever little was still left) are all questioned.
I have decided to call it quits - with less money, even lesser self-respect and a lot of flab intact. Something else has caught my fancy now – it is a gym/slimming centres with a difference. The same promise of 20kilos off, but without exercise, without diet, without needles. These involve complicated machines with belts and other such contraptions that do the converse of what one does at the gym. You lie down still while the machine does all the moving. Industrial strength belts pulsating with extra vigour are strapped to adipose-concentrated regions such as abs and thighs. Maybe this is the solution I have been looking for. Maybe you will see a new improved me within a few months’ time, dignity and self-respect all intact! Till then, stay hungry and stay foolish, if that’s what you wish!

Starting trouble

It’s been on my mind for a while now – to start a blog of my own, that is. Ever since my brief sabbatical from a ‘nine-to-indeterminate’ job to enjoy my second born has turned into a semi-retirement of sorts, I’ve been particularly eager to stay in touch with my small world and the limited skill-sets I possess (I believe writing is of them). ‘You write so well, the least you could do is to start a blog of your own’ said my close friend S, who has never come remotely close to anything I have ever written. She is just this bright beacon of hope I turn to every time I feel like hearing something nice about myself.
I’m sure everyone has at least one friend like S who thinks the world of us and our non-existent talents and is always there to boost our morale and self-esteem when they hit new lows each time. Which is why we call them close friends - we keep them close to us to get the much needed comfort and security that keeps us going. Just like my neighbour’s 3 year old son who clings on to his red pick-up truck throughout the day, or the teen age girl across the street who has her cell-phone plastered to her facial tissues , or closer home, my husband who fondles his blackberry ad infinitum (if that gadget could speak, it would file a case for physical abuse and torture; and to make matters worse, this particular variety of blackberry is not seasonal, it is available 24X7, 365 days a year). Well to each his own, but comfort and security seekers, we all are.
So with a little encouragement from dear friend S, the decision to blog is made. But what do I write about. I am tempted to use this platform for revenge – against bossy bosses, crabby co-workers, cuckoo clients, fake friends, nutty neighbours, flaky family members.... Oops, I didn’t realise I had issues with half my ‘small world’. No, I cannot let this blog turn into a crib session...it is meant for a higher purpose.
I could write about my kids, I know I would never be short of ideas with that subject. After all, each brings home enough material to fill up a 200 page paperback, each day. But no again, because that would defeat the purpose of my wanting to blog in the first place, which is to take get my mind off anything remotely kids. So I don’t think writing about my kids, however interesting they may be, would do much good for my mental health or mommydom-life balance.
Well then, what should it be? I am no political commentator,social lobbyist,art expert or home improvement specialist. I am at best a keen observer of the circus of life that goes on around me, some of which I am an inadvertent part of. So perhaps, this is what I will write about – my observations of the world around me –even a title is forming in my head – I could call it ‘jest another day’. After a 491- word long clash between keyboard and finger, I can see my blog coming to life.
Hopefully, some of you will read it and find it funny, maybe some of you will nod your heads in agreement with what I have to say and perhaps some of you will be inspired into thinking, ‘if she can write, so can I’, and start your own blog (but please make sure it doesn’t compete with mine!). And please feel free to post your comments, any comments, as long as they are good. (Sorry about the rider; I'm the CEO of my blog and I get to make the rules after all!)
Well, I think I am going to enjoy this. I realise I have already filled up an entire A4 sheet worth of words, while still thinking about what to write. And don’t forget to write in some morale boosting pick-me-up comments, for I would like to know if they have the same heady effect on me as dear friend S or the blackberry has on husband.