Sunday, December 12, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
A thing of beauty
A picture speaks a thousand words...so for a change, am letting these images speak for themselves. Simple every day knick knacks from around the house...little things of beauty...joy forever!
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| A Srilankan Mask |
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| Jewelry boxes from a flea market |
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| Antique swing |
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| Brass lamp |
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| Yet another brass lamp |
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| Painted wine bottle |
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| A table full of memories |
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wellness at a cost
I walked into my hairdressers’ for a long overdue haircut. Sorry, the word is no longer hairdresser. The humble hairdresser morphed into a unisex salon which morphed into a spa which currently stands in its mutated avtaar as a wellness centre that promised everything for the tired city slicker’s senses.
Soft piped instrumental music, liveried attendants, and the mandatory frangipani flowers that one associates with such places lure me in.
My immediate need for a haircut is brushed aside. I need much more, I’m told ominously. The sales pitch of wholesome rejuvenation combined with the fragrance of essential oils and scented candles begin take effect on me. I surrender to the place.
I have to answer many objectionable questions before they can decide what to do with me.
All I need is a hair cut, I begin to protest … Does it really matter how many ounces of alcohol or water I have consumed in the last one month. Or for that matter whether I suffer from anxiety or depression or carpel tunnel syndrome? My meek protests about intrusion of privacy fall on deaf ears and the next thing I know, I am filling out a form in triplicate with the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
‘Ma’am your hair is too dry…too brittle. What you need is a hair spa treatment that uses marine algae for infusing life into dead hair.
'..Er isn’t all hair dead ?', the partially awake rational part of my brain wants to question.
And algae! Since when did this lowly unicellular life form attain such an exalted position in the wellness world? These questions never leave my lips, as by now the irrational part of my brain has signed me up for the signature algae hair treatment.
After hair comes face. I’m made to peer into a seemingly innocuous looking monitor and what stares back at me is a grotesque surface with giant white, black and blue spots and craters not unlike what one sees in telescopic pictures of the moon. The haircut I came for is suddenly rendered unimportant. Its more critical to address the craters on my face.
They start with a de-tanning treatment. I should have told them I was dark skinned, not tanned. But then I had already surrendered my senses (and wallet) unto them completely. They cleanse, tone, exfoliate and subject my facial tissues to various other processes. I dont recall how long I had been in that state of suspended reality... till suddenly, I am jolted out of my seat, wincing with pain.
'What are you doing to me ?'
'Ma'am we are removing a stubborn blackhead… '
'That is not a blackhead you moron. it’s a birthmark I was born with'.
And as you may have guessed, that ended my session at the wellness centre. The place was good neither for the wellness of my senses nor my self esteem. The only wellness I saw was that of their ringing cash registers.
I had decided to make peace with my facial craters, dead hair follicles, dusky skin tone and all my other imperfections! It was all in the larger interest of my longterm wellness!
Soft piped instrumental music, liveried attendants, and the mandatory frangipani flowers that one associates with such places lure me in.
My immediate need for a haircut is brushed aside. I need much more, I’m told ominously. The sales pitch of wholesome rejuvenation combined with the fragrance of essential oils and scented candles begin take effect on me. I surrender to the place.
I have to answer many objectionable questions before they can decide what to do with me.
All I need is a hair cut, I begin to protest … Does it really matter how many ounces of alcohol or water I have consumed in the last one month. Or for that matter whether I suffer from anxiety or depression or carpel tunnel syndrome? My meek protests about intrusion of privacy fall on deaf ears and the next thing I know, I am filling out a form in triplicate with the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
‘Ma’am your hair is too dry…too brittle. What you need is a hair spa treatment that uses marine algae for infusing life into dead hair.
'..Er isn’t all hair dead ?', the partially awake rational part of my brain wants to question.
And algae! Since when did this lowly unicellular life form attain such an exalted position in the wellness world? These questions never leave my lips, as by now the irrational part of my brain has signed me up for the signature algae hair treatment.
After hair comes face. I’m made to peer into a seemingly innocuous looking monitor and what stares back at me is a grotesque surface with giant white, black and blue spots and craters not unlike what one sees in telescopic pictures of the moon. The haircut I came for is suddenly rendered unimportant. Its more critical to address the craters on my face.
They start with a de-tanning treatment. I should have told them I was dark skinned, not tanned. But then I had already surrendered my senses (and wallet) unto them completely. They cleanse, tone, exfoliate and subject my facial tissues to various other processes. I dont recall how long I had been in that state of suspended reality... till suddenly, I am jolted out of my seat, wincing with pain.
'What are you doing to me ?'
'Ma'am we are removing a stubborn blackhead… '
'That is not a blackhead you moron. it’s a birthmark I was born with'.
And as you may have guessed, that ended my session at the wellness centre. The place was good neither for the wellness of my senses nor my self esteem. The only wellness I saw was that of their ringing cash registers.
I had decided to make peace with my facial craters, dead hair follicles, dusky skin tone and all my other imperfections! It was all in the larger interest of my longterm wellness!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
I love my India
This list was brewing in my head since Independence Day, nearly a month ago... here it is, though overdue and ill timed!
I love being an Indian in India because...
1. We don’t need an excuse to celebrate – we can choose from 258 festivals each year, one for each god we worship and love.
2. When we run out of gods, we have festivals to celebrate harvest, spring, monsoon, colour, lights, etc.
3. If that doesn’t satisfy us, we can choose to celebrate the birthdays of freedom fighters and regional icons
4. We can choose from 300 different items for breakfast, not one of which includes bread or body parts of animals
5. We can have pizza with chettinad chicken or kadai paneer topping and save ourselves the guilt of having sold our souls to the west.
6. We have a unique name for every relationship in our extended family as opposed to the ubiquitous uncle / aunty. Only complete strangers are addressed uncle/aunty here.
7. We can live -in with our parents even after the age of 35, and not be branded dysfunctional
8. We can pass the onus of finding a spouse onto parents and extended family, and not spend every weekend prowling the marketplace for a suitable date and hoping it turns into something of consequence
9. We can always blame the parents if the marriage doesn’t work (most often it works or we make it work!)
10. We don't need to take our children to zoos or farms to see cows, goats, horses and monkeys (Sometimes even leopards can be spotted in our backyards).
11. The vegetable vendor comes home, so do the fruit seller, milkman, tailor and the friendly neighbourhood chemist if we make a call.
12. We don’t need to be Oprahs to ride in the back seat of our own car or to afford an impressive array of domestic staff that includes a cleaner, dishwasher, chef and butler (all rolled in one at that)
13. We have Hinglish, we have Gobi Manchurian, we have Paan, we have Vegetarian Hamburgers and Chicken steaks
14. We can call Sachin Tendulkar, Amitabh Bachchan and A R Rehman our very own
15. We make 5 times as many movies as Hollywood in 15 different languages and unapologetically surrender our brains to them for a good 3 hours every Friday evening.
And finally
16. We have something in common with every fifth person in this world – he/she is also Indian.
I love being an Indian in India because...
1. We don’t need an excuse to celebrate – we can choose from 258 festivals each year, one for each god we worship and love.
2. When we run out of gods, we have festivals to celebrate harvest, spring, monsoon, colour, lights, etc.
3. If that doesn’t satisfy us, we can choose to celebrate the birthdays of freedom fighters and regional icons
4. We can choose from 300 different items for breakfast, not one of which includes bread or body parts of animals
5. We can have pizza with chettinad chicken or kadai paneer topping and save ourselves the guilt of having sold our souls to the west.
6. We have a unique name for every relationship in our extended family as opposed to the ubiquitous uncle / aunty. Only complete strangers are addressed uncle/aunty here.
7. We can live -in with our parents even after the age of 35, and not be branded dysfunctional
8. We can pass the onus of finding a spouse onto parents and extended family, and not spend every weekend prowling the marketplace for a suitable date and hoping it turns into something of consequence
9. We can always blame the parents if the marriage doesn’t work (most often it works or we make it work!)
10. We don't need to take our children to zoos or farms to see cows, goats, horses and monkeys (Sometimes even leopards can be spotted in our backyards).
11. The vegetable vendor comes home, so do the fruit seller, milkman, tailor and the friendly neighbourhood chemist if we make a call.
12. We don’t need to be Oprahs to ride in the back seat of our own car or to afford an impressive array of domestic staff that includes a cleaner, dishwasher, chef and butler (all rolled in one at that)
13. We have Hinglish, we have Gobi Manchurian, we have Paan, we have Vegetarian Hamburgers and Chicken steaks
14. We can call Sachin Tendulkar, Amitabh Bachchan and A R Rehman our very own
15. We make 5 times as many movies as Hollywood in 15 different languages and unapologetically surrender our brains to them for a good 3 hours every Friday evening.
And finally
16. We have something in common with every fifth person in this world – he/she is also Indian.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Weekends
The weekend is finally here. Its that part of the week we eagerly await right from the beginning of the week! It seems almost as if we spend 5/7th of our lives in anticipation of the remaining 2/7th.
I plan my weekend as I plough through the week, enduring rough commutes, breakfasts on the run, unfinished domestic chores, sick children and ambitious deadlines. My weekend must-do list that starts off as a lazy Saturday evening movie with friends and a relaxed Sunday afternoon at the spa has slowly expanded and before I realize, the post-it I started scrawling on is now an A4 sheet staring at me menacingly from above my desk.
Saturday morning starts early. Unlike adults whose idea of a good weekend begins with staying up in bed late, kids don’t see the point in wasting their precious weekend on insignificant pursuits such as sleep, (which they are happy to do on school days). So I’m jolted out of my wits and sleep by a couple of livewire tiggers pouncing on me and reminding me of what a glorious day it will be when day eventually breaks.
With the tone for the day set, my pursuit of happiness for the weekend starts by pursuing an elusive plumber across the remote bylanes and gullies of the unfashionable part of the neighborhood before the leaky faucet is fixed. Beaming from the success of this mission, I move on to change fused lightbulbs and burnt mixer cables. Bills are paid, at least one of them overdue and one of them wrongly charged, which leads me to the now ritualistic weekend call to the nameless faceless call centre executive whose calm through the one way shouting match angers me even more.
Before I know, it is evening. There is dinner party to attend, which means there is hair to be fixed, skin to be polished, and long overdue new shoes to be bought. Parties are no longer simple fun get- togethers for friends. They are well managed and at times outsourced events, and need to showcase the host’s creativity and guest list. Today’s theme is Hawaiian, yes, right in the middle of our concrete jungle. I have no problem with that except now I need to procure new clothes that not only match the theme but also my well proportioned Indian frame. Add to that a creative gift for the creative hosts. Too many things to do, too little time, I’m already palpitating.
We finally make it to dinner, at 10 pm, after having dinner at home. My mom calls just as I get ready to leave for the party, wanting to know how the party went! There was no point in explaining to her that the party wouldn’t begin till a little later! She would never understand why I go to parties where the hosts don’t serve dinner before1 am, where the success of the party depends on how late the last guest leaves and the ones who eat at 1am will be branded losers who want to head back home early. We are no losers, so we eat at home and even manage a power nap to put up a brave front and party hard till 4 am.
Sunday morning… the tiggers are up before daybreak again, giving not so gentle reminders of the promised family outing. I see the relaxed Sunday of my dream fading as quickly as my sleep. A lot is achieved on this Sunday. An outing to fun-city, a not so fun experience for anyone over 15, an elaborate cake making project, an even more elaborate cleaning project and a 11th hour shopping trip to buy school supplies.
The weekend is over and I note that there are still two items waiting to be crossed off my to-do list. Maybe next week, when my list is just a harmless post-it note and not a menacing A4 sheet, I will be able to catch that movie and go to that spa!
I plan my weekend as I plough through the week, enduring rough commutes, breakfasts on the run, unfinished domestic chores, sick children and ambitious deadlines. My weekend must-do list that starts off as a lazy Saturday evening movie with friends and a relaxed Sunday afternoon at the spa has slowly expanded and before I realize, the post-it I started scrawling on is now an A4 sheet staring at me menacingly from above my desk.
Saturday morning starts early. Unlike adults whose idea of a good weekend begins with staying up in bed late, kids don’t see the point in wasting their precious weekend on insignificant pursuits such as sleep, (which they are happy to do on school days). So I’m jolted out of my wits and sleep by a couple of livewire tiggers pouncing on me and reminding me of what a glorious day it will be when day eventually breaks.
With the tone for the day set, my pursuit of happiness for the weekend starts by pursuing an elusive plumber across the remote bylanes and gullies of the unfashionable part of the neighborhood before the leaky faucet is fixed. Beaming from the success of this mission, I move on to change fused lightbulbs and burnt mixer cables. Bills are paid, at least one of them overdue and one of them wrongly charged, which leads me to the now ritualistic weekend call to the nameless faceless call centre executive whose calm through the one way shouting match angers me even more.
Before I know, it is evening. There is dinner party to attend, which means there is hair to be fixed, skin to be polished, and long overdue new shoes to be bought. Parties are no longer simple fun get- togethers for friends. They are well managed and at times outsourced events, and need to showcase the host’s creativity and guest list. Today’s theme is Hawaiian, yes, right in the middle of our concrete jungle. I have no problem with that except now I need to procure new clothes that not only match the theme but also my well proportioned Indian frame. Add to that a creative gift for the creative hosts. Too many things to do, too little time, I’m already palpitating.
We finally make it to dinner, at 10 pm, after having dinner at home. My mom calls just as I get ready to leave for the party, wanting to know how the party went! There was no point in explaining to her that the party wouldn’t begin till a little later! She would never understand why I go to parties where the hosts don’t serve dinner before1 am, where the success of the party depends on how late the last guest leaves and the ones who eat at 1am will be branded losers who want to head back home early. We are no losers, so we eat at home and even manage a power nap to put up a brave front and party hard till 4 am.
Sunday morning… the tiggers are up before daybreak again, giving not so gentle reminders of the promised family outing. I see the relaxed Sunday of my dream fading as quickly as my sleep. A lot is achieved on this Sunday. An outing to fun-city, a not so fun experience for anyone over 15, an elaborate cake making project, an even more elaborate cleaning project and a 11th hour shopping trip to buy school supplies.
The weekend is over and I note that there are still two items waiting to be crossed off my to-do list. Maybe next week, when my list is just a harmless post-it note and not a menacing A4 sheet, I will be able to catch that movie and go to that spa!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
City of Hope
Enough has been said and written about this glorious city that I have chosen to call home. If you haven’t lived in Bombay, you might even think these are exaggerated claims. You might just dismiss it off as media hype when you hear about the now famous spirit of Bombay and the so called Bombay culture. What can after all lie beneath that sheath of pollution, traffic snarls, teeming slums and prohibitive living expenses? I have seen many a young white collar executive throw away a prospective career after a less than brief affair with the local trains and cramped living spaces of Bombay, taking refuge in the comfort of safer havens like Bangalore and Hyderabad.
At the same time, I am amazed at the trainloads of people who descend on this city every day from hinterlands all over the country, their life possession clutched compactly in the crook of their arm, armed with little else but hopes in their hearts. Legend has it that if there is one thing a person can be sure of in this city, it is the comfort that he will never go to sleep hungry at the end of the day.
I see this hope on the face of every Mumbaikar as I travel to work every day, come rain or sunshine, night or day, joy or sorrow.
Today the rain gods were mercilessly wrecking havoc on the city, but for the Mumbaikar, it is business as usual...
I see a hopeful salesman on a motorbike, his crisp ‘salesmanly’ attire covered from head to toe in a transparent two piece rain suit, a gear custom made for the two wheeler bound Indian male. It makes him oblivious to the lashing rain and the rage of passing 4 wheelers.
I see a beefy lad as he hangs onto the footboard of a bus, his t-shirt tight enough to show off multiple packs, his colored hair gelled and styled after the latest Bollywood heartthrob, a serpent tattoo adding more menace to his already menacing looking bicep. I wonder what he does for a living…a bouncer at the upmarket night club in town, a celebrity’s personal trainer perhaps, or maybe a personal bodyguard to one of Mumbai’s glitterati…I don’t know… but I know see hope as he hangs in there, a hope for an easy day at work.
I see an aspiring model/starlet, as she hops out of a local train and into a taxi, guarding her painstakingly put together ensemble of clothes, shoes, make up and accessories from the slush and rubble around. If the yellow in her stilettos and skirt scream for attention, the city doesn’t seem to notice. Its a city where everyone is chasing his dream, with no time to stop and stare!
I see an old man, straight out of an insurance ad, running…folding his umbrella as he runs, hoping to catch the bus that is rumbling at the traffic signal. Will he or won’t he make it… I crane my neck….I forget to breathe for a precious few seconds…the driver sees him just as the signal changes… I do a high five with myself as the old man makes it inside safely.
I see countless others…all of whom make my own problems in this city seem insignificant.
I see those people whose fortunes depend on the sales pitch they make in the 30 seconds it takes for the signal to change from red to green, as they hawk anything from cheap Chinese toys one day to the Indian tri colour the next and mobile phone accessories the third.
I see the woman who travels 30 kms by train, getting ready to set up her plastic knick-knacks stall outside the station gates.
I see those roadside salons where shaving services are provided under makeshift plastic roofs. I think this is one city where, if there is anyone willing to offer a service, however bizarre, there is someone out there waiting to avail that service. The service provider and the receiver go about their business out in the open, with utmost ease and comfort.
Then there are those numerous shacks along the highway, made of tin, wood scraps and every other conceivable material, homes with one room, shared by 5 people and their ubiquitous dog and chicken. I see these people cook and clean, bathe and wash, fight and make up all out in the open, and wonder how they manage to do all of this with their dignity still so intact.
It is a city that gives me hope every time I step out…hope in hardwork, hope in honesty, hope in the dignity of labour and hope that my hour long journey each day will teach me something new about life and the people around me.
At the same time, I am amazed at the trainloads of people who descend on this city every day from hinterlands all over the country, their life possession clutched compactly in the crook of their arm, armed with little else but hopes in their hearts. Legend has it that if there is one thing a person can be sure of in this city, it is the comfort that he will never go to sleep hungry at the end of the day.
I see this hope on the face of every Mumbaikar as I travel to work every day, come rain or sunshine, night or day, joy or sorrow.
Today the rain gods were mercilessly wrecking havoc on the city, but for the Mumbaikar, it is business as usual...
I see a hopeful salesman on a motorbike, his crisp ‘salesmanly’ attire covered from head to toe in a transparent two piece rain suit, a gear custom made for the two wheeler bound Indian male. It makes him oblivious to the lashing rain and the rage of passing 4 wheelers.
I see a beefy lad as he hangs onto the footboard of a bus, his t-shirt tight enough to show off multiple packs, his colored hair gelled and styled after the latest Bollywood heartthrob, a serpent tattoo adding more menace to his already menacing looking bicep. I wonder what he does for a living…a bouncer at the upmarket night club in town, a celebrity’s personal trainer perhaps, or maybe a personal bodyguard to one of Mumbai’s glitterati…I don’t know… but I know see hope as he hangs in there, a hope for an easy day at work.
I see an aspiring model/starlet, as she hops out of a local train and into a taxi, guarding her painstakingly put together ensemble of clothes, shoes, make up and accessories from the slush and rubble around. If the yellow in her stilettos and skirt scream for attention, the city doesn’t seem to notice. Its a city where everyone is chasing his dream, with no time to stop and stare!
I see an old man, straight out of an insurance ad, running…folding his umbrella as he runs, hoping to catch the bus that is rumbling at the traffic signal. Will he or won’t he make it… I crane my neck….I forget to breathe for a precious few seconds…the driver sees him just as the signal changes… I do a high five with myself as the old man makes it inside safely.
I see countless others…all of whom make my own problems in this city seem insignificant.
I see those people whose fortunes depend on the sales pitch they make in the 30 seconds it takes for the signal to change from red to green, as they hawk anything from cheap Chinese toys one day to the Indian tri colour the next and mobile phone accessories the third.
I see the woman who travels 30 kms by train, getting ready to set up her plastic knick-knacks stall outside the station gates.
I see those roadside salons where shaving services are provided under makeshift plastic roofs. I think this is one city where, if there is anyone willing to offer a service, however bizarre, there is someone out there waiting to avail that service. The service provider and the receiver go about their business out in the open, with utmost ease and comfort.
Then there are those numerous shacks along the highway, made of tin, wood scraps and every other conceivable material, homes with one room, shared by 5 people and their ubiquitous dog and chicken. I see these people cook and clean, bathe and wash, fight and make up all out in the open, and wonder how they manage to do all of this with their dignity still so intact.
It is a city that gives me hope every time I step out…hope in hardwork, hope in honesty, hope in the dignity of labour and hope that my hour long journey each day will teach me something new about life and the people around me.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
An evening at the park
It was a beautiful Sunday evening. It was one of those days when even the least outdoorsy of people would find it difficult to say no to a walk in the park.
A group of young mothers are in animated conversation, seemingly oblivious to the kids that have accompanied them.
A new mom, pushing an oversized pram in one hand and carrying the pram’s 6 month old occupant in the other, is looking harried; the words ‘first-timer’ are written all over her face.
Nearby are a couple of dads, indulging in quality time with the offsprings they barely get to see during the week.
A bunch of tween girls, too old to play on the slides and swings and too young to join their college going seniors at Mocha for coffee-conversations-and-more are looking bored as they hang out on the fringes of the park.
Domestic helpers are squatting in random groups, some on the grass, some on the strategically placed rocks and boulders, originally conceived as landscaping elements, but now just convenient perches for the bored squatters; their expressions alternate between boredom and irritation, waiting for that 7 pm deadline when they could ferry their wards back home.
Everyone is out in the park…Everyone has thoughts on his / her mind….
The 24X7 mom envies the working mom who gets to dress up, get out of the house, and meet people her own age every day, escaping the madness of household chores and errant kids. If only she could trade places with her….
The working mom envies the full time mom her uncomplicated and fulfilling life at home in the company of her innocent little children and not having to deal with errant subordinates and demanding bosses every day. If only she could afford to give up her job….
The new mom wonders how her life has changed and if she has what it takes to give her child the best…
The baby wonders why he cant be left free on the grass to explore and learn….
The dad in the park is eyeing the yummy mummy and wondering what her fitness secret might be. He makes a mental note to make this outing a weekly ritual….
The tween is wondering when she will grow and be able to dress and hang out like her teenage role-models…
The teen-age role-model is hatching a plan to make her coffee-conversions-and-more outing last beyond the 9pm deadline…
The teen-ager’s mother, no longer regular at the park, is sitting in her empty drawing room worrying herself sick about the ‘more’ in coffee-conversations-and-more….
The young maid can’t wait to deposit the kid to his parents, so that she can hook up with her driver boyfriend before heading home for the night….
The driver boyfriend in the meantime is waiting to show off his employer’s gleaming new sedan to the maid and a daring plan is taking shape in his mind. Maybe he could take both for a spin before the boss and his kids get back from the park…
In every way,it was just another Sunday in a leafy suburb of the city…
A group of young mothers are in animated conversation, seemingly oblivious to the kids that have accompanied them.
A new mom, pushing an oversized pram in one hand and carrying the pram’s 6 month old occupant in the other, is looking harried; the words ‘first-timer’ are written all over her face.
Nearby are a couple of dads, indulging in quality time with the offsprings they barely get to see during the week.
A bunch of tween girls, too old to play on the slides and swings and too young to join their college going seniors at Mocha for coffee-conversations-and-more are looking bored as they hang out on the fringes of the park.
Domestic helpers are squatting in random groups, some on the grass, some on the strategically placed rocks and boulders, originally conceived as landscaping elements, but now just convenient perches for the bored squatters; their expressions alternate between boredom and irritation, waiting for that 7 pm deadline when they could ferry their wards back home.
Everyone is out in the park…Everyone has thoughts on his / her mind….
The 24X7 mom envies the working mom who gets to dress up, get out of the house, and meet people her own age every day, escaping the madness of household chores and errant kids. If only she could trade places with her….
The working mom envies the full time mom her uncomplicated and fulfilling life at home in the company of her innocent little children and not having to deal with errant subordinates and demanding bosses every day. If only she could afford to give up her job….
The new mom wonders how her life has changed and if she has what it takes to give her child the best…
The baby wonders why he cant be left free on the grass to explore and learn….
The dad in the park is eyeing the yummy mummy and wondering what her fitness secret might be. He makes a mental note to make this outing a weekly ritual….
The tween is wondering when she will grow and be able to dress and hang out like her teenage role-models…
The teen-age role-model is hatching a plan to make her coffee-conversions-and-more outing last beyond the 9pm deadline…
The teen-ager’s mother, no longer regular at the park, is sitting in her empty drawing room worrying herself sick about the ‘more’ in coffee-conversations-and-more….
The young maid can’t wait to deposit the kid to his parents, so that she can hook up with her driver boyfriend before heading home for the night….
The driver boyfriend in the meantime is waiting to show off his employer’s gleaming new sedan to the maid and a daring plan is taking shape in his mind. Maybe he could take both for a spin before the boss and his kids get back from the park…
In every way,it was just another Sunday in a leafy suburb of the city…
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