On Mother's Day

Always on the look out to make a bit of extra cash, I picked up a couple of shifts working over the weekend at the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre (SECC) here in G Town. It wasn’t until I showed up for my first shift yesterday morning that I realised the event in question was the annual Girls Day Out weekend, Scotland’s biggest health, lifestyle, fashion and beauty event. Two things immediately came to mind; 1. Holy Hell, there’s going to be a LOT of oestrogen packed into this place and 2. Just how much of a crap girl am I that I didn’t even have the slightest inkling that something as big as this event was happening!

At this stage, Dear Reader, you should know that there is nothing even remotely “girly” about me. I don’t pay attention to clothes… or fashion in general; my idea of make up is a tube of chap stick and I’ve owned a hair straightener for about 3 years but still cannot really get my hair properly unwavy each time I use it. Mainly because I’m too afraid of burning my ears. But that’s a story for a whole other blog post. For now, just pop in the mental picture of a straight talking, no make up wearing, plain dressing girl suddenly surrounded by the largest number of women she has EVER seen together in one place at one time.

It was rather interesting watching the long lines stream past me. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes. Fashionable ones and fake tanned ones. Carefully coiffed ones and carelessly dressed ones. Moms with daughters, Sisters with Mothers and Grandmothers, Gaggles of Girl Friends…. all out for a day of fun together.

I found myself focusing on the more carefully put together women. For some, looking good seemed effortless. How did they know to match that top with those jeans? And how do they get their hair to fall in such bountiful curls? Even my colleagues were very well put together young ladies who had eyed me with blatant disbelief as I tumbled into the staff room, hot and sweaty from the 30 minute walk from home with windswept hair and sensible (read non cute) shoes.

For the most part, I am comfortable in my skin and very happy with being me. Still, every now and then I do feel a twinge of regret re the whole “girly-ness” issue. My mum is just as bad as I am, worse even and I’ve often wondered if I would have benefited from her teaching me how to do my hair, or wear makeup or properly wield hair straighteners.

But that regret usually lasts just moments. I usually shake out my unruly mane, stick my hands into my non fashionable jeans and focus instead on all the things that she DID teach me.

Honesty. Loyalty. Friendship. Love.

Just a few examples of her life lessons. I guess she wasn’t so focused on teaching me to be a good girl. Instead, she tried to teach me how to be a good person. So much better than being able to tie a French braid, don’t you think?

To The Most Wonderful Man I Have Known. With Love.

A year ago I lost the man who had been the biggest and best constant in my life. Mere words aren't enough to describe how amazing a person he was. Still, we tried to him justice.

My grandfather's eulogy, written by cousin Scribbler and myself. 

Most of us who are here are here because we knew my grandfather --- whether as L, or uncle, or Irmao, or Padrin, or Mr M, or Daddy, or Papa. Some of us will, indeed, remember him most vividly for pinching our cheeks really, really hard. So since we all know him, it hardly seems necessary to talk about him --- but perhaps this will help us relive some memories.

Ever since Thursday, when he left us, I have been thinking that I will never be privileged to meet a more gracious person than him. We all know that, despite not having much education, he took every opportunity for learning in establishing a career, moving up from being an accounting clerk at West End Watch co, to being the General Manager, the first non-white person to hold that position. But many of us will also know that along with this achievement, Papa never forgot his duty and responsibility to share his success with others and help them make their own successes and build their own futures.

He was such a kind man and a generous one. Generous to a fault maybe, always giving without counting the cost. But generous in giving materially as well as in spirit --- he forgave people who wronged him and didn't hold grudges.

Career apart, he was a wonderful family man --- a loving and loyal husband to Grana, a dutiful and caring son to his mother and mother-in-law, a good father, an affectionate grandfather. He may not have been a modern guy -- you would never see him carrying babies or changing diapers -- but he carried us all in his heart and did whatever he could to protect and nurture us.

He lived a full life in other senses as well. Many of us will remember how fond he was of reading, especially his favourite books, The Count of Monte Cristo and The Song of Bernadette. Some of us will also recall that he was quite a movie buff. And many of us would have enjoyed the fulfillment of his dream of having a house in the hills, at picnics and holidays in Khandala, the house he delighted in for more than 2 decades.

He enjoyed discussion and was quite opinionated, so that birthday parties sometimes seemed like meetings of the debating club. Without question, he was very stubborn -- a trait several of his children and grandchildren have inherited. But this stubbornness also helped him stand up for what he believed in and defend anyone he felt was being treated unfairly. He had such a solid sense of ethics.

We will miss his deadpan sense of humor, making unexpected jokes that were always memorable.

Above all, he was steadfast in his faith. He was devoted to Our Lady. At the end, even when he struggled to find the strength to speak, the words of the Hail Mary and the Angelus flowed freely.

Yes, he was gracious. Till the end, when he had become a man of very few words, those words often expressed concern, hospitality, gratitude. "Eat and go," "How is Mummy?" "Tell her not to worry," "Take care," Thank you, " "Kind regards, " and if you said you were going to visit, "Most welcome." These were the things he said most often.  Whatever suffering he faced in the last year or so, he bore silently, without a moan or groan or a word of complaint or frustration. Till the end he was saying "Thank you" to his doctors and caregivers.

He was given to us by God for nearly 96 years. Yet it seems as if we got to journey only a few miles together. Still, I know I'm luckier than many who never knew their grandparents, for they had died or lived far away. And even as we know we'll miss him, and miss the second home that Grana and he made for us, we are thankful for that irreplaceable gift of Papa and the memories we have of him.

In Sickness and in Health

Spain was amazing, but coming back to bone chilling temperatures has done nothing good for my body, already tired out from the long days of sightseeing coupled with the even longer nights of wine and song! I boarded the flight home with a sore head and an itchy throat and by the time I landed in Scotland it had escalated to a full scale fever and horrid swollen glands.

Speaking (or rather, croaking) to my mum the next morning, she poured out all sorts of Mother type home remedies to me. Haldi (turmeric) and milk, that's what Nana would always say, was her advice to me. I rang off promising to take a dose immediately. Except when opened the fridge I saw that we were all out of milk. And I really wasn't feeling well enough to drag myself down to the store to get some.

I curled back on the couch and buried myself under layers of quilts willing myself to get warm. The heating was on, and yet it felt like I was sitting in an icebox. My mum, ever vigilant called back in an hour to check if I'd followed her instructions. She clicked with impatience when I told her the situation. I hastened to reassure her. I've mixed brandy and honey in hot water and I'm sipping that right now. It's soothing my throat and warming me up as well. 

Mama laughed and said that she wasn't sure that would have been Nana's first choice. Nope, I replied. But I'm sure that's what Papa would have suggested!

Where Have All The Nanas Gone?

It is a truth universally known, that early morning phone calls are always to be mistrusted. For whatever unexplainable karmic reason, good news will come to you during the day. But that phone call or text message or pager that you get in the wee hours of the morning - that will always, always be helped along by an ill wind. And so, when my phone rang at 10:43 am today and caller ID said "home", I knew that picking up the call would definitely put a damper on my day.

It was my mum, calling to tell me that my dad's aunt had passed away. She was the last of her generation on my paternal grandmother's side of the family. I never knew my own grandmother as she had succumbed to ovarian cancer much before I was born. I am named for her and I share her passion for music and her talent for dance. Aunty Eye was her younger sister and almost everything I know about my grandmother came from her; but even after hearing all the stories, I feel there was so much more I could have learned, so many more questions I could have asked.

And that's what troubles me the most. As each grandparent, great aunt and grand uncle passes away, there are fewer and fewer voices that can reach back and decode the mysteries of the past. Suddenly it feels like a race against the passage of time and already I know that I am falling further and further behind. But, I wonder, is the sense of this loss a sorrow for their mortality, or is it that I know that I am just another step closer to mine?

Divine Intervention

There was an email in my inbox this morning telling me about the death of my mum's cousin. He had been very ill for a while and for the last year bedridden, so it was a blessed death. Later, as I was speaking with my mum I mentioned how October 1st seemed to a popular day for our family. Today is Nana's one year death anniversary.

My mum murmured her agreement. After all Pixy, she said, Prim* Nobert was Nana's godson and he was really very fond of her. He must have remembered it was her death anniversary and decided that would be his as well. Now laughing madly, I told my mum that no matter how much he liked his Godmother, it would hardly be up to him to pick his time of passing. My mum was silent for a bit and then spoke. You're right. Prim Norbert wouldn't have been able to do anything, but Nana could! 

And although I rang off still laughing madly, somehow I could totally see my grandmother being on some kind of welcome committee up in Heaven saying to a perhaps bemused and disoriented new arrival. Sit down baba, have a sandwich. You look tired. After all, its been a long journey to get here.  


*Konkani word used for older cousin

That Special Effect

Over the past 10 months since moving to G Town, I seem to have developed a whole new kind of relationship with my parents. Where as before we merely coexisted in the same house with sporadic conversations, we now talked long and often about everything and anything. I thought that I had gotten to know them very well indeed. Apparently, there was still much to learn.

During yesterday's conversation with my mum I was confiding in her as to just how vulnerable I now felt, thanks to the last few months of madness. In trying to explain how I felt, I compared this feeling to my long term fear of heights. In spite of not being comfortable with heights being deathly afraid of heights, I've never let that deter me from climbing to the topmost viewing station on a tower or going on a hike up a perilous path just to be able to get an amazing view from the top. I confessed that I was now terrified of scaling those heights in everyday life. There was a job I had heard of which would be an amazing opportunity and I was afraid to even apply as the fear of failure loomed large.

My mum listened to my rant not saying a word. When I had finished, there was a little pause and she cleared her throat. Listen to me Pixy, she said. Do not let that idiotic fool of a boy stop you from anything. He has caused enough mischief and problems and you cannot allow your life to be dictated by the actions of a bloody arsehole who does not understand the meaning of common decency.

The advice was sound and I would have been suitably consoled by her words had I not been gobsmacked instead as I realised that I had just heard my mother swear for the first time ever.

Beans really should be proud of the overwhelming effect he has had on the women in my family.

In Memoriam

Today marks a month since Papa passed away. My family will be gathering together, both in Canada and in Bombay to pay respects to him. I am away, a wanderer off on my own. There is no family near by to seek out. Instead, I share these thoughts and words with you Dear Reader; you who have become such an important part of my life and most certainly as close as a family.

Below is the eulogy written for Papa. I had written the original outline and my cousin cleaned it up a bit and added in some of her thoughts as well. She read it out on our behalf at the funeral mass. I hope that through our words you too can share in the spirit of this incredible man.

Most of us who are here are here because we knew my grandfather --- whether as Lauriano, or uncle, or Irmao, or Padrin, or Mr Mendonca, or Daddy, or Papa. Some of us will, indeed, remember him most vividly for pinching our cheeks really, really hard. So since we all know him, it hardly seems necessary to talk about him --- but perhaps this will help us relive some memories.

Ever since Thursday, when he left us, I have been thinking that I will never be privileged to meet a more gracious person than him. We all know that, despite not having much education, he took every opportunity for learning in establishing a career, moving up from being an accounting clerk at West End Watch co, to being the General Manager, the first non-white person to hold that position. But many of us will also know that along with this achievement, Papa never forgot his duty and responsibility to share his success with others and help them make their own successes and build their own futures.

He was such a kind man and a generous one. Generous to a fault maybe, always giving without counting the cost. But generous in giving materially as well as in spirit --- he forgave people who wronged him and didn't hold grudges.

Career apart, he was a wonderful family man --- a loving and loyal husband to Grana, a dutiful and caring son to his mother and mother-in-law, a good father, an affectionate grandfather. He may not have been a modern guy -- you would never see him carrying babies or changing diapers -- but he carried us all in his heart and did whatever he could to protect and nurture us.

He lived a full life in other senses as well. Many of us will remember how fond he was of reading, especially his favourite books, The Count of Monte Cristo and The Song of Bernadette. Some of us will also recall that he was quite a movie buff. And many of us would have enjoyed the fulfillment of his dream of having a house in the hills, at picnics and holidays in Khandala, the house he delighted in for more than 2 decades.

He enjoyed discussion and was quite opinionated, so that birthday parties sometimes seemed like meetings of the debating club. Without question, he was very stubborn -- a trait several of his children and grandchildren have inherited. But this stubbornness also helped him stand up for what he believed in and defend anyone he felt was being treated unfairly. He had such a solid sense of ethics.

We will miss his deadpan sense of humor, making unexpected jokes that were always memorable.

Above all, he was steadfast in his faith. He was devoted to Our Lady. At the end, even when he struggled to find the strength to speak, the words of the Hail Mary and the Angelus flowed freely.

Yes, he was gracious. Till the end, when he had become a man of very few words, those words often expressed concern, hospitality, gratitude. "Eat and go," "How is Mummy?" "Tell her not to worry," "Take care," Thank you, " "Kind regards, " and if you said you were going to visit, "Most welcome." These were the things he said most often. Whatever suffering he faced in the last year or so, he bore silently, without a moan or groan or a word of complaint or frustration. Till the end he was saying "Thank you" to his doctors and caregivers.

He was given to us by God for nearly 96 years. Yet it seems as if we got to walk only a few miles together. Still, I know I'm luckier than many who never knew their grandparents, for they had died or lived far away. And even as we know we'll miss him, and miss the second home that Grana and he made for us, we are thankful for that irreplaceable gift of Papa and the memories we have of him.

The Answer to a Prayer

Everyone who loved him, not just the family, had been praying with all their might these past few months. Dear God, be merciful. Please don't let him suffer any more.

Yesterday, our prayers were answered.

He is finally at peace and back together with Nana again. And I close my eyes and whisper a fervent Thank You.

Missed Call

Today, she would have turned 86. There would have been a flurry of phone calls from all over the world; children and grandkiddos and random family and friends calling in to wish her happiness and love.

She loved phone calls. Love chatting with anyone really. It never ceased to amaze me just how well connected she was to the vast networks of happenings in the outside world even though she rarely went out any more. There was this little book where she painstakingly recorded births, deaths, anniversaries and other important dates. Every morning, she'd look up the date and then call around to wish anyone who was celebrating that day.

My aunt tells me that there were a high volumes of calls today. Even though she isn't around, people were still calling in. I guess they miss the phone calls just as much as I do.

A Senseless Situation

Month two of this new year, and life here goes on. A little bit better now that I have a job. But if you've been reading the blog, then you know that the job is nothing to write home about. I was so convinced that if I stuck around long enough to find a job - any job - that things would get better. My life would magically repair. That, I'm finding is not the case. I do however love working for the cancer charity. Passionate about it is more like it. People wonder why I put so much of my energies and efforts into something that doesn't pay me a penny. Its not about the money. Its about not letting that bastard disease win.

My Papa has cancer. In the esophagus, colon and liver. And God knows where else. In a way, its a blessing that it is so far progressed. There is no question of treatment, just a wait-and-watch game that we are all playing. The medical term, I believe is palliative care.

For the first time since Nana died, I understood just how lucky she was. Her death, although sudden was quick. Painless. She didn't have time to think about her mortality and ponder the question of the great what comes after. The whole thing was simple. In reality more painful to us, the ones she left behind.

Papa isn't going to be as lucky.

This is a senseless situation. And I find myself wishing for the unthinkable. Like for death to come quickly to him. For him not to have to go through months of torture to die in agony. If only wishes were horses, he would be safe now. And they would be together again.

Tired Mind, Aching Heart

The month in India was over all too soon. Before I knew it, I was rushing around the house trying to locate all of my clothes and random belongings to shove into bags that were crammed packed. so crammed packed that I needed to go buy a new carry on bag. Red. Very Snazzy. Me Likey!

In spite of my flippant attitude to leaving, the heart was heavy indeed. The biopsy results came back on the 4th. The dreaded C word was confirmed. A chill crept around everyone's hearts, but we tried to stay positive. Find out more, the docs said. So, the day before I left, Papa was taken in for a PET scan. Again, there was the drama of calling for a cardiac ambulance, telling him about going in for more tests, fasting before the tests, calming him, reassuring him. Stressful for everyone.

Leaving was so very hard. But I had come to make my peace, say goodbye. And so I did. One last kiss, one last hug, one last look. All burned into my memory. They now need to last a lifetime.

Sigh of Relief

The ordeal over Papa's surgery began about the time when my grandmother passed away. The visiting family (including my mum and dad) began to notice that Papa was having trouble swallowing during meals. He was already on a mashed diet, so the docs were called in. A growth was detected in his esophagus and windpipe. The docs advised us to wait it out. He might just be able to keep going in spite of it, they said. The weeks passed, and it got worse. His breathing was laboured and every meal started to become torturous for both him, and those around him. By the time I arrived into Bombay, we knew that there was no alternative other than surgery to ease his pain. Although it would be a simple enough operation, the risks were much higher given his advanced age. Still, it was either that or literally watch him choke to death.

And so, surgery was scheduled for the 26th. It was the first time the poor man was leaving the house in almost 8 years. That in itself was a trauma for all concerned as we had to call in a cardiac ambulance and he had be to carried out on a stretcher. He looked so pale and so worried that we all wondered if that was the right choice. Would we see him again?

My aunt, two uncles and a cousin and the day nurse went off to the hospital. The rest of us stayed home and fidgeted and jumped like cats on hot bricks each time the phone rang. Seeing as it was just the day after Christmas, it rang a lot!

The surgery was postponed twice; first the doctor was delayed, then an emergency took precedence. Finally, we got a call that he was out and in the post opp. It had been a tough operation, the docs said. Touch and go at one point. They were only able to remove about 70% of the mass. Still, he rallied through and they were confident he'd be fine. But they kept him in the ICCU for that night, just to be safe.

We took turns to troop to the hospital the next day. And how we all marvelled! The wheezing had disappeared, his voice was stronger and more confident, his cheeks had a bit of colour (after ages) and his meals were going down a treat! And impatient. He didn't like being cooped up in a hospital room. He wanted to get down and move around. The docs looked impressed when they came around. Get him home, they said. We don't want him catching anything here. Filthy places, hospitals! And besides, he's giving the 70 year olds a complex!

When they were bringing him home, the cardiac specialist who assisted with the surgery swung by to say goodbye. Papa, take care of yourself, he said shaking hands with his oldest patient. Oh, and don't forget to have your glass of "Holy Water" tonight! Splendid stuff! Keeps everything in good working order!

And so, he's home now. Safe and sound and back to drinking whisky! Let's hope that he stays that way for a long long while!

O Holy Night

Today, I celebrated Christmas with my family. It wasn't anything fancy, but yet it was a grand celebration. There was a lot of noise as everyone talked all at once not bothering to consider if anyone was actually listening. Family trait. The food that graced the table was wholesome and plentiful, old family favourites made by loving hands.

The wee Christmas tree had been dragged out from storage, dusted down and installed a few days ago amidst a controversy of whether or not it was "proper" to put it up this year given my grandmother's recent passing. Common sense prevailed and we all thought about her as we decorated it with love. On Christmas day, it turned out to be a very handy place holder for the numerous money envelops from those of us who had been too ill prepared (read: lazy) to actually go out and buy prezzies! Whoever said money doesn't grow on trees?
Post lunch, the cousins all changed into their "costumes" for the home-made production of the Nativity play. Yes, this would have been humiliating under normal circumstances, but since it was for the benefit of my 95 year old grandpa, we all swallowed our pride and put on a good show.

Of course, there was the usual back stage shenanigans; Mary was sent off to change as her original costume was too flashy, the angel was behaving anything BUT and had to be given a stern talking to, two of the three kings were in a squabble over which one had the bigger crown, Joseph insisted that his teddy bear be given a role and so we had the shepherd carry him in as a sheep and to crown it all, the baby doll that was to play the Christ child went missing and was found mere minutes before the show. As show producer (and official photo take-outer) I handeled it all with my usual grace and composure.


When all the food had been eaten, the presents unwrapped, the costumes put away and the general hustle and bustle of the day had died down, the youngins took a walk down to the promenade by the sea and brought a most wonderful Christmas day to close gazing out into the sparking light of the moon over the sea.

Tomorrow, Papa will be going in for surgery to remove the growth that was obstructing his windpipe and oesophagus. We did not want to think about what the morrow may bring. For now, this was our Silent Night. All was still calm, still bright.

The Shortest Holiday Ever Taken

I took the 5:45am train from Bombay to Goa on the 19th and arrived into Mapusa at around 2:15 that afternoon. The next day, I left Goa at 2:20pm making it a grand total of 25 hours "on vacation".

In between, there was a large amount of running around and general chaos thanks to my little cousin having fallen ill with the stomach flu. Add in the complications of a door that would not lock thus forcing us to find alternate accommodation, a very anxious and easily alarmed pair of rellies and a cousin who persisted in treating me like a child causing me to have a meltdown of my own ... well, let's just say that those 25 hours were highly stress inducing.

Not the kind of vacation I would recommend!

Homecoming

The journey from the UK wasn't as long I'd expected. A very comfortable seat on a very comfortable airline helped with the jet lag - almost none this time.

Familiar faces met me at the airport, took my bags, gave me hugs, filled me in on all the local khabbar* on the ride home.

Its been 3 years. Outwardly, the city has expanded. Buildings are taller and leaner and now full of shiny reflective surfaces that shine and shimmer in the noon day sun. There are more billboards and everyone seems to be sporting a cell phone; vegetable vendors and building watchmen included. The Bandra-Worli link is (finally) complete and rises majestically out of the Arabian sea - if you can even spot it through the city's thick smog that is!

Underneath though, much has remained the same.

The traffic is still crazy and chaotic, with everyone following their own version of road (non)sense.
The shops are still multiplying, and the people are still shopping with a vengeance. (what recession?)
The dogs still roam the streets, barking madly at anything and anyone that dares intrude into their territory.
The noise of the cawing crows still wakes you up at unearthly morning hours.
The clack-clack of the milkman's pails still makes a nice tune as his cycles down the street on his rounds. Now, not as many since most prefer the packaged product.
Hill Road in Bandra is still more of a Hell Road even though this is the first time it hasn't been dug up in almost 3 years!

And yet, after the hellos and the hugs and the kisses and the all important hug(s) to Papa; after the thrill of being back had died down, after I sat down in the living room and look across to where Nana would have usually sat, I knew that no matter how joyous my homecoming, it was not complete without her smile and laugh and her hand on my head.


*Hindi word for news

I'll be Home for Christmas, if Only in my Dreams

Every year around the first week of December, my mum goes in to Christmas overdrive. Boxes of decorations are pulled out from the cupboard-under-the-stairs; each one of them carefully labelled so that we know exactly what ornaments are inside. (I get my love of lists from her). The holly wreaths are draped around the banisters and along the front porch. Nativity scenes are set up. Yes, that was in the plural. We literally have one for every room in the house. The larger rooms sometimes have two or three. Only the washrooms are safe; but only until someone has the bright idea to manufacture Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus mini soaps.

And then of course, we have the centre piece of all Christmas activity: THE TREE.

When we lived in Bombay, VBF would come over and help me and my mom decorate the tree. As long as we were in Bombay for Christmas, this was our ritual for about 15 years. When we were packing for our move to Canada, we had to trim back on what we were taking with us. That included the decorations and tree ornaments. It was gut wrenching deciding which ones would go and which would get left behind. Our first Christmas in Canada, we didn't have a tree. We'd only just moved into our own apartment at the beginning of December and there were a lot of expenses. A tree was too much of a luxury that year. My mum and I were in total agreement about that. We decorated the rest of the apartment and settled down to a tree-less Christmas.

Only, we just couldn't do it! A few days before Christmas saw me and my mum dragging the dead branch off the sidewalk all the way back to the apartment and decorating it with all the tinsel and candy canes and ornaments we could find.

And we've never had to compromise on a tree ever again.

This year, my apartment is as un-Christmassy as it gets. Not a bauble or holly leaf or tinsel string in sight; I truly cannot afford to spend on anything that isn't directly related to food or shelter. But, since I'll be in Bombay in just a few days, I don't mind as much as I know that there will be all the Christmas I want waiting for me.

Back at the ranch, my mum began with the decorating last weekend. The little cousins were over to help her out. Together, they put up the tree and then sent along this picture so that I could give it my seal of approval. I think the kids did well, don't you?

Twelve Days to Holiday Bliss

Do you hear what I hear? The sound of a fast approaching vacation! In just 12 days, I will be landing on the shores of my original hometown. I haven't lived there for ages, but every time I go back I seem to be able to slip right into the rhythm of things. And every time I have gone back, the city - and its people - have welcomed me back with open arms.

So much to see. People to visit. Old stomping gounds to discover all over again. In 12 days, my true love city I will see. And in that city, there will be:

Twelve bottles of home-made rice wine a-drinking
Eleven different kinds of Christmas sweeties
Ten ex-pat friends a-visiting
Nine ladies dancing (and some gentlemen too)
Eight (Christmas) choirs singing
Seven friend's babies a-wailing
Six pints at Toto's (gonna need that after those tots)
Five days laying on a beach! (in Goa)
Four calling birds
Three precious words
Two celebrations of love
And a Grandpa who I just can't wait to see!

We Do Awkward Here

The entire family was delighted when young Sally tied the knot. Perhaps now, they would finally be able to get those boxes off the top shelves!


FYI, this is an actual family photograph of my mum's godmother's wedding. That my mum's older sister as the bridesmaid and my mum's godfather as the bestman.

When My Own Words Are Inadequate

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

- W. H Auden

The Meaning of Love

As I contemplate the state of my relationship (if I still have one) and think about all the mistakes I have made where dating and love are concerned, it pleases me to think that in this big world of often false hopes and promises there's one promise that has endured a long long time.

64 years ago a young man told his bride that he would love, honour and respect her for as long as they both shall live. I'll imagine that there were some not so good times in there, some royal tiffs and probably a What have I gotten myself into? at least once over the past years. But more often than that, there was evidence of love. Not a fairy tale romantic sort, rather a quite love that comes from being part of another life for almost as long as each of them has been alive. A love that is demonstrated through backing each other in good times and bad and in recent years, through a lot of sickness. Of night vigils at hospital bedsides and a quite comfort in each others company in their home.

And so, I'd ask that you dear reader raise your glass in a salute to this love. Happy Anniversary Nana and Papa.