Dear Ma,

You know how sometimes you think I don't make enough effort to cook and eat?

So yesterday, I thought I'd make that mint rice thingy for dinner and headed grocery shopping. But they'd run out of Coriander. 'No biggie' I figured and thought I'd make pasta instead (no, not quite the phodni-pasta. I'm looking at you, Catty. And you, Celestialrays). But they were out of Mozarella. And coriander, still.

So then I figured, what the heck, I'll make that corn upma you make sometimes. Nice and filling and I can bring it to lunch as well if I make enough. Plus, I could have the corn frozen for use later. But they had no corn.

Still not quite giving up, I thought I'd try my luck at the store nearer home. They didn't have this stuff either. Especially the corn. They ALWAYS have corn. How can they not have corn?! But they didn't. I could see the nicely lettered sign there but the shelf was empty. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Ptooey.

This was the point at which I gave up* and bought a preservatives-and-bad-stuf-rich pizza and headed home.


So you see, 'The universe is conspiring against me' isn't really a lame excuse for not cooking.

I'm just saying.



* I was too tired from all that gallivanting to think of another quick recipe.

Social fail

On the best of days, FB has the tendency to annoy me.

Zadie Smith's critique of the movie/site/phenomenon in general sums up my fears/loathing rather perfectly. Which then begs the question, why am I still on it? The people I really want to speak to/really want to speak to me, know how to get in touch. So why am I still there, trying to be as inconspicuous and private as I can while the world around me opens up and spills details that are really silly, wholly private or some combination of the two? It isn't entirely that of course. There are those people who make good use of the platform and once in a while, you discover things that are good. But we're talking one crystal pure drop of sense in a vast ocean of murky idiocy here. And no, it doesn't make being there worth it. I'm there because it's the sensible thing to do. I'm on there because being there means the unknown becomes that teeny bit known, less danger of being caught unawares deer-in-the-headlights-fashion. Sure, this sounds like this thing is something really sinister and I'm simply waiting for it to jump out and bite me. But you may blame my cautiousness on my Capricornian traits. Thank you.

My problem on something that isn't the best of days is just how gauche this whole thing has become. How regular social norms can easily be ignored because, hey, this is such a fantastic mix of the virtual and the real. For example, the way people 'add' you. Say it's someone you've bumped into in recent times, it's probably okay to assume they'd remember you and therefore add them.* But if it's someone you haven't seen in a while, do you simply assume they'd remember you, because, oh, you've got these many common friends and so it's okay? What's wrong with sending a little note saying hello, introducing yourself or something? In the real world, this'd be the equivalent of going up to someone after years and without any niceties, standing next to them and pretending to the whole world that you know each other very well.

 Let's not even go into how most often none of these people will deign to leave so much as a 'hello, how're you?' after having added you. So, why exactly are you adding me, again? Presumably you want to gawk at my photos and the posts on my wall and arrive at some wholly insubstantial conclusion of my life which will make you feel very smug for about two seconds till you forget my existence. Until the next time my mug pops up in your feed and then it's time for a rinse and repeat. And what if one of you has proceeded to block the other person fro viewing the things that make up their life on FB? Doesn't the exercise prove futile then? It's just another notch on the post of your friends list and honestly, does anyone care how many people there are on this list anymore?

I get the point. A lot of people want to 'stay in touch. Just in case.' ... does it really ever get to that though?

Talking of social graces, is it suddenly okay for people to simply pretend nothing ever happened when they've been the cause of much pain earlier? Someone who bullied you in school simply adding you up seemingly having forgotten what havoc they wreaked then? Or is it some form of 'growing up' where you forgive and forget and not hold grudges? If this was a real reunion there'd be fireworks. A scene perhaps. But it still wouldn't be perfectly hunky-dory if the former bully simply walked up to you and started talking as if you'd been friends all along. I'm not sure about this actually. Sometimes these things work out. You discover this brute isn't such a brute anymore, they apologise (maybe) and you part cordially thence, if not as friends.

It's just, with the spread of the social phenomenon that is FB, there are more and more grey areas to navigate now than there were before. Sure, some generation ahead will have it all figured out ... but in the mean time, there are those who have to routinely deal with the PITAs that these grey areas are.

 I do have one positive thing to say about FB though. It makes for a fantastic Halloween costume!


* Which brings me to another point. Why is it that a lot of people seem to think it's okay to add you up because they have met you ONCE. Immediately after they meet you that too. For all you know, that's the only time you will meet them. Where then is the point of this 'relationship' where you see the occasional update, blandly wish them on their birthday, wedding, anniversary, birth of a child and maybe leave the occasional message that goes 'hey, wassup, how're you?' which is then responded to with a blander 'good, nothing much. you?'

Shake Me, Break Me

Dude, what's WITH all the limp handshakes?!

I'm going to go on a sexist tangent here in saying I don't seem to meet women with strong, confident handshakes. And it bugs me to no end! What's this, some hangover from Patriarchy-decree days, women are not really supposed to shake hands but merely grasp an offered hand limply and demurely?

Here's the funny thing. Most of these women are the strong-minded, independent, smart variety ... and it puzzles me to no end why they'd compromise on a thing like a handshake. Especially when they know the connotation. Allow me to point out that I have also met men who have limp handshakes.

I've had a firm grip sorta handshake right since I was old enough to know what you could say with a handshake. It's been remarked on numerous times. 'Gosh, you've got a really firm grip!'. Always the tone of surprise. And almost always from men. One chap had a grip that could break rocks and he turned around to tell me he thought mine was really firm, as if he couldn't quite believe it ... while I was trying to surreptitiously stretch my fingers and stop them throbbing.

Why shouldn't I? Hell, why shouldn't anyone? A woman especially. It's no longer enough to smile and say hello when you meet someone, especially in a professional capacity. A handshake puts a completely different spin on things.

Socially, things may be slightly different. I don't usually resort to a handshake. Hugs are reserved only for those who actually mean something to me. And while shaking hands isn't mandatory, I do think it's important to reciprocate well when proferred someone's hand.

I know, I know ... a handshake is a rather minor and petty thing to judge someone upon, but I cannot help it. I may have a very good time with whoever it is, and while I won't let my first impressions ruin things ... a limp handshake still makes me go 'ee-yuck!' mentally.

Thing is, it's quite easy to fake a firm grip, as it was pointed out to me. I'm not saying one should. I'm saying, the first few times you have to remind yourself to but it soon turns into a habit ... so what's so bad about adopting something that is ultimately a good thing?

Ah and my ruminations have been prompted by Parul's point about shaking hands. That and all the limp jelly-fish-and-eels handshakes I've encountered over the years.

Lost in ...

Was watching Lost in Austen y'day (infuriatingly, a mini-series that ended with just four episodes, like other fantastic British TV shows, as Amrita rightly pointed out. Although IMDB says it is being revived in 2011, yet again proving Amrita's point) ... I haven't finished the series but I did cheat and look up the synopsis on Wiki ... because when it comes to watching something, I want to know it's worth my time (not unlike Amrita!). I might've been put off but I shall finish the series because I found it highly entertaining. I digress however.

My original point was, what would I pick if I had to get lost in a book.

Not To Kill A Mocking-Bird. Can't say I'd enjoy sleepy rural America in times less liberal.

Probably not a Georgette Heyer even if her heroines are spunky and fiesty (and really, WHAT are the chances I'd end up a heroine?) ... it's still a society where women don't have much to do beyond looking pretty and marrying. I'd be bored out of my mind, so no. And um, no, I do not want to be incarnated as a man in one of those novels.

Not Enid Blyton ... unless I was going to food or a piece of scenery, thangyuverymuj.

Maybe Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson series or something similar. A chance to be brave and fight gigantic forces ... but what if I found I wasn't upto that? Oh the shame! So, err ... maybe not.

A Thursday Next novel? Erm, chances that I'd be Erased for being a Pagerunner are high ... so, thanks but I'll pass.

I WOULD however pick a Tom Holt novel. His characters are ALL entertaining, even when they're being wicked and bad. Actually, I think that settles it. I would want to be Tom Holt's Blonde Bombshell.

what do you think you'd pick?

Change Changes Things

I've almost always been the youngest in any household I've lived in ... so it comes as a bit of a surprise to realise that I'm the oldest in the house now. Second oldest at the moment, actually, but soon I really will be the oldest and that realisation does some funny things.

It's amazing how protective you can feel about someone younger, even if you don't really know them. The youngest of us is a teenager and even though everyone else is in the early-twenties range at best a year or two older (except old old me that is ... but I take comfort from the fact the house is far older than I am) ... said teenager brings out maternal/paternal/elder sibling feelings in all of us as if a switch were turned on. She gets ribbed endlessly about where she's been and should we be on the phone to her folks and who was out on a date with ... and maybe the child is a bit confused but she takes it in good spirit. I just heard her singing ... loud, clear, in that mixture of innocence, hope and attitude only teenagers can affect. I thought it was beautiful.

The first time I met Teen was a few days ago, after about two weeks of wondering where the mysterious new housemate was and why she wasn't living in the house yet. I'd know she was that young but the fact wasn't really brought home to me until we came across each other face-to-face. Let me tell you something. I think I play it very cool, I take my time around people and don't go about giving anyone faltu ka bhav ... and when you're like that, it's easy to start thinking of yourself as being cold and aloof and a total snob. Until you see a pair of eyes that look partly eager and partly unsure while their owner says a bright 'Hi!' and uncertainly extends a pair of arms towards you, not knowing if a hug is forthcoming or not. And in that moment, this cold, aloof snob that is you, will put all that to one side, excuse herself from the phone and hold out for a hug, for all you're worth. You see this young almost-child and something changes, something that makes you want to envelop this waif and at least for that moment, give them the reassurance that it's going to be okay, that nothing is as scary as it seems ... something that makes it all okay for YOU, the crappy day, the horrid weather, just about everything that could be wrong, all that. In that one moment, even if only for that one moment.

I've lived with a teenager before so I know it isn't all sunshine and rainbows. I know they can be surly, messy, rude and noisy. Heck, I was a horrid teen too. And I'm not saying this one's different. She's going to be her share of all that but the important thing is to let her grow into the person she will be. Lead by example, but not intend to. And not expect to be followed just because.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, suddenly becoming the oldest person around makes you think what it's all about. And you realise:

• It's about not pulling rank just because you're older. None of the 'I'm older so I know better' crap. You don't. You don't know what the other person is going through and just because they're younger doesn't mean their experiences are lesser. 
• It's about being understanding. And respect. About a zillon things. About habits and quirks and wants and needs. Like bearing in mind that the things you do sometimes have to have the child-friendly factor to it. Like realising that it must be really tough for a lone boy to be living amid a bunch of hormonal, emotional, confusing, moody, pmsing-by-turns women. And more importantly, vocalising the fact that you appreciate said boy's ... patience. And no, don't let the fact that you can bully him as if he were your own younger brother influence any of this ;) 
• It's appreciating the little big things. Like dozing off on a housemate's shoulder and being comforted by the fact that a cool soft hand gently strokes your hair.
• Like realising just how lucky you are to be living in a house that's full of people who have the time of the day for you. 
• Like realising that actually, you're not that old after all. So maybe take a chill pill. Plans can wait. Life will go on. But this evening, when your amaretto spiked hot chocolate was pinched by giggling housemates as you watched a movie, while being stared down by a trying-to-scary-with-the-painted-joker-face-but-still-only-succeeding-in-being-cute boy for being noisy, the evening that involved affectionately shaking your heads collectively at said boy and much ribbing about 'gold-diggers' ... this, will always let you be 20-something, no matter how many years go by. You can't get cynical about it you see.
• Like realising, actually, being oldest doesn't mean SHIT.

Missives II

To the world and my circle of acquaintances at large, on FB.
 T. M. I. Really.

To the scumbag-dick ex of a friend.
 You slut! That's right, slut. You don't get to be called 'player' just because you're a guy. Slut. I'd have loved to tell you to your face that you weren't right for my friend at all, not worthy of her one bit, boring and stuck up as you were. And I would have too, if I weren't keeping mum for her sake. You evidently don't deserve such niceties ... so watch your step. I'm hoping I run into you, and when I do, I'm going to kick you in the nuts and announce to the world that you're a walking std. Whether that's true or not ... although given your proclivities ... the chances are ... I'll leave you to puzzle your tiny brain over that. Oh and I hope you end up marrying someone who's going to cuckold you and humiliate you but never ever give you a way out. I hope you die cold and lonely and miserable. I wish you eternal misery forever after. And if you're 'skills' extend to being able to read, look up 'just desserts.' Because that's what you've got coming to you ... and in all probability, the waitress would have spit in it. Not just because you tried to hit on her while she went about her work but because she saw your behaviour way before you got started with her. Karma ... she's a right bitch and get used to that because you're going to end up as her bitch.

To the salespeople I seem to keep running into.
 If you're going to turn up your nose at me because I want something replaced rather than buying something new, you're going to add a big fat zero the the till. And if I say 'I'll think it over', that isn't your cue to sass me. YOU are the one who needs to meet a target, think your attitude over.

To the guy manning the till.
 The correct response to my "I don't need a bag, thank you" is NOT "The bag's free, yeah?". Some of us try to do our bit for the environment.

To shoemakers the world over.
 You think 'heels' mean something resembling a goddam tower at the end of my feet? Have you ANY idea how hard it is to walk around in those? Do you actually test your products on normal, real women? The ones who have jobs and families and have to walk in these things? This is a conspiracy, I'm onto you. It's just another way or controlling womankind. In parlance you'd actually understand, "Walk in someone's shoes ...". Although in this case they'd be your own.

To Lindt.
 You're doing something very wrong. How is it that I can NEVER find my favourite chocolate in stock?

To me.
 Your twenties are slipping past, time to play catch-up and do all the wild things you'll never regret.

Book Babble

Taking this up from Chinkurli:

1. Favorite childhood book? And I'm stuck already. Do I choose from Enid Blyton, Anne of Green Gables or Little Women? Decisions decisions ...
2. What are you reading right now? Have Spacesuit Will Travel by Robert A. Henlein. Also, To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis
3. Bad book habit? Being determined to finish a book even if it's absolutely terrible. Although I suppose not being willing to lend books could also count as bad book habit.
4. Do you have an e-reader? Nope. Shall probably wait and watch to see how the technology develops before I buy one.
5. Do you prefer to read one book at a time or several at once? Usually one book at a time.
6. Have your reading habits changed since starting a blog? Nup. My reading habit has gotten a little relaxed over the years though.
7. Least favorite book you read this year (so far)? William Walker's First Year of Marriage. 
8. Favorite book you’ve read this year? Tough one. I think I shall pick Tom Holt, but it's a toss between Blonde Bombshell and Snow White and the Seven Samurai. 
9. How often do you read out of your comfort zone? Have I a comfort zone?
10. What is your reading comfort zone? Dunno!
11. Can you read on the bus? Sure ... helps that the bus drivers here are rather steady drivers so reading isn't the bumpy ride it could be.
12. Favorite place to read? I don't know if I have one ... but I'd love to have a reading chair ... a comfortably cushioned rocking chair or one of these. 
13. What is your policy on book lending? Hee hee, I don't lend. I did give away a book or two this year though, and they were Tom Holt's. 
14. Do you ever dog-ear books? Certainly not! My books are in pristine condition, unless I've bought dog-eared copies.
15. Do you ever write in the margins of your books? Heck, no!.
16. Not even with text books? What, like a decade ago? I might have done so in school but I stopped that a very long time ago.
17. What is your favorite language to read in? Angrezi? I read Kannada but really slowly ... would be nice to read in another language, a few more in fact. I wish I could read all the books in the world that were ever written.
18. What makes you love a book? I don't know, I just do.
19. What will inspire you to recommend a book? Someone's reading habits perhaps and preferences.  
20. Favorite genre? Alternate-reality, sci-fi, Regency era related, Young Adult fiction . I cannot pick a favourite.
21. Genre you rarely read (but wish you did?) .
22. Favorite biography? Haven't really read one ... although I will pick Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman as my favourite autobiography.
23. Have you ever read a self-help book? Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teenagers. Should probably read it again. Also The Ultimate Gift.
24. Most inspirational book you’ve read this year (fiction or non-fiction)? I don't think I did ...
25. Favorite reading snack? :D Biscuits, farsaan, toast, chips ... any snacky stuff
26. Name a case in which hype ruined your reading experience. The Da Vinci Code.
27. How often do you agree with critics about a book? I don't keep with with reviews really ... or rely on them. Very occasionally though, Amazon's readers' reviews are really helpful.
28. How do you feel about giving bad/negative reviews? Well, if it sucks, it sucks. 
29. If you could read in a foreign language, which language would you chose? Japanese. And Urdu perhaps.
30. Most intimidating book you’ve ever read? The Tale of Genji and Satanic Verses.
31. Most intimidating book you’re too nervous to begin? Atlas Shrugged.
32. Favorite Poet? I don't read much poetry but I loved Kiplings' If and Shakespeare's Seven Ages.
33. Favorite fictional character? Stuck again. Jack and Aliena from The Pillars of the Earth; Scout, Jem, Atticus, Boo, Miss Maudie Atkinson from To Kill a Mockingbird; Anne, Mathew, Mrs. Lynde and Gilbert from Anne of Green Gables; Leslie and Ms Edmunds from Bridge to Terabithia; Judy from Daddy-Long-Legs; Thursday's father from the Thursday Next series; Freddie and Kitty from Cotillion; Phoebe Marlow from Sylvester; Alexia from Soulless; Poseidon from the Percy Jackson series ... this won't finish. 
34. Favorite fictional villain? Kevin from We Need to Talk about Kevin.
35. Books I’m most likely to bring on vacation? Whatever I'm reading then. 
36. The longest I’ve gone without reading – A month? 
37. Name a book that you could/would not finish- Tale of Genji and Satanic Verses.
38. What distracts you easily when you’re reading? Nothing. Except the book itself not enagaging me at some point.
39. Favorite film adaptation of a novel? Bridge to Terabithia. Stardust.
40. Most disappointing film adaptation? Percy Jackson! Maybe Baby based on Inconceivable. Anne of Green Gables. 
41. The most money I’ve ever spent in the bookstore at one time? Out here I devote a certain amount every month for buying books ... back home, I might've spent close to a 1000 one time, years ago though.
42. How often do you skim a book before reading it? Usually just the once, before I buy it.
43. What would cause you to stop reading a book half-way through? If I'm not in the mood for whatever genre it is.
44. Do you like to keep your books organized? On a shelf. I really would love that chair!
45. Do you prefer to keep books or give them away once you’ve read them? I keep them all. Although I think I really should get rid of William Walker's First Year of Marriage.
46. Are there any books you’ve been avoiding? The Tale of Genji
47. Name a book that made you angry- Ooooh!!! Ashok Banker's King of Ayodhya. It made me want to scream 'ayogya!' at all the characters!
48. A book you didn’t expect to like but did? And Another Thing by Eoin Colfer. Also, surprise surprise, Percy Jackson.
49. A book that you expected to like but didn’t? King of Ayodhya.
50. Favorite guilt-free, pleasure reading? Reading itself is guilt-free pleasure!

By the water-cooler

Is a tub of mini choco-chip muffins, on the table.





And that's my entry to Parul's contest. Okay, so I'm trying to bribe, but at least I'm being honest and over-the-table about it. :P

Let's play

Ever notice how quirky some of the word verification terms are? We're going to make a game out of them. I've enabled word verification in my comments, your job is to either explain what the word you're given might mean or use it in a sentence. Go wild!

(And if you're thinking this is boring, let me direct you here.)

Go on then, spread some silliness!

Edited to add: Okay now I feel like the kid who had a lonely childhood, he/she had only two imaginary friends and they only played with each other.

Edit to the edit: Okay so I'm not a lonely child after all ... but blogger's refusing to let people comment if WV is on, so ... we no play! :( Gah. If you're still interested ... if you find a funny WV on someone else's blog and feel like mentioning it here, please do.

Friday I'm in love

The girl comes home from work
And sets about to cook
Dinner made she digs out a book
And there she goes, forkful of pasta, sitting in a cosy nook

The pasta's been polished off
Her eyes have left the page
Feeling well-fed and almost a bit sage
Now thoughts of dessert does she engage

Out comes a cheesecake
Her evening just got to its peak
She should have been out, looking dolled up and sleek
But, eh, a boring end to a boring week

Double, double toil and trouble

Amrita’s post on how Baby Quill (love the soubriquet btw :D) made shampoo and gooseberry pickle brought back vivid memories of my own efforts in this direction.

I say ‘my’ but what I really mean is ‘our’. I had a partner in crime, you see. There was also a certain time of the year when such R&D took place. Summer holidays, when the two little brothers came to visit.

The older one, who has the fortune of being referred to as ‘Treetop’[*], among other more embarrassing nicknames, usually had a hand in said adventures.

One hot afternoon, we concocted something that had Complan, some milk, sugar, some ... uhhh ... salt and (rather inexplicably), Rin. We stirred it all up, yessirree, very very nicely and sat there feeling very smug and successful and triumphant in general. Of course, we still needed approval. Of an adult, naturally. Given we were sat on the kitchen floor with mortar and pestle and all the ladies were bustling about, the most likely victim happened to be our ajji. She had time to spare for us (as ajjis do), while no one else did. Too busy making chivda and barfis and what not they were. Hmpfh. So ajji got cornered into tasting this ... something. She dipped a finger in, popped it into her mouth and in the next second, stuck her tongue out and exclaimed ‘phya!’, disgusted. Now, bear in mind that we bore no malice, neither did we intend any mischief. All we wanted was someone to tell us how clever we’d been. Surprisingly, we weren’t given a talking to. Praise be damned, we were really tickled by this ‘phya!’ and spent the next few days rolling with laughter every time one of us said ‘phya!’

The younger one might have been feeling left out but looking back, there’s one occasion that he probably feels he was better off for not having participated in. Our mothers had brought back a packet of ready-to-make ice-cream to keep us entertained for an afternoon. There wasn’t much to it, heat some milk, add the contents of the packet, stir it up nicely to avoid lumps and get a nice thick mix which then had to be refrigerated. The older one and I spent much time following the directions to the T, a lot of which involved vigorous stirring of said mixture (which was a very nice chemical baby-pink) while we spoke about matters of great importance such as which girl(s) was the object of attention and affection du jour and how she/them reciprocated by jabbing him repeatedly with a compass or a ruler or other such items of romantic symbolism. The ‘ice-cream’ was refrigerated finally and due to reasons that remain unfathomed to this day, stayed in its milk-shake form.

But we’ll always have the-ice-cream-that-was-actually-cold-custard-of-some-form. And the younger one had an equal share in it, which makes it very special. It was thick, grainy, pink and we topped it with jelly cubes and peppermints. And watched as the adults ate it with straight faces.

Perfectly angelic little children we were, god promise!

---

[*] Don’t go feeling too sorry for him, he called me Grasshopper in return.

Found!

Just goes to show that I was looking in the wrong place. Anyhoo, as the saying goes ... "Der aaye durust aaye".


Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Heroines.

Readership, frandship etc.

My colleague E mentioned that she goes to a book club every now and then. Interest piqued I asked her what sort of books they read. "Oh all sorts!" she replied and said she'd elected an author so everyone could pick a different book to read and they'd have more to discuss that way. They really do read all kinds of books. I asked if they'd done any Young Adult fiction and came away with another set of books to add to my list (Mortal Engines ... what sample bits I read, I really liked).

I was fascinated. I've always wondered what happens in a book club and never quite fathomed the idea of an exclusive get-together to talk about books. Unlike watching telly, or a movie, sports, listening to music or even plain old-fashioned conversation which lend themselves to being group activities and therefore provide fodder for conversation as a continued group activity, talking about books seems just incongruous with the act of reading, which is such a solitary activity.

I mean, what do you say to each other?! 'Yes we've read the same book. Oh yeah I loved it! ... uhmm ... ahhh ...' *awkward silence* comes to mind when I try to think of the times I've tried to use books as conversational topics, or overheard someone trying to. Not counting the time someone said they loved reading and I asked what they read and they said Dan Brown/Sidney Sheldon which got me into a right squawk and there was no conversation because I was pretty much left spluttering my scorn. Yes I'm a snob, thanks for noticing.

Also, there isn't always common ground to cover. Music being the exception, there is limited scope for the kind of things one might watch/involve in when it comes to common interest topics such as telly or sports or movies.

Mainly, the problem seems to be finding someone who has actually read the same sort of stuff that you have and then has something more to say beyond it. In my case, that would be anyone who reads Tom Holt, Robert Rankin, Jasper Fforde and Regency novels.

So maybe I ought to join a book club. I'm not sure I want to though. It's the sort of people related commitment that I'm not sure I want to make. It's one thing to incidentally meet people and it's another to actively seek them out. I haven't a problem making friends, but I just don't want to. Even though I've had to say buh-bye to a number of friends who've upped and left the country (say what you will about IM and social networking but it just doesn't work for some relationships).

Probably just as well I suppose. New friends would mean new people who would have to be told no they cannot borrow my books. Blanket rule, exceptions to which happen to live in other countries.

Maybe I should start being a regular at Speaker's Corner ... I could have my say without any frandship strings attached.

Matters of Textual Importance

I've been having this internal 'Get a Kindle or not' battle for weeks now. One part of me says I ought to wait for another two generations to be out at least. It points out that actually, e-books are just as expensive as brand new books and you can't get them second hand so if nothing else, the sentimnetalist hard-copy lover wins for purely economic reasons (cheapness? :D).

It sounds very cool as such ... zooming facility, font adjustment, being able to read even in the sun, being able to carry a 1000 books with you wherever you go ... but I don't see how it might replace the physical book. I think there will always be the need for physical books. If the day comes when people stop printing books, I won't be eating my words, I'll merely be ruing the loss of something so irreplaceable.

I can see where an e-reader might be useful. Students needn't carry a zillion textbooks/references around, it's all there in one handy package. And you could still squiggle all you like in the margins. One could possibly write/read a 'live' book which becomes available on a chapter basis as it's written. It has possibilities, no denying that.

Books are a personality thing I think. The book you're carrying says something (a lot, perhaps) about you. It can be a conversation opener, an in-joke, a point in itself. A cover is a peerless advert by itself.

But buy an e-reader and you lose out on that. It's going to be the next ipod/iphone. Owning one would make me just another standard issue hi-class-piece-of-technology owner. No more surreptitious glances from people around me when I carry The Ex-boyfriend's Handbook, no amused smiles when I'm walking on the road with the book in my hand upside down (which amuses me in turn. It's not like I'm reading WHILE I'm walking! Come to it, holding the book upside down would actually make reading when walking easier), no more being the frills-and-furbelows girl reading Neverwhere, or the girl who looks like she'd bite your head off but can be seen smiling fondly as she reads The Wedding Officer. No more. Instead, all you have is just another person with a square tablet that looks no different from someone else's. I don't think this is necessarily an upgrade, the saving space, upgrading to something niftier. In a sense, it's loss of individuality.

Heck, what about things like books launches?! What about standing in queue to get the author sign your copy? What about waiting to buy something very special, like the 50th anniversary copy of To Kill a Mocking-bird? There won't BE a 50th anniversary copy as such considering they'd look and feel just the same electronically (at this point anyway). And what will the author do, sign your e-reader? Or sign your e-book with an e-signature but honestly, that ain't good enough for me. Give me ink any day. And paper.

Thank you, Chandni, for inspiring this post. I must admit that I actually wrote the entire post in your comment window :-| (which just goes to show that what they say about a change of scenery being inspiring really is true!)

"Oh grandma! What big dreams you have!"


"All the better to live Life with, dear."

Catty: there are 3 FAT crows sitting on the tree outside.. i think they're scaring bottlebrushthey're frikkin huge.HOW can a tiny branch support these huge creatures???  Me: I've NO ideano wait

  actually

  I do

It must be a 'special branch'.     Yeah, so, what's new? With you, I mean!   

Some things just don't get old

Like the fact that roughly two years later, there isn't a single day I go by without talking to you.* Or the fact that you laugh at the silliest things I say, when you're not finishing me off with that quintessential 'tch'. Or the fact that as the days go by, you only proceed to evolve into a self-contained support system that lends me a ear, a shoulder, a rant-outlet, career advice, wisdom. And otherwise simply continues to add to my happiness with mere presence.

If this were the me of a few years ago, I could have managed an effusive and articulate ode celebrating you. But then again, maybe the me of a few years ago wouldn't have made friends with you. But knowing that you'll get what I'm saying, despite the taciturnity ...

I hope that some day I will be the secure, confident, content and wise person you are.

Happy Birthday Catty ... because you don't age, you evolve :)



*And yeah, I was very serious about using Tuesday as a point of no-contact, if ever ;)

Bella's bumper sticker

'My boyfriend sucks'

Cliff Notes

Looking at her, nobody would ever have said she lived life on the edge. Or ever had. She wasn't adventurous, boisterous or even curious.

In fact, you'd be hard pressed to come up with anything to say about her. She was the sort that blended into the shadows. It wouldn't be wrong to say that you'd never think of her.

Her side of the story though, was ... well, it was an entirely different story.

She felt she did live on the edge. On the edge of a very deep crag. And with every little thing that transpired, the temptation to find out what was at the end of that drop, up close and in person, only got stronger.

She thought of the deep end as her destination. Home.

But one day she looked up. At the vast sky and the far spreading mountains with their grass and trees and sweet smelling flowers. And felt the caress of a gentle breeze.

'Of course, it makes sense', she thought. 'Perspective '

Everybody lives life on the edge ... all that's different is whether you look up or down.

I'm not one to whinge about adulthood

Usually.

But there's something about the day that's making me wish it was the sort of summertime childhood blessed you with. The sort of summertime that involved Kirrin Island, picnics, swims and adventures in rural settings. Or at least, the summertime of blazing sushine, lazy afternoons spent in cool lofts or tree forks or even just the cool interiors of the house reading and fantasising about Enid Blyton's tales. And despite having eaten a lunch, drooling at the descriptions of food.

Thankfully, this time I can actually fix that bit.

What they don't warn you about

'Parting is such sweet sorrow'

It's pretty much a given that farewells are hard. Farewells to family. Farewells to the love of your life. Tempered with the promise of reunion and better times later, these farewells.

What no one cautions you against is the wrenching away, never to be united again the same way, disrupting perfectly peaceful harmony.

And it doesn't even hit you until ages later, just when you think you've come off okay, forgetting the soft, exposed, sensitive spot and leaving it open for a bull's eye score.

Like when your ex-housemate drives you home and just before leaving, says "Shame! Can no longer say goodnight and just trip off to the next room to sleep!".

Or like when you see the faces of two dear beloved people watching for you from inside a car as your bus is pulling out of the station.

You knew it was going to be temporary. You knew you had to go your separate ways one day. But who said that made it okay?

iQuit

You know all those scenes in the movies where someone's walking out huffily issuing dialogues of "Aaj se tumhara aur mera rishta khatam!"?

Some days I wish I could walk out of the human race and be done with it.

External Memory

Me to her (who else?): 


Keep it somewhere safe, and mark it. 

And tell me where you put it so I'll remember and you can ask me in case you forget.

Tathastu

Well, what do you know. My wish has been granted!

Rats! I knew I should've asked for something else.

Points to ponder

Does being able to autopilot a lot of things every day leave you with more time to focus on the important stuff or does it just make you a sad person who doesn't enjoy life to the fullest?

I think it would be quite something to have the ability to teleport combined with a timer option. Would come in especially handy on those days when getting up from the bed seems to require superhuman effort. Imagine this: You'd open your eyes and find yourself standing before the sink, ready to get started with your day.
Of course, it could backfire badly. Say you forgot to turn the timer off when on vacation or something and you were teleported to work while still in your nightclothes. Or your bathrobe. Although that would be kinda cool in an Arthur Dent kinda way. More so if your boss/colleagues happen to be into the hitchiker's guide thing.

Or maybe one ought to have the option of beaming a hologram of oneself to work. Get the boring stuff done by being there but not quite there.


I've noticed lately that a lot of people seem to respond to the little nice things I manage to send in their direction. Of course, I could be imagining this.

But I'll continue living under that delusion. I'd like to think I'm making the world a better place. One sincere 'thank you' at a time. Thank you very much.

On Globalisation and equal opportunity

One of the higher ups sent this around the office today:

German biscuits by the watercooler

I was in a bit of a rush looking for something to bring back to the office to eat when in Japan.

I realize now that I bought some German biscuits – which come from a genuine Japanese department store.

I will try and find something Japanese when I come back from Germany.

Changing it up

I refuse to blog anymore.

I will, instead, blawg now.

Because I wantu.

This is my blawg. I like to blawg (occasionally). On my blawg I can do/say whatever the hell I want to blawg.

See?

It refers to pretty much every thing I post here. Except the more serious bits. Those cannot fit under the gamut of inanity and emotional atyachar I indulge in. Which means 'blawg' is copyrighted. By me.

Blawg.

Brought to you by DewdropDream Infinite. Our brand of inanity and insanity far surpasses that of any other out there.

Circle, Square ... Circus, Fair

Right. Can someone please debunk the mystery of Times Square for me please? Or even Piccadilly Circus.

Why is it that they attract hoards of tourists and new inhabitants who all want to pose against the background of a giant shiny screen and be photographed? I mean, they're just bloody giant tv screens displaying ads for god's sakes! Why the heck do you want to be photographed with your head lending (hah!) its magnificence to a lousy consumer marketing tactic? Couldn't you just stand in front of your own tv screen and take a photo?! They'd definitely be more intersting!

Are you going to look at that photo years down the line and go, "Oooo lookie! That mcdonald's/samsung/whatevertheheckcompany ad really brought out the colour of my eyes!"? WHAT?!

A magnificent cupid statue, stately architecture that allows for fantastic angles if you will but see them, a sculpture of three horses whinnying on their hind legs and a zillion other more interesting sights to remember and save for the future and people have to go and take photos of bleeding ADS. Not even interesting ones at that!!*

And don't get me started on the desi tourists. Why the fuck do you have to stare?! At other desis that too. Never seen one before or what?!**

*Although I do watch out for this ad for some phone that keeps playing, it has this guy in it who has the most adorable infectious grin.


**She says smiling at them unnerves them to no end ... I'd try that except I can't get beyond wanting to glare and fry them on the stop spot. Grrr

Edited to add: I think the anthem for such people ought to be 'Pardesiyon se na ankhiyan milana'. 'Pardesi referring to pretty much everyonethey do not know personally, even if they are desi.


Edited again to add: Why is it that Trafalgar Square doesn't get as much desi tourist traffic? Is it that intellectuality of the National Portrait Gallery, located right behind TS, staves them off? It's a pity these tourist nuisances aren't like the pigeons flocking around ... else you could do an expansive hand-gesture and watch them go 'phurrrrrrrrr' ... tch.

You and Me

Eyes meet across the expanse of a station. And feet start walking. They come within stamping distance and in a smoothly co-ordinated yet spontaneous moment, two hands switch of two music players and yank out earphones. And all this while, the only exchange is a nod of two heads.

Elsewhere a hug is being bestowed. A loving surprise hug sneaked upon the recipient. And then two pairs of eyes meet a-twinkle.

Two ears share a pair of earphones and two heads nod together in time to the music, smiles playing identically on two pairs of lips.

Two hands reach out and clas as their owners are engrossed in gazing away. At a monument, a painting, a sunset, an urban scenery, it matters not. A squeeze, that matters.

A nudge draws the attention of a pair of eyes to something interesting in the paper. And a laugh is shared.

A voice requests a song ang another begins it, halting but sweet in a clear carrying voice, made beautiful by the emotion in it.

An ordinary morning on the tube made special by the multitude of kisses that pass from one pair of lips to another, each a cherished offering bestowed with much fondness.

A shoulder upon which rests a head. A palm on which fingers play. Hair that is ruffled and cheeks that are pulled. Games of peekaboo and catch me if you can. Shared drinks and food and cigarettes and lip balm.

Moments in which you give yourself over to me completely, casting aside doubts, insecurities, hurt, anger, resentment, disappointment and gratefulness, pride, contentment, happiness, mischief and the ordinary. Moments where I rule, consume, intoxicate and overpower you.

You are every man, woman and teenager.

And I am .... Love

Veritaserum, part II

"Well, do they?"

"Now that's just too much. It's bleeding obvious even to me. I know you love baiting me but it really is the heights asking me to criticise your folks. That you're going to go for my jugular after is about as obvious as Kate Moss's ribcage!"

"Eh? How do my folks figure in any of this?!"

"Yeah then what exactly was that all about? Asking me if your GENES make you look fat?"

Bolti bandh*

"You're the love of my life"

"You're only saying that because you're drunk"

"Be that as it may, haven't you heard that people tell the truth when they're drunk?"

"If that is so, then tell me. Do these jeans make me look fat?"

Alternatively, Smart-ass

One for the men in the club

Right, all you guys out there, help me out.

How exactly do you define 'high maintenance'? As in 'She's a high maintenance girl'.

Yes, there is indeed a point to all of this. Research purposes, pliss to be answering. You'll be helping yourself by answering, the way karma works, this information will somehow filter down to the girl you land who will, out of the deep-seated louve she has for you, want to lessen your  ... erm difficulties. If you don't want to be involved, well  karma might catch you by your foot and dangle you over the worst precipice in the history of romantic entanglements of humankind. You don't want to go screwing around with karma, so chop chop. And do please be as elaborate as possible.

Spam commenters of the feel good variety, may a hundred labrador puppies descend on you, lick you enough to make you experience scuba diving and then sit on you for good measure.

Fridge-magnet Philosphy*

 * Alternative title: When fridge magnets run amok**

** Alternative to alternative title: My imagination ran away and took the fridge magnets along for a ride***

***Also known as: Aren't I clever and creative?****

****Alternatively, Don't you have a Life to get on with with, miss?

Gnat-a-porter?

So, I came home today to find an email from Catty going:

"dude... anusha dandekar wore a children's machchardani* to LFW... hilarious these celebs are!!!"

* Mosquito net

Rethinking Feminism

I had an email from a friend today, titled 'Food for thought in the times of the women's bill. See for yourself:   JUST A WHINE LIST? Is the feminist movement barking up the wrong tree, trying to secure for women the right to be men with all their failings or is there substance to the claim that your body defines your existence. Two takes Body of evidence C P SURENDRAN TIMES NEWS NETWORK    That June evening in 1910, Manavazhi Gopalan Menon was having a drink, sitting on the broad polished teak plank suspended in chains from the roof of his house in Ottapalam in Kerala. The Excise Inspector, given much to reading, was watching rain pour down from the eaves drooping over the verandah. Menon was going to say something pleasant to his wife Parukutty Amma when the glass dropped from his hand and he toppled over.    That’s how Parukutty, amateur Malayalam poet, seamstress of small silk money bags and connoisseur of sweet gooseberries, became a widow, and a single parent to three very beautiful, very long-haired, and very nasty daughters. She was 34. Parukutty fought it out alone for six long years. And, just as the suffragist movement, which culminated in Britain in 1928 with all women over 21 getting the right to vote, was peaking in the UK and US, Parukutty got married again.    She bore two sons when she was past 40. When her husband died soon after, Parukutty mourned for 40 days and then got back to the business of presiding over the chaos peopled by children, nephews and nieces, grandchildren and grown ups. And all of them got a money bag with a seed capital of a single anna on their birthdays for as long as her hands were steady enough to sew them.    Parukutty happens to be this writer’s great grandmother. She was middle class, informally educated, and worked at home round the clock as wife, widow, mother and matriarch. She was single for most of her life. But she did not whine. She took charge of her life when fortunes dipped. She went against social prejudices and remarried when remarriage, nearly a century later, is still a fraught issue. She bore children, dangerously, when post-40 motherhood was relatively unheard of.    Whatever Parukutty did, she let no man browbeat her into becoming a stereotypical role player of the female sufferer in a maledominated society. Parukutty remained herself. Which was more than a woman or a man. She was Parukutty, an individual whose essence mass movements like Feminism tend to lose sight of.    In The Feminine Mystique, Betty Friedan talks about “the problem that had no name” which plagued American women, domestic ennui. The sense of woman’s worthlessness no matter how much she worked at home, the intangibility of results and appreciation, and therefore, the lack of existential affirmation.    Friedan’s critique launched the second wave of the feminist movement — the sustained campaign for legal and social rights in the ’60s and ’70s. (The first had climaxed in the 1920s and the third wave that rose in the early 1990s is now flattening out.) It was Parukutty’s great talent that she was incapable of ennui.    Feminist movements in India have brought women a better deal. In property laws or access to education, awareness of rights or anti-dowry rulings, feminism has done its bit. But the moot question is, are these much-needed reforms feminist territory? Just as the historically oppressed classes like SCs and OBCs need social justice, so do oppressed genders, feminine or neutral. But surely that is well within the ambit of larger empowering social movements? A poor marginalised tribal boy is the same as a poor marginalised tribal girl. Why bring your body into it?    If the third wave of Feminism, which in India is limited to upper middle class women in the metros, is anything to go by — witness for example, the celebration of sexual power, from nipple piercing to nymphomania, from pornography to sheer promiscuity — the body is in full evidence at the expense of a sense of community of spirit.    The trouble with the feminist movement in India is that it has no rural roots, where the real war is social and economic, not gender. This is a chink larger than the armour. The feminists do not even have an idea who their real icon is. At one end of the spectrum they miss out on the Parukuttys. At the other, they miss out on perhaps the only authentic feminist martyr in recent history, Phoolan Devi.    Perhaps no other Indian woman represents feminist politics in praxis as Phoolan Devi does with her appalling history of abused childhood, gangraped teen years and murderous 20s. Nevertheless, except for a few awestruck academic dissertations and a clutch of bleeding heart papers on her, Phoolan was never really a feminist icon; perhaps she came across as an embarrassment of riches. Indian women’s rights activists had monumentally failed — both ideologically and strategically — to appropriate a symbol of woman power who had lived, breathed and bled for caste, class and sex rights.    Between the two ends of the spectrum, what we do have is a movement for lifestyle, where smoking, drinking and late night clubbing have taken on parodic gravitas. Feminism as Freakin’ Good Time. For, when it is all boiled down, what women seem to be fighting for is equal access to the pleasures of a material culture. A female Utopia where they can be as men, if not men themselves; as predatory and perhaps as lumpen. The masculine as the final destination of the feminine.    It is possible that in an inexorably upwardly hedonistic culture, a whole complex of issues, including the political use of the body as a weapon for self-advancement, could be seen as different fronts of the big battle to bleed the enemy into submission. In the process, though, there is every danger of the victim swapping places with the tormentor. If that’s victory, what is defeat? • No country for women SUBODH VARMA TIMES INSIGHT GROUP    Here’s a thumb rule for whenever you are involved in an argument: take the safety catch off when you hear them, very reasonably, talk about stoicism, about forbearance and about those with more trouble. In the West, it is at about this point that Rumi (“You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?”) or even Marcus Aurelius (Get rid of the ‘I am hurt,’ you are rid of the hurt itself) will be urged upon you. Here, in India, we don’t need quotes from saints and emperors. Silent acceptance and resignation has been drummed into our gene pool from centuries ago. It makes life easier for all those who wield power — men over women, upper castes over lower castes, rich over poor. Whichever way our complex society is sliced and diced, this works.    But, even a thousand anecdotes cannot wipe away some stains and get rid of hurt itself. A few days ago, Pranjali, a 17-day old baby girl was admitted to a hospital in Mumbai. She could not breathe properly. Doctors examining her made a chilling discovery. Stuck in her food pipe was a 6 cm-long iron nail tightly bound in a cloth strip. There was no way she could have accidentally swallowed it. Pranjali’s parents already have a five-year-old daughter. The police are questioning them for suspected attempt to kill off their second unwanted daughter. This, when the sex ratio among children in the 0-6 years age group in Mumbai has dropped from 933 in 1991 to 898 in 2007, and from 946 to 913 in Maharashtra. The attempt to kill Pranjali is clearly not a one-off act of barbarism — it’s a social trend that leaves about 2 million tiny lives snuffed out.    Now, multiply that by an eight-fold increase in rape over 30 years, a doubling of the number of young women burnt to death by greedy husbands and their relatives, over 27 million girls dropping out from school in order to do housework and 117 million women working 10 to 12 hours a day rolling bidis or stitching buttons for a mere Rs 30. Won’t their stoicism and forbearance start cracking up? Can we, then, be more sympathetic to the ‘whining’?    Does this mean that everybody’s life is nothing but a caravan of despair, as Rumi would say? Despair, like anger and love is an emotion, but fuelled by processed information, about what could have been, or what was. Very rarely can a person live a life filled only with despair. Humans survive because their minds are like chandeliers, reflecting a thousand lights. So, people laugh and weep, work and rest, love and hate even in the most difficult of circumstances. That should never mean that they are unwilling to change their circumstance for the better, that there is no yearning, dreaming for a better life. If not, the human species, the weakest of all animals, would have been wiped out millennia ago. We, both men and women, have survived because of this lust for life, and by changing our circumstances so that we survive better.    A very popular and widely propagated view on women is that there is no difference between men and women except their bodies. So, why whine about ‘oppression’ of women, or ‘women’s problems’? Problems are the same for everyone. Simone de Beuauvoir, the French feminist and writerphilosopher, answered this way back in the 1960s. She said that a woman is a social construct. What she meant was that apart from some major biological differences, there should be no difference in men and women as social beings. However, society has defined a whole set of ideas about what a woman should and should not be. Not only defined, but institutionalised, practiced with vehemence and coerced to be followed by everybody, including women themselves. The end result — a hypocritical social system cutting across all civilisations that calls women goddesses but treats them as personal slaves. Don’t believe the personal slave part? Check this out: even in the ‘advanced’ countries women do most if not all of the housework — making food, looking after children and the sick, fetching provisions, cleaning — in short all care work. It defines their worth, their value. That, and the fact that women are also there to provide sexual gratification, as and when demanded.    The ‘body’ has been brought into the equation not by women but by men themselves. The woman’s body has become an object for titillation, of prurient entertainment and, in a major way, a vehicle for selling stuff. Any stuff, from cement bags to chrome hub caps can see its sales curve shooting up if you introduce a hint of scantily clad woman in it. Throw in power, glamour, domination, success — and you can sell anything to anybody. This is not speculation — just google ‘women and advertising’ and you will know that it is a cornerstone of marketing strategies around the world. There is a large body of evidence — stats and all — to show the commodification of women, which is just a part of their general downgradation.    You may believe in any path for humanity to be free of hunger, want and disease, from war and violence, and from ignorance and hedonism, but no path can be traversed without the woman walking hand in hand, as an equal of man. And if that wasn't enough, in an almost poetic touch to the article, my friend's signature was scrawled beneath:

Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the horror of the shade. Yet the menace of the years, finds, and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

Boo-gle

Google annoys me most days what with trying to put words in my mouth (or my search box as it were).

Arre I don't bloody want matrimonial ads okay Google? Or a holiday home, medicines, accounting software ... yadya yada yada.

Today however, the all-knowing Google devta granted me a moment so priceless, I'd breed it if I could.

I opened an email from a distant cousin and Google displayed an ad for 'Pest Control Services'.

Heard, Read, Said

'"Yes we will all be starving, but I guess it will be worth it." I don't think even Mahatma Gandhi said that during his struggle for independence.' So quipped Y when dinner plans were delayed a fair bit and Meg said starving a bit would be worth it.

"There ought to be a law against letting your friend marry someone unsuitable"

How to terrorise your boss 101: When the boss is still new and accidentally drops something on your desk, say "You don't have to throw things at me to get my attention you know?". Hear boss giggle. Score!

Furnishing the bathroom 101: Wake up one weekend to see a shower rack that wasn't there the night before. And have the housemate say "Oh yeah! I was really really drunk last night and I found this while we were out, someone had thrown it away and I picked it up although my friends were all 'WHAT are you doing!' and then I called a cab and the cab driver refused to let me take it with me so I stood there telling him 'But it's clean! It's been in the rain!' until he let me bring it with me."

"Can't give chocolate to dogs. It's poisonous for them apparently"
"See this is why men don't like chocolate much"

"Now tell me what tyro is"
"Tyra? When she becomes fat?"

"Main teri mohabbat mein... pagal ho jaoongi... mujhe aisa lagta hai... tujhe kaisa lagta haiiiiii"
"Mujhe bhook lagta hai"

Of Anticipation and Disappointment

Let's get disappointment outta the way first. I watched Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. After months of waiting for it to release and practically jumping up and down in my seat at the theatre, squealing fit to give competiton to a pig, what do I get? A big fat ZERO. Truly, that's what the movie is.

SPOILER ALERT!!!

I thought the casting was inspired, Uma Thurman as Medusa (seriously, how beautiful is she with those lips and those eyes ... eyes like twin blue inviting pools that you could drown in ... lest you were actually facing Medusa in which case darling, Pathar Ke Sanam be your fate), Pierce Brosnan as Chiron (how did they manage to do the horse-stamping-its-hooves thing while he stood steady and talked to Percy?!), the heroes of the books, Percy, Annabeth and Grover were cast well and did a fairly good job. Although I still cannot get over Annabeth having dark hair. She's BLONDE for godssake!!! Having said that, our Annabeth is a mighty good looking young heroine with flashing eyes and enough intrigue. Athena wasn;t that great a pick though ... I'd have preferred Monica Belluci as Athena. The woman would have been perfect for the role with that smouldering sizzling svelte thing she has going on. And WHY does Percy's mum look so old and wrinkly?!

Also, it was a bit of a waste having all these people in there considering they only got about a couple minutes airtime and maximum five lines each. What the hell?!

But most importantly, Chris Columbus,

WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING CHANGING THE PLOT LIKE THAT?!

Gods do NOT show themselves to mortals. Certainly not in their 20 feet tall godly forms. WHY would Zeus and Poseidon meet on the top of the bloody Empire State Building when Olympus is right above them in all its splendour?! WHY?! It's not like you had to spend extra money to create that set since you used it later so why exactly would two gods meet on a manky looking rooftop?!

And speaking of the gods, Percy does not know he is Poseidon's son till he wins in Capture the flag against CLARISSE, the child of Ares. Whom you did away with TOTALLY. As did you with all that underplay between Luke and Annabeth. And why oh why did you have to get Percy and her all gooey-eyed in the FIRST movie.

All that aside, PEARLS?! The plot is about three demi-gods on a quest to find PEARLS to escape from the underworld where they have gone to convince Hades of Percy's innocence in the theft of the Lightning Bolt?! Do you realise how wrong that is?! That was supposed to be the ruddy twist in the tale. They were supposed to be recovering the Bolt and discovering who had set them up. Hunting PEARLS?! BAH. And where did you dream up that rubbish about Percy's mom escaping with them from the Underworld?! Just HOW was she supposed to add anything to the story by being there instead of Grover?! She can't make nifty moves like Grover and Camp-half blood and Olympus are restricted access areas to her. What did you think changing places between her and Grover would do?! For the love of the gods!

Another thing, what's this rubbish about Chiron and Percy getting all gooey-eyed and this business about being favourite student, eh?! The gods are not allowed to favour demi-gods. Ever. Did you not read the books?! Were you not listening when the script was being read to you?! Did you not think it worth your while to THINK about what you were doing?!

It was a rather fast paced movie, not at all what was required. The whole Lotus Casino sequence and that bit where Grover zaps the Hydra using Medusa's head were the only saving graces.

Why oh why did you spoil such a beutiful thing? Why oh why?!

Sorry about all the spoilers but it isn't worth going to the theatre for this rubbish. Wait till the DVD comes out and then too only watch it just because. Some books really do not deserve being messed around with, I wish someone had seen this was one of them. Sigh.

My disappointment aside, it's been a month of waiting. It'll continue for a while. Among the things I await are the Stereophonics concert(s) happening next month ... weeks away, eeekkk!!! And the release of The Blonde Bombshell by Tom Holt, The Kane Chronicles by Rick Riordan and Odd and the Frost Giants by Neil Gaiman.

And summer.