purple mohair and other crimes

Ever looked at something in a store on a mannequin and thought ' God I'd look good in that'. So you try it on and in your euphoric bubble of 'I've discovered the look of the season' you convince yourself that this is the closest you've ever looked to Lily Cole or Erin O'Connor. You then proceed to shell out your hard earned money on a pink and purple, mohair wrap that honestly leaves you looking more like a multi-coloured dust bunny than a super model.

So this past Monday I decided it was time to let the world see what a fashion diva I am. That I too could be bold and daring in a country that's given the fashion world geniuses like Vivienne Westwood and Alexander McQueen. So I accessorised my black trouser-ethnic top-red sweater outfit with my very Scottish looking mohair cape. The look was William Wallace meets Phoolan Devi in black chords.

Now all was well till I got to the station. Probably because I couldn't see the startled glances from passers by and the mothers who were shielding their toddlers from the abominable pink snowlady. But the minute I boarded my train, that was when my troubles (as always) started.

The train was jam packed with commuters. I caught sight of a free seat between two dark suited City types, their noses buried in the FT. As I wedged myself between them, my carefully draped wrap looked more like a tent caught in force 5 gale. The noses buried in the newspaper began to twitch, and soon I was shielding myself from a sneezing storm caused by the tiny strands of mohair that had made their way to the middle aged nasal cavities reddened by the autumn chill.

Matters were not helped by the 'I look like a supermodel and have a 3 digit IQ' woman in the sharp suit and original Fendi bag who chose to sit right opposite me. If ever I have wanted to throw myself in front of speeding train, it was then.

The wrap spent the rest of the day in my bag. I figured I'd rather freezethan look like a giant cat that's been violated by children with crayolas. Who knows, maybe blue skin will be the new look of the season.

OTHER FASHION CRIMES AND MISDEMEANOURS

• Coloured tights and brown Doc Martens
• Bermudas that had stripes on one leg and stars on the other. Yankee Doodle gone wrong
• A fringe/flick/bangs that would not have been out of place in a Cindi Lauper video
• Green nailpolish that looked like I'd dipped my fingers in sewage gunk
• A sweater dress that changed my figure from pear-shaped to Coca Cola bottle

PS. If you see a naked, cold, pissed off looking Angora Goat anywhere let me know... I have something that belongs to it.

Errant strand of hair

It was her husband’s birthday, yet it was she who felt older somehow. She looked at the sink full of dishes, clothes that either needed to be washed, ironed or folded; mixed together in a sickening mound of natural and man made fibres. But first – dinner. The fridge was almost empty. A gnarled radish sat forlorn in the corner. Potatoes past their shelf life let out a faint, radio active green gleam. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’ she thought, hating herself immediately for the cliché.

Maybe she wouldn’t cook tonight she thought. But as she rifled through the take away menus, a wave of guilt flooded her. No she would cook herself, hoping the action would help her gain acceptance in the eyes of all those wives before her. Women who had set the bar far too high for her petite 5 foot 2 frame.

Proceedings were slow in the kitchen that night. The radioactive potatoes began to look like nuclear waste as they boiled, and her recalcitrant pressure cooker refused to open. After an hour of simmering and sautéing, she settled down in front of the tv, meal on lap, channel tuned to a hindi serial. She had gotten used to eating with the cast of weeping bahus and tyrannical saasu-mas.

Meal and melodrama over, she looked with dread at kitchen sink. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow she thought. Who says they have to be done tonight?’ She waited a moment, almost expecting a benign spirit to pop through the woodwork and state that one of the tenets of being a good housewife washing the vessels every night.

She trudged upstairs to fold and hang the clothes up to dry. She looked at the guest room bed, and could hardly make out the silk duvet under all the clothes. As she sat folding and sorting them out, she felt that first ominous pang of emotion. She was going to cry. She swallowed the lump in her throat and began hanging the clothes out to dry on the radiator. She felt the first tear roll down her throat and knew it was useless holding the others back. She sat on the edge of the bed, the damp baniyan in her hand and sobbed. She didn’t know how long she sat there like that, crying and wiping the tears away with a freshly laundered sock.

The feelings subsided. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and oiled her hair. Tucking the unnamed emotions away as one would an errant strand of hair.

On a pedestal

When I was growing up I had no role models – well no famous ones at least. There were no posters of sports stars and celebrities who inspired me – though I am ashamed to admit Akshay Kumar adorned the back of my door for a brief period. (An episode I can only blame on the effect of artificial food colourings on a child’s brain). Back to the topic at hand though.

I did have role models in my family though – I admired my sister’s dedication to her studies, my father’s cool head and my mother’s way with people. There was the uncle upstairs who could identify every raga known to classical music and a Sanskrit teacher who was the epitome of knowledge and goodness. But I wasn’t one for knowing what was so-and-so’s favourite food, what what’s-his-name’s dog was called, or how many shoes her-name-fails me had. But that was just me I guess.

While the rest of my generation idolised sports stars and the odd thespian, today’s children look up to a whole host of pr-savvy, media packaged stars from every field imaginable. Footballers and their wives are revered and worshipped everywhere. But how accountable can we hold them?

After their recent Ashes victory the England Cricket team went on a 24 hour partying binge. The papers splashed pictures of a red-eyed Freddy Flintoff holding an assortment of alcoholic beverages and cigars, being supported by team mates as he stumbled in to No 10. While most people felt that it was a well-earned celebration, there was a section of the media and public that felt that Mr. Flintoff was setting a poor example to all those kids who thought of him as a hero.

Even more recently, Kate Moss has been all over the tabloids and telly for snorting cocaine and having lesbian threesomes with others of the infamous Primrose Hill Set. The 31 year old supermodel is said to spend £200 a day on coke and her on again off again druggie boyfriend doesn’t help matters. After the grainy images of Ms. Moss snorting lines off a CD were published, the media was sure that her million pound contracts with Dior, Burberry and H&M would be under threat. While the former two fashion houses have not made any comments regarding the incident, H&M initially supported Moss and said that they had no intention of terminating her £1 million dollar contract. But in a sudden volte-face a day later they issued a statement saying that they had had to let go of her as her actions were in conflict with their no-drugs stance. A wise move, as most of their clientele are young teenage girls who already think that Ms Moss rocks.

But is it fair? As much as we all bitch about them, celebs do have a tough time. How would we like it if our every move was scrutinised, our every outfit attacked and every aspect of our life dissected. Would making millions every year make up for having a messy divorce and custody battle becoming tabloid fodder? Should a role-model status be foisted on celebs who – lets face it have no business being role models? I mean seriously, other than being blessed with great cheekbones and a photogenic face what has Miss Moss got to teach kids? It’s the media that makes these celebs out as demi-gods and the same media that snatches the pedestals away from under their rather fit rear ends.

It’s hard enough being a teenager today. For many of them, as sad and pathetic as it sounds, these celebrities are the only people they have to look up to. But who should we blame? Celebs who don’t take being a role model seriously? The media for
over–hyping anyone with a modicum of success in their chosen field? Kids for not being more discerning in their choices? Or parents for not providing their children with someone to look up to closer home?

All this makes me very grateful for the role models I had growing up. I know their birthdays, what their favourite food is and till date none of them have had a not-so-secret drug habit. Thanks for not screwing up Mom and Dad.

UPDATE The media frenzy continues...all the tabloids today reported that Miss Moss has been dropped by Burberry, Chanel and possibly Vanderbilt Jeans. The head of the Met POlice Sir Ian Blair wants to get personally involved with a case investigating her drug habits, and social workers are going to see whether she's a fit parent or not. 'Cocaine Kate' and 'Kate Cracking up' are the buzz words of the day...

Sign up!

Ok people! Get your wallets out for this

Time to do a good turn for someone else and stop stuffing your face with croissants!

Biologists around the world are rejoicing at a new species they have recently discovered.

Lollipop (Bimboentess Anoerexius) Found predominantly in hilly areas, these creatures are believed to thrive in the sunshine and are attracted to excessive amounts of attention. Attracted to sudden, bright flashes of light they can be spotted by excessively large, often empty heads and disproportionately stick-like bodies, hence the name. Their food habits puzzle zoologists, as they seem to eat nothing but air.

winter

The sun plays hide and seek
Perma tans melt
Revealing strawberry and cream freckles
Turtle necks creep up slender throats
The brave, foolish and hopeful shiver in their cotton garb
Ignoring the uninvited guest that stands at their door

When you're detoxing each aroma inhaled assaults the senses like one of Govinda's yellow and purple outfits. After a weekend of binging on every evil known to weighing scales and hips, I vowed that every Monday would be a day devoted to cleansing my system with fresh fruit and veg. Now the wisdom of doing this on a Monday is - well there is no wisdom. I'd bought enough fresh fruit to win the Guinness book's biggest fruit cake record, and god dammit I was gonna eat some fruit.

So Monday morning dawned dull and overcast as it is want to in this part of the world. As I reached for the filter and carefully rationed Leo Coffee Powder my slumber laden eyes caught sight of this sign that my own treacherous hands had penned. 'hot water + lime + honey in the morning :)' As I fought the urge to wipe the grin off the smiley's non-existent face, I gulped down then concoction through gritted teeth. A feat that deserved a Guinness Record of it’s own if you ask me.

An hour and a banana later, my week had gotten off to a wonderful start. A headache was buzzing around me trying to wangle its way through my nose (My headphones effectively blocking out the most natural entry point). However it was as I entered the bowels of the London Underground that my half full bag of woes began to get heavier and heavier.

Chicken sandwiches began to smell alarmingly tempting. Not good for a life long vegetarian. Every coffee, latte and espresso in a 10-mile radius had my mouth watering. (There’s a poster of me up on the tube as a Dangerous Pervert who gets her jollies sniffing other people’s cappuccinos.)

I had to run to my platform to escape the call of the Danish Pastries at King’s Cross. They sat in rows, tarted up like mermaids singing out to sailors whose fate was already doomed.

I clawed my way to a seat and wedged myself between two other commuters. I regretted it immediately as I found myself surrounded by bagels, wraps and subs. I was a gladiator trapped in a calorific Coliseum. I took a big defiant bite of my apple. (Which kind of looked like a donut at the time)

The rest of the day passed by in a blur of pears, seedless grapes and caffeine free coffee. I’m ashamed to admit it, but every time I felt a salt craving I sucked my thumb (Now my colleagues think I have suppressed childhood traumas that are manifesting through finger sucking and the Telitubbies screensaver on my computer)

So here are my top tips for detoxing:
1) Lots of fresh fruit and veggies
2) Drink enough water to have to pee every half hour
3) Use your imagination! If you’re really creative you can make a cucumber look like a Frankie 4) Distract yourself when your feeling hungry. If you tear your hair out trying to Sudoku your hunger will seem trifling compared to a bald patch

Now excuse me while I stock up on some chocolate flavoured lip balm.

Studio 55

Saw this on Prufrock's blog and thought it would be a fun thing to do. Here are my 55 word short stories.

Fear 1

Her skirt billowed behind her as she walked home. The first tug at her skirt made her think of the drunk at the station. She walked faster. The second tug made her whirl around, ‘bastard’ threatening to slide off the tip of her tongue. Nothing but empty space and the hem caught in her shoe.

Fear 2

She hurried along the alley, the overflowing bin a safe distance from her nose. She realised too late that she had left the front door open to axe murderers, rapists and the boogie man. The rest of the evening was spent downstairs, jumping at every moaning pipe and rustling tree. A knife under the cushion.

(Both are 'based' on things that have happened to me. Yes I'm a scaredy cat. And yes. I'm stupid)

Of kozhakattais and paper umbrellas

Happy Ganesh Chaturthi people! This is one of my favourite festivals! Kozhakattais being only one of the many reasons why.

I have some lovely memories of Ganesh Chathurthi. When my Grandmother was living with us, I remember her frail frame swathed in a nine-yard cocoon of silk. She would sit on the kitchen floor and make her famous sweet and uppu kozhakattais, making delicate petal shaped cases for the sweet and savoury fillings. My sister and I would pester her and she would reluctantly agree to let us help. Our own cases were either too thick or too thin, but she would always include them in the pressure cooker telling us that they were just fine.

I remember going with my mother to Madavidhi in Madras and picking out our mann-pulaiyar and colourful paper umbrella to stave off the opressive heat.

I remember the giant puliayar statue in my college courtyard (I went to an unashamedly hindu college) that we would chat with every morning before heading to the day's first lecture. The day before chaturthi we would have a big puja and all of us would head back to class clutching sweet boondhi and some mixture.

I remember my first visarjan day in Bombay. I had no idea why people were packing up at 12:30 in the afternoon and getting ready to go home. A colleague dropped me under the Mahim - Bandra flyover and I remember walking home passed throngs of people carrying Ganeshas of all shapes and sizes, shouting out an unheard slogan 'Ganpathi Bappa Morya!'

I remember a year later, driving home from an office party on visarjan day and watching the famous Lal Bhag Ka Raja being escorted to his watery abode. It's a sight I will never forget. It was about 2 am and there were thousands of people lined along the road side waiting for their beloved saviour to give them darshan. The float itself was gigantic. Priests walked alongside it distributing prasad to the devotees.

This year will give me no memories of floats and kozhakattais. There will be no Nepean Sea rd Ganpati Mandal playing songs and dancing outside my window at 2 am. But there will be the memories of all the Ganesh Chaturtis gone past to give me comfort. (And Sundal and paysam that would have made my paati proud)

War

I try not to hate Monday mornings... really I do. So when I woke up today with a splitting headache, I told myself 'Don't blame Monday, it could have happened any other day of the week. Relax, today will be fine.'

I trudged downstairs for my morning shot of caffeine. No disasters there. And then as I looked through the kitchen window I noticed it. Rain. In the night. And all the clothes I'd forgotten to bring inside drenched in it. Crisp white handkerchiefs drooping under the weight of the absorbed water like forlorn peace flags.

'Take a deep breath. Do not flip out. It's ok.' I repeated the mantra to myself as I wrung the clothes out and hung them inside the living room.

A few asprins and a hot shower later, the ache in my head had subsided to a nagging pain. As I dabbed on the war paint, God and Monday plucked the final straw right out of my desperate fingers. There, on the side of my face the first signs of... pimples.

ADULT ACNE? REALLY GOD IS THIS FAIR? IS THIS PUNISHMENT FOR THE MATHS TEST I FAILED IN CLASS 5 AND NEVER TOLD MY PARENTS ABOUT? IS THIS FOR LYING ABOUT MY WEIGHT? IS THIS BECAUSE I FORGOT JANMASHTAMI AND MADE KHEER THAT WAS ACTUALLY HOT MILK WITH SUAGR AND SAFFRON?WHY GOD WHY?

It's official. I have declared war on Monday. The day no longer exists for me. I have washed my hands of it, like fathers do of libidinous daughters in Tamil films.

Got Milk?

Heard on Radio 4's morning news

" ...and in other news a thief has been terrorising a London neighbourhood by stealing the residents' milk bottles from their doorsteps. The thief sometimes leaves mocking notes for his victims saying 'Fancy your cereal dry?' "

There's nothing like a weird bit of news to get the day going!

13th time lucky?

last week, King Mswati of Swaziland embarked on a hunt for his 13th wife and watched thousands of bare chested hopefuls perform the Reed Dance before making his choice.

The 37-year-old is King of a country with one of the highest AIDS prevalence rates in the world -- close to 40 percent of its adults are infected. Not only that, in order to keep his wives apart from one another, Mswati has decided to build new palaces for each of them. The International Monetary Fund has advised the government against luxury expenditures in the face of 'a declining economy, a record high budget deficit, rising poverty and food shortages among ordinary Swazis.' But Mswati said he would continue to spend as he sees fit.

The traditional Reed Dance was videotaped by courtiers so the king could review the participants later (eww). The ceremony has developed a reputation as an audition to join Mswati's household, with a number of previous dancers having been selected as royal brides. But not all are willing participants. Two girls were abducted from their schoolyards without their parents' permission. Mswati, who already has 11 official wives, has another fiancee chosen in 2002 who is still awaiting a traditional marriage ceremony.

Women's rights groups had expressed hopes that Mswati would be satisfied with 12 wives, although Swazi tradition puts no limit on the number a king may select. Mswati's father, King Sobhuza, had more than 40 wives and is said to have sired about 600 children.

I still haven't decided what's the worse thing about this story. Thousands of teenage girls dancing in the hope of becoming 'Queen'. The fact that this man spent millions on his Birthday celebrations and grandiose architectural vision while most of country gets by on about $1 a day.
Or that with the AIDS epidemic staring him in the face he leads by example and gets married every year.

Also I don't see what the fuss is about. I mean look at him.

Update: Before his coronation, the King had to prove his bravery and valour by slaying a lion. A task he readily completed. And why wouldn't he - the poor beast was sedated.

waiting

Wait till you're older

Wait till we move in to the new house

Wait till you get a job

Wait for interest rates to drop

Let's wait for Nitya

Wait till you get a better job

Wait till the next book is released

Wait till the dal is fully cooked

Wait wait wait... I'm sick of waiting. For things to get better, for someone to die and leave me a huge amount of money, for everything that's going to happen to improve my life.

Why doesn't anyone ever say 'Screw waiting! Go ahead and do what you want right now'.

I'd like to go home now. But I have to wait for the rain to stop.

Kaun Banega Cho***ya

As I type this Amitabh Bachchan is hosting KBC2 in a natty black suit, mismatched red hair and salt and pepper beard and lots of charm. Sitting across from him is Mr.Contestant. For Rs. 20,000 the question is

Which of these takes 365.242 days to complete?

A Earth’s revolution
B Earth’s rotation
C Sun’s rotation
D Sun’s revolution

Now after humming and hawing for a very long time Mr Contestant decides to ask the audience.

The audience takes 10 seconds to vote for options B A C in that order.

Mr Contestant goes for option A. The Big B does his Lock-kiya jaye routine and Mr C gets nervous and says ‘No no I will use 50-50’. The Computer then gets rid of options B and D and our dear contestant is forced to remember basic school-level physics.

Faced with Earth’s revolution and Sun’s rotation as options Mr Contestant is still unsure of the answer and opts to call a friend.

His friend after demanding that he gets Rs. 15,000 of his friends earnings for providing the winning answer, takes his own sweet time to offer C as the answer. (showing he fully deserves the money)

This only goes to prove that the people invited to participate in game shows (and their friends) have about the same IQ as Priyanka Chopra did on the night she won Ms. World (Dead sweety dead! Mother Teresa is DEAD)

And here is further proof that game show contestants will never win a Nobel Prize and will probably lose out to chimps as volunteers in brain research programs. (‘No No ex game show contestant. Touch your nose. Not your ass')

From The Weakest Link UK.

Anne Robinson (evil host) Which illness is named after it’s high temperature and red skin colouration?

Contestant Yellow fever

And some more proof…

The Richard Allison Show, radio 2

Richard Allison Which international brand shares its name with the Greek goddess of victory?

Contestant Erm… Kelloggs?

Oh and for those of you wondering Mr Contestant finally chose option A, won the 20 grand only to crash out 10 minutes later.

Sorry honey!

I was moaning to my friend about how I was finding it harder and harder to find space for books in my house. And that if I bought any more books I would have to get rid of my husband to make space for them.

And he asked a very interesting question...

'If you could replace your husband with a book, which one would it be?'

So I ask the same question now... if you could replace a spouse with a book... which one would it be?

Bath tub spas

At $785 a night, The Reethi Rah isn't a resort you'll find on The Backpackers Guide To Male. And as one of The Leading Hotels of the World, it isn't favoured by the jet-set for nothing. It offers manicures and pedicures by world-famous podiatrist Bastien Gonzalzez (though why a Doctor of Medicine would want to give pedis to the rich and famous is beyond me... famous foot fetish perhaps?) The One & Only Reethi Rah (as it is always referred to in hushed revered tones) is most famous of course for it's spa.With Vitality Pools, Crystal Steam rooms, Sauna, Lifestyle Showers and stimulating Ice Fountains (something like sticking your head in an ice box) it's a place where 'time has meaning'. And here I was thinking otherwise.

As a spa junkie, The One &Only Reethi Rah is a dream holiday destination for me. There is nothing that leaves me happier than a good massage, lots of incense and strains of a didgeridoo or some other pagan instrument wafting in the air.

Now as a lowly copywriter, my salary does not afford regular spa trips, unless I choose to not eat for a few months or sell a kidney. So I do the next best thing. I bring the spa home.

I'm a sucker for books about home spas and detoxes. Any hardback book printed on recycled paper that allowed a community of poisonous frogs to survive in the Amazon will have me reaching for my credit car faster than you can say Dendrobates duellmanni. I have a small library that tells me to stew nettle leaves for glossy hair, St.John's Wort (eww) for better skin and Primrose oil for brighter eyes. But since I'm not one of the three witches from Macbeth I take a short cut and go to The Body Shop. God bless Anita Roddick, I hear cauldrons are a bitch to clean.

So now back to home spa-ing. It's easy really. If armed with a few candles (not like the ones we use during power cuts - nice scented ones), natural sounding products that have saved seaweed beds off the coast of Northern Island and funded the IRA and a glossy magazine any one can spa at home!

So on Sunday, armed with all these things I bid goodbye to my husband, left him his dinner on the table and descended in to spa-heaven.

The hot oil head massage (which left my arms begging for a massage of their own) was followed by the hot towel head wrap. Now this is tricky. If the water is too hot it will leave you looking a singed cartoon character, if it's not hot enough it's like wrapping a giant boogger around you head.

So there I was suitably oiled with a face pack on and a rapidly cooling towel on my head. And I took out the home made almond and cashew paste (hey looking good ain't cheap). Since I had a face pack on I rubbed it on my hands and feet. As the fragrance of nuts enveloped me, I had a brief vision of giant squirrels breaking down the bathroom door and trying to eat my limbs.

I followed this with a foot scrub and decided to run a nice hot bubble bath. As the tub filled with steaming water and camomile bath salts, I tried reading this months issue of Living etc. A little hard considering the fact that my hands had turned in to nut treats.

Now when spa-ing it's important to prepare a check-list. And number 1 on that checklist is to make sure that there's enough hot water to fill a bath tub. And as I lowered myself in to the tub I realised that this was something that I had overlooked (one of the occasions in life where the saying 'better late than never' does not apply) After trying for 5 minute to to relax in the luke warm water, I decided to turn the hot water on and wait for for the nice hot soak I deserved. A considirable wait as many of you know. And to pass the time, what did I do? I dumped live Greek Yoghurt on my hair and massaged the rest in to my arms. Not a clever thing to do, as the bathroom was slowly starting to resemble a meat locker - cold and smelly.

After a painfully cold 45 minute wait, I showered in water that was as lukewarm as it had been three quarters of an hour before. The Greek Yoghurt mixed with the lavender body scrub, and the tingling sensation I was promised was more like third degree burns.

So after almost two hours of feeling cold, wet and burnt, struggling with imaginary giant squirrels and trying to put out small fires started by the candles I emerged. The bathroom was a mess, I was no where near relaxed and I exuded a fragrance that was a mix of Greek dairy hand and Naturals' roasted almond ice cream (proximity to candles not advised)

So have I learned anything from this experience? I hope to. I really do. And to help me, I have a fresh copy of Luxury Spa's at Home in my bag.

Mangal gets Bungled

OK, so I'm not a professional film critic, but hey I paid good money to go see a film so I think I should get to comment on it. Note: In my review no fancy words will be used, I will not name drop big names like Udayakumar and Singeetham Sreenivasa Rao or even what's his name... oh yeah, Spielberg. It will also be a short review.

First of all, I felt let down by Aamir Khan. After waiting four years for one of his films I can't help but think - this is it? This is what he's been doing? He grew that moustache and horrible mullet for this?

I can only blame the director. The pace of the film was often disrupted with songs that had no business being there (Rahman disappoints - Mangala was lovely but the others failed to impress). It was as though every time he wasn't sure what to do next he put in a song to give him sone time to figure things out.

The dialogues were average. Strange as it was to see Aamir sprout dialogues in English, his Hindi lines were even less effective. When he's firing up his comrades to fight the Brits it left me cold. I couldn't help but think of movies like Bravheart and the Patriot. Those pre-battle speeches made me want to go and fight with them. Aamir seemed so trite. Wide glaring eyes don't make up for bad dialogue.

The women in the film were superflous. Rani was alright and Amisha was screechy whenever she came on screen (which wasn't alot - honey, why were you making so much noise about this role? The sweeper in the film had more dialogues than you did)

The gora who played Captain Gordon was good, and some of the scenes between him and Aamir were lovely to watch.

On the whole not great not bad. WHich is terrible I think. A film should touch you in some way. Even if you really hate a movie at least it incites some kind of reaction in you. Mangal Pandey left me exactly as it had found me. Hungry.

I have had the finest of wines ( a bit wasted on me, as my untrained palatte can not tell the difference between Cabernet Sauvignon and a Mataro Shiraz). I've feasted at the finest restaurants, sipped Cappuccinos in Rome and enjoyed lazy lunches on Parisian sidewalks that made me believe I was Catherine Deneuve.
But nothing tastes as good as curd rice and mango pickle on a hot summer's afternoon. Nothing.

Happy Garden Gnome Day

The Italian Government has just passed a law setting aside October 2nd as Grandparents' Day. This is apparently an effort to honour grandparents who are integral to helping raise children and passing on age-old traditions.

Now it's a lovely thought. My own grandmother was a very important part of my life. But I can't help think that this too will one day become a Hallmark monopolised media circus. Oh wait, that's already happened. Apparently, The Italian Goverment will also be handing out 'best grandparent' prizes to those senior citizens who have made the most contribution to their family and society. I wonder what they'll get - free dentures and a year long subscription to Life at 80+?

If only Governments would spend time and money on senior citizen health and welfare instead of yet another meaningless day that no one will remember next year.

Also, here are some of my own suggestions for Happy ____ Day Celebrations.

1. Garden Gnome Day - come rain or shine they're out their in our gardens looking ugly
2. Silicon Implant Day - celebrating the miracles of modern science in anti-gravity studies
3. Survivors Day - for those who have battled and survived botched boob jobs, freak DIY accidents and incidents involving super glue

Suggestions are welcome

Celebrity

When I was growing up the only celebrities we knew of were actors, singers, professional sportsmen and charismatic politicians ( a breed that seems to have died with Rajiv Gandhi).

As satellite dishes mushroomed across the city, lunch time talk veered from Rajni and Kamal to the shennanigans of the residents of Santa Barbara (known to our grandmothers as Shaantha Barbra) and the forever 16 residents of Beverly Hills 90210.

Fastforward to 2005. The term celebrity seems to have undergone more changes then Cher's face. In India, film stars and cricketers have been forced to share the limelight with the likes of Shefali something or the other, the secretary every one wants - Rakhi Savant and a random mix of socialites, fashion designers and lifestyle gurus.

But one phenomenon that has yet to splash itself all over Indian papers is the reality TV celebrity. Now I'm not talking about Indian Idol winners or those whiny kids from MTV Roadies. I'm talking about the likes of Abi Titmuss (I swear that's her name), Kinga, Kate Lawler and Vanessa Feltz. Names every proud British citizen worth his/her crumpet knows.

These people have all at some time or the other won, been a part of or been humiliated on a reality show. They have no talent other than the ability to let millions of people tune in every week and watch them eat, bathe or fornicate with bugs. And they all have managed to cash in on their few seconds in the spotlight.

Take for example Ms. Titmuss. After a high profile relationship with another vague Brit celeb, she went on to appear in The Sun and Daily Mail giving interviews about her ex-love. She then began to appear in a number of lads' magazines with very very little on (earning every inch of her last name). Ms Titmuss is now a regular on shows like 'I'm a celebrity get me out of here' and more recently 'Celebrity Love Isalnd'

Now I don't have a problem with the fact that these people have made money and earned fame from simulating sex with an inflated doll. So why have I been going on and on?

A recent survey of girls aged between 9-15 in the UK revealed that more than 60% of them thought being a celeb reality show participant was good career choice. Lap dancing came in at number two followed by being a glamour model (i.e posing topless for The Sun). Many of them mentioned Jordan and Abi Titmuss as role models.

And the thing is many Brits I mentioned this to found it amusing. And didn't see that 10-15 years from now their country wouldn't have enough teachers and doctors to serve society. Something that will no doubt force them to reach out even more to their former colonies for skilled professionals.

So how outrageous is the idea that England's immigrant numbers are in someway linked to thong clad celebs ? Perhaps Mr Blair should ask Ms Titmuss to button up.