Thursday 30 November, 2006

Second Fiddle and Other Stories

1. In an orchestra, the position of second violinist (fiddle) is not as glamorous as that of first violinist. The poor bastard. I empathise.

2. When my sister and I were younger, we would celebrate Boris Becker's birthday, every year, for many years. One year, we even baked a cake. When Becker lost to Michael Stich in the 1991 Wimbledon finals, I broke a part of a door. Like my sister (Potato) said, those were simpler times, but we still had to write exams.

3. I cry every time a salesman knocks on my door. Last afternoon, I got home early. A salesman knocked on my door. I asked him to please leave, and cried for 40 minutes. I think something's wrong with me.

4. Nobody knows you when you're down and out. Actually, that's not entirely true, but I want to complain and exaggerate, do you mind.

5. A blog is a Boomsa's best friend. It doesn't judge me, I can talk to it whenever I want and it's only mean if I want it to be. I can't imagine why I ever stopped writing.

6. All I want for Christmas is to sleep at night. And socks that do not end annoyingly just below my ankle. What is that. And why did I ever buy so many of those. I want normal socks that know their job and want to keep you warm at night. Not just till where it thinks your ankles begin. Socks need anatomy training. I want warm intelligent sensible socks. In red and orange and purple, and preferably with flying cows on them.

7. I wrote a letter in reply to my brother-in-law's postcard a couple of weeks back. I still haven't sent it. Since then, I've received another postcard from him. This is an apology in public to you, Pink. I will post it today.

8. I wish you weren't leaving, Jakes. I really wanted to talk to you. Have a great trip. Kissy.

9. Please visit http://orangebiriyani.blogspot.com She is my best friend. And so like the perfect pair of socks. See the horses galloping galloping down the country lane!

10. Language is leaving me.

1 comment:

JP said...

'I can't imagine why I ever stopped writing.'

Indeed.