I think I can never be happy. I don't probably like it so much. I am more at home with being depressed. What would make me happiest now? To be able to go back home, to not have to do the job I do. To relax, let go.
I don't think happiness is dependent on one getting what they set their minds on. As Dibbo said, or perhaps didn't, it's a state of being. It comes to me only in short flashes.
The year will end tomorrow. It's not been a bad year, really. I got the flat emptied, I came away, like I'd wanted for ages. But they didn't really happen the way I would have liked them to. It is, as it always is, about gritting your teeth and bearing the situation.
I was looking at photographs of people in JU. There was an album that had me in splits, absolutely. Another that made me remember what it was like to be in college. Another, that seemed to suggest the people in it were happy, even though they had left college.
It's neither here nor there.
Like today. Which wasn't bad as a day, but was hard to swallow if you thought of the circumstance it came in.
One tiny day, when you wanted to rest and venture out, finish chores and eat out. Play with dogs, who would dirty your clothes, which you would have to wash. To know that you were away from your dog, in a job you did not enjoy, in a city you did not like and not know if there was anything in this world that could ever make you completely happy.
Like, ever.

It is like, bloody cold in Dilli. i am sitting at home with a cold and when i breathe out, i can see the dhowa. my hands are too cold to type. ami chollam.

The sense of a man standing close, hinting at softness. You keen towards that body, wanting to reach out and be enveloped in the warmth. You yearn with half-remembered longing for what it feels to be with a man.

Maybe it is just the novelty. Maybe it isn't missing what is familiar.

But here, in faraway Delhi, I am allowed to long for someone's touch, anyone who is halfway kind: to be kissed and loved and to be allowed to rest.
That there is a time for rest, a time to stop fighting, to stop looking over your back, that with some people, you can relax.

For the new year, can I ask for calmer days, easier times, to be loved up?

Today is my off-day. I wait for it like I didn't in Calcutta. But a large chunk of every off day is ultimately spent in catching up with chores. I head out in the evening, to some market or the other and come back with a bag heaving with groceries. Not any bag, actually. It's Madhura's bag, the one she liked so much and the one which I'd said I'd courier to her but never did. I like it so much as well. And well, embarrassment, the usual stuff.
I like grocering, I like what the act involves: looking through the gleaming, fresh vegetables, asking the rates, looking for a bargain, picking up the new cheese, or ice-cream or sauce (I bought Plum sauce today. And it's not horrendous, I tasted.) what I don't want to give away to it is time and energy.
Here, doing something for myself more often than not means not doing something else I want to do or which needs to be taken care of. Buying a 3g data card recharge coupon today meant not going to Majnu ka tilla for momo,something I'd been mulling over through the week. Hurrying back for grocery meant no time to look for new cell phone. Wanting to relax after a bath in the evening meant no cooking, ordering in food, which still irks me right now.
The floors haven't been swabbed in weeks, I haven't yet gotten around to cleaning out the box bed and putting in stuff there. The bed sheet needs to be washed as well, likewise for the kitchen top.
Then there is home. There is trouble at home. That apart, I feel terrible about staying away from my dog. Sometimes I fear she is slipping away from me. I look at the photos of her, us and there's an ache inside. I feel guilty for not taking the white dog in. It seems he must have been a pet sometime, he keens towards people so. I love to hug him. There was one evening, when they had all come up to my flat. I'd given them biscuits. One had left, but the other two, including the white one, settled down outside, a black one on a landing below and the white one just outside the flat. I sat with him on the stairs with an arm around his neck. But I had to go in and cook, so I shut the door on him eventually. It's terrible to have to do that, terrible.
And Delhi. Well, I know it as a fact that I am living in Delhi, I am assured of the amenities the so-called capital provides, I speak to vendors and Delhi residents in office with an accent approximating theirs, I dislike, I tolerate, I often smile. But I don't think I inhabit the city. There is much to see here, I am sure, but it's so far beyond my periphery. It's a mental void, really. I'm grateful for the things there are. I like my flat and I like Jalebi Chowk, I like the sunshine on my balcony, I speak to the pigeons that sit on my neighbour's balcony and live in trepidation that the tenuous calm will be broken.
I've had no one up here, save C and a junior colleague and don't feel the need to. On this one day of the week, I want to be left alone. I'd only want to be with someone who'd leave me alone. That apart, the house is in a mess and there's too many things to do. Always.
I'm afraid I'm becoming like those Bengalis in Delhi whose mental space is so entirely filled by Calcutta that they speak of Shymambazar and flurry of real estate activity at Rajarhat as if they'd find those if they stepped outside their rooms, as if those were problems that affected them on an immediate basis. It does feel good that at least numerically there are so many Bengalis in Dilli. But that's it, really. I don't think we carry a common core that makes us happy to be together just because we are Bengali.
I bought fish the other day from Jalebi Chowk and the boys dressing the fish were Bengalis from Araria. But they spoke with such a strong accent there wasn't much you could identify with. Still, I was grateful. I suppose that does makes me sound like a crazy bag lady who scans the crowds for a Bengali face. I do, and often my guess is right, but that's about it. There's nothing more to look forward to on an individual level, save drawing a bit of warmth from an imagined commonality.

http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/articleshow/3067501.cms

India's lost cult films

Are you one of those who were awake that night? Be warned that answering ‘yes’ will identify you as nearing 40 now, but back then in 1988, you were a bored, disaffected, possibly dope-smoking late adolescent who stayed up late to watch Doordarshan (DD) because there wasn’t anything else to see back then, and not much else to do late that night.

So you sat through all the crappy, presumably cut-price shows that DD filled its late night slot with: dour German detective serials, dull Russian costume dramas, bad British sitcoms, pathetic pop shows, and only very rarely something good, like when it showed Hanif Kureishi’s My Beautiful Launderette.

That was a jolt, but it was nothing like the jolt that we got late that night in 1988 when a film with a really weird title was shown. Because In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones wasn’t set abroad, but in Delhi. And the kids in it weren’t foreigners, but students like us. And they didn’t speak American teen lingo, but the sort of Hindi laced slang we all used. And they dressed scruffy like us, and were almost definitely smoking dope and they had the same dim view of teachers that we did, and they were happy to cheat at exams. And while the lead actress — who also was the scriptwriter — was stunningly beautiful, she was in scrappy, sexy way quite unlike any other Indian actress we had ever seen. And it was funny, in a real, irreverent, smutty way that was miles from any Bollywood comedy.

It seems hard to imagine that many people saw it late that night, released without any publicity, and yet there are so many people whose eyes will light up if you mention Annie, Yamdhoot, Radha, Mankind, Kasozi’s worms, Lakes' crystal bowl and the fruit trees on the side of the railway line.

One night...

It would have to have been that night because DD never showed it again. According to Pradip Krishen, who directed the film, it almost didn’t get shown at all. “The film was commissioned by Bhaskar Ghosh who had promised to release it without changes. And he was actually watching it for the first time when he got a call from Rajiv Gandhi’s office telling him he was being sacked,” says Krishen.

Ghosh’s rather spineless successor had no desire to show such a pathbreakingly frank and funny film, but finally agreed to that one, late night, unheralded release. A few people did record it, and those videos became precious commodities, loaned grudgingly, watched to the point of disintegration and finally lost.

Since then the fate of Annie, as we’ll call it for short, has been much speculated on. One story is that DD has locked it away and refuses to release it from sheer perverseness or revenge for its irreverence. Another was that a producer had made away with the negatives. Or that the negatives have degraded. Over time the film’s mystique has developed, not always for the expected reasons.

I'm definitely not 40 and I've never doped. Watching the film made me remember what freedom tasted like. Once you've lived through the eighties, you'll always be a child of the 80s. Though technically, mine were the 90s. But it too was free of the glut of wealth and glitter.
Delhi seemed like a grey ole town in the film, and how I longed to live in it instead of the loud, boisterous city, a corner of which I now inhabit.
And I miss Doordarshan, miss the glut of choice, the dull, hot afternoons, often without electricity, the trance the heat would send you into.
Life was simpler, even if as sad. I really, really miss it.

It's getting to be 4 in the morning and what a hard day I had today. A bad day, more like. I was unslept, so was not alert at all, was slow, made horrendous mistakes, didn't have the right things to say and got into the boss's car along with a colleague and only later realised that I wasn't sure if he'd asked me. Not to mention that I didn't want this to become a regular habit. A news desk has so many different kinds of people, most often so hard to negotiate, and when you have a bad day, well, the weight of people seems to pile up.
At these times, I wonder if it wouldn't be nice if I were to find my boy when I returned and could go to sleep in the comfort of his arms. The black dog saw me when I returned at 1.40 today and he came straight up the stairs with me. I began feeling human again and then, sort of caught myself, because I couldn't allow myself to relax and put today behind me, because if I allowed this to be just another day, I would trip up again.
You wonder sometimes if you could escape the weight of dealing with people, personalities, if another office wouldn't be without these clashes, but then you realise that the only reason this seems to be so is because the new space is a void for you. And that there is no escape, except to recede. And it's too soon to do that here.

I am back.
at 6am, in delhi,
armed with 2gb worth of data transfer limit on a 3g sim,
on Linux.
with Britannia cheese for dinner that C so lovingly bought me as a going away gift.

to all i have missed in two months' absence from the net: priyanka, oli, ananya, madhura, dibbo.
my very loving, dear boy, who makes my head not feel like an alien space. you give me roots, reference, seemingly do not mind my horrendous rudeness, go see my dog and reassure me with pictures, tell me how my mother is, your parents, including your lovingly-barmy father, make me feel warm and loved, even though i've called them only once.
in the last two months, you have reassured me again and again and again. when i was afraid, when i was lonely and when i was depressed. you keep me connected to home. because of you, i know home is not lost to me, that i can reach out to them whenever i wish to.
you asked me to go and said that you would take care of my mother, when they would not give her medical insurance.
i am glad that you let me be, and reach out to me, even in my boringness, even when i feel unfriendly to everybody. i can tell you about my chores that give me peace. i know i will tell you about them again even though you listen with half a ear.
there are often such bad days, but i still feel glad i came out to do this. i am finally living my life, mundane as it is. even if it involves nothing but office and eating and doing never-ending chores at home. i am glad i could do this, in spite of being in a relationship. maybe your patience will wear thin sometime. but as of now, i revel in the freedom of living exactly as i please and of having a companion to reach out to.

I am a happy person who likes having a boyfriend. *sunny smile*

It still catches me a little by surprise, when I open a Word document or switch on the computer and it says that this product is registered (??) to my name. I keep expecting that it would say my father’s name, that I would be using something that in terms of the world, belonged to him. It seems importunate and sometimes, it even feels stealthy, like I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to. I now have a laptop and it repeatedly asks for this authentication or that and always with it, is my name. My boyfriend put up the laptop, making it workable etc and he’d put in my name. I mean, what I am saying is, I don’t really feel adult in my head. It feels like a child who is being treated like an adult.
Well, ’nuff of that.
I am tired out of my mind. I went to sleep in the morning after watching three episodes of True Blood that I rather liked. And had to wake up with only, er five hours of sleep. Saw many lovely sarees that I would love to buy if I had reason enough to wear them.
Another thing is, we kissed after a long time, and it was good. Dare I say, it was lovely. And well, I am not in a hurry now. The lovin’ bit seems to come at its own pace. And it feels rather nice. Very under your skin, rather than an act to be performed or roles to be played, mired in one’s own expectations of how things should be.
You can’t say what the future holds, but I hope I can deal with it.

The number of dogs in our para has increased several fold. This, I suppose, is mating season. The racket that has been going on all day and into the night is maddening. My dog is shouting her lungs off and yowling desperately if I shut the door to the balcony from where she barks at the dogs below. It's horrible. Coupled with the tiredness, it makes me want to tear my hair or do really dire things to my dog.

I made one kickass sandwich with chicken salami, cheese spread and a shosha tomato salad with dressing comprising lemon juice, olive oil, oregano and chilli flakes (Dominos sachets) that I don’t think was appreciated enough. AAI think it’s absolutely great and totally kickass.

Delhi, je te deteste

I am leaving. I hope to back, soon. What I fear right now is not knowing if it is the perfectly right decision. To leave my mother here. I hope she will be fine. I hope nothing will go wrong, and that I will know if it does soon enough to do something about it. my aunt called. She was coy, saying if I had any news. I was very annoyed. It seemed as if I was hiding a particularly juicy piece of information. How this can be juicy escapes me. And what revelations does she demand? Why am I expected to sketch a life plan for her benefit? Does she know my anxieties, and does she care? Maybe she does, maybe we all do, in the way families are.
Will people take advantage of my mother being alone and try to hurt her?

It was a nice day. If I were asleep by now, then nice day woulda stayed nice, but anyway.
The reason I like Rachel Roddy’s food blog: not just for the enthusiasm with which writes about food but also because of the peace that seems to run through the life she talks about. Of fresh fruits, asides about relatives, love of parents, a beautiful country she is still in love with, being far from one’s port of origin but with the ties intact. The quiet in her life, the absence of cutthroatness.
My day was nice because: I swept the floors and scrubbed them. Both our maid and cook have made their disappearing acts. The maid has actually quit. My dog is shedding her coat, so fistfuls of her hair came up while sweeping. It was particularly satisfying to get rid of those. And the swabbing, well, very tiring, but it feels good to know you are doing home stuff: takes away some of the guilt, and it is very relaxing, the mechanical rhythm lets you focus your thoughts. Then I bathed my dog.
She is all shiny now.
Part of the reason I could do so much work (that is a lot of work compared to what I usually do) at a stretch is probably because I was a little high on half an anti-allergic medicine that I’d taken for the cold. I couldn’t really hold too many thoughts together to torture myself.
I ate well. And then the slight discord of gift hunting for boyfriend’s friend, sister-in-law and the needless eating at CCD. But then back home again to dog and mom. Long sleep with dog, though I was a little sticky with sweat. Woke up at 10pm to tea, felt so comfortable that I washed some dishes.
Watched Australia: it isn’t a good movie, alas. Went down to give dogs their dinner, remembering and feeling terrible not to have given mean dog her medicine. Came back, took a bath and watched Godfather II while I ate. I liked the film, the silences are soothing.
Since then, I have been on the computer, not being of much use, really, apart from writing a DVD and looking up some stuff.
I plan to give the dog her med tomorrow and do some washing.

I also rather like Chandrabindu.
Well, it’s 4am now. I will have a glass of water and go to sleep.
The larger issues remain undiscussed.

'But the truth is that whatever challenging situation you're in, somebody somewhere has got a much more extreme version. So I think one ought to shut up and not moan about it.'
This is what Hugh Laurie said in an interview I am sure he did not want to give.
Well, my mother. She has diabetes and ate a lot of dessert today at the restaurant we went to. But well, I was reading something about people who are caregivers who have it far worse than I do. Maybe that is some consolation after all.

It’s one of those days that you plod through and pray will come to an end soon. I feel very very depressed. Nothing is going my way. This weekend, so very rare, could have been so much more.

Such horrible looking women write blogs on make-up. Actually it IS the horrible ones who do. Those who aren’t wouldn’t bother. They spend thousands on make-up too.

Oh my, I am so tired today. I woke up at 7.30 (after sleeping at 2.30, after chopping vegetables, cleaning toilet and a VERY long time at Pantaloons) to cook breakfast for my horrible cousin, pasta, which he didn’t like, the fool. It was quite tasty, ma also said. Yesterday was lunch at grandfather’s, with mashi’s brood and us. People treading on each others’ toes, much sulking, cold wars and my paka cousin spewing his usual pseud-nonsense which my g’father quoted back to me, saying your cousin says you should soon get married and settle down. My cousin is 19, in first year of college.
Now, Pantaloons. It was very tiring. I stood in two trial room lines, for half an hour each, I think. Then I got tired and bought some clothes without trying. Which fit. No formal trousers, the cuts were nightmarish. Then very lovely pomegranate tea at Barista. Slight kosha taste of tea and tok mishti taste of whatever they were giving in the name of pomegranate. Boyfriend, the fool, said it tasted of amloki r jol. He was on business of his own in the area and we met. I saw many husbands/ boyfriends in Pantaloons who were standing around with glazed expressions, desperately stoic, but they didn’t seem to care if the world ended while their wives/ girlfriends shopped. My feet are still aching from all the standing. I wish I had the enthusiasm to sift and buy more things.
What a completely lost day off.
And then the endless fights with my mother. She seems unliveable with.
And I have to finish The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. There’s so much actual work to do, for one of which I have NO solution and which worried me so much that I dropped it for a while. This is bad, very bad.
And my eyes are burning from lack of sleep whenever I close them now.

Why can’t I let go and live? Why do I cringe?
What a relaxed life would be for me (as I fancy it)
Chuck the job
Buy beautiful clothes and make-up (sometimes. I think once I am satisfied with my life, I will lose this fascination because I think this was an add-on to compensate for the other dissatisfactions. I am 60% frugal and 40% indulgent.)
Take photos again
Not go to work when I want, stay back at home and see beautiful sunsets
Say exactly what I want to everyone

But but, as perhaps Oli would say, this is not really me. I would be happiest if I did my work right and not get my life tangled by procrastinating or forcing myself to accept things I don’t like. The rest, I think, would fall into place. I see people who would really be relaxed by leading a luxuriant life, but the innate urgency to save, to store away for the future plus the sudden paranoias about clutter mean I will never want it except as a kick to embrace things that are diametrically opposite to what I am.
Therefore, the thick kohl, the luscious lipstick, the beautiful perfume and the perfect dress and shoes. Only to spit it all out and to find the soft, worn pajamas and the faded t-shirt.

The unquestioned points of happiness in my life
My dog
Our own flat
Our financial security

Relief and saving graces
Having a parent
Having boyfriend with me

The bitterness that must be swallowed
Job
The disappointments with boyfriend
The problems with ma

Hopes
Good job eventually
To keep dog and mother close even when I settle down
To work in whichever city I want
To go abroad
That mother will live well and long

Certainties
Taking photos
Travelling

PS more to be added if fancy strikes. Have to go home now.

I got some money on my birthday today. It is some deep-seated Quakerlike trait that stops me from running out and splurging as I wish to. Maybe I’ll just slowly creep and splurge it. My first wish is, lipstick! And then I remember that I have enough and Calcutta is hot and you can never wear lipstick comfortably. And then soberness sets in and I think of just putting it away. Maybe I shan’t do anything special. Just buy that amazing black forest cake I’ve had my eye on for such a long time and go home and my dog and I can eat it. No ma save a little sliver because she’s diabetic.
Today, we took my aunt’s family out for dinner. My dog wakes up with me and I am a late riser. Like me, she’s used to having her first meal late in the day. So when my mother offered her lunch at 11, she didn’t touch it, or maybe she just sensed that we were getting away and refused to buy into this treachery by the mere offering of a routine if somewhat delicious lunch. And then she got into my mother’s room and began jumping around and my mother got very frazzled and started yelling. At which, I, already very frazzled and looking for a fight, felt murderous, caught hold of my dog and shut her out right away on the balcony. She whined and pushed at the door, but by then, we were leaving. There were no kind words and reassurances that we would return soon. I felt very guilty to leave a very sad and more importantly, unfed dog.
So well, throughout the meal, I missed her on and off quite a bit and wanted to just go home and flop down with her on the bed, do some messy fighting and take an afternoon nap.
Then I called my mother and she said my dog was fine. She kooi-kooied a little when she heard my mother and when she opened the door to the balcony, ran out and climbed up on the sofa and stood and complained to my mother. Then she ate some tandoori roti we’d brought back, some of the grilled beckti meant for my grandfather, six biscuits, water and went to sleep under the bed. I want to meet my dog now, not at 10.30 in the night. So I uploaded some pictures of her on FB, looked through her old pictures and read up on Marley and Me. And found that at one point, people had suggested that the real dog, Marley, might be suffering from ‘mental illness’, which was very funny. They regularly described him as neurotic, which was also sort of funny. Though I do agree, if I had a dog like Marley, I don’t know what I would do. The film was adorable though. Though everyone pans it as boring and no chemistry and when does John Grogan write if he is spending so much time with his dog. But it’s funny, with very Own Wilson kind of self-deprecating humour. And I suppose I glossed over the unrealistic bits because the warmth between them and the dog and the frustration and the moments when you feel the dog is the one you can talk to without reserve, struck a chord.
It seems like such a long time since I cuddled a puppy. I remember the Precocious puppy of last winter, who would wail and yawn and utter squeals if anything was not as it wished it. Which is actually for the best.
And I know what it's like to sit beside your dog, like Owen Wilson is in the first picture, at peace with things.

It was an uneventful day off. I watched a lot of television, including watching Push again. I really like it. I also made very boring macaroni.
And I met my boyfriend’s parents this week for a casual thank you meet. It was horrible. I was ogled like a monkey in a cage, asked, among other things, the year my father died and touched (my hair, my waist. I hate being touched.). I was expecting to be asked to sing a song next. I was asked by each and every member of the family When I would marry their son and when I said I had no immediate plans, I was demanded to provide an explanation. At one point, I was afraid I would burst into tears. Towards the end, I switched off and forgot my manners and announced abruptly after the meal that I was leaving.
Thing is, I came away with what I had expected: my impression that they were nice people confirmed and my worst fears about this meeting taking a medieval turn coming true. I just couldn’t stomach that my status as a potential bride could completely obliterate my identity as a person. That it didn’t matter to them what I liked, what I wanted to speak about, whether I wanted to check out his flat. They seemed like things that I was obviously expected to do. I was outraged, horrified and insensate with anger at one point. Knowing that this is probably what happens to people in my position always, in our state and wherever else, does not make it one bit easier to accept.
I could see the kindness in their ways, but it did not matter one bit. I have endured worse torment at the hands of relatives when I was younger, relatives who are entirely insensitive. My boyfriend’s were much, much kinder in comparison. But nothing changes the facts.
I feel too scarred to contemplate returning to that house in a long time. And a little scared that I wouldn’t ever be able to make them happy. That I wouldn’t ever fit that blueprint of the pleasant daughter-in-law, who juggled her own wishes and that of the in-laws perfectly. I put the facts out more or less exactly that day and staunchly refused an explanation. At 27, I feel relieved and happy to realise that I have developed a sense of my own space, my likes and dislikes that sometimes don’t agree with those close to me and that I will guard them. I don’t want to change myself to accommodate even those I love. I can't chatter endlessly with everyone, I like quiet and I like space.
Also, the parents and aunts and uncles, when they ask why I am not marrying their extremely eligible son pronto, do they have Any idea of the kind of compromise that went into sustaining this relationship, the bitter disappointments, the loneliness etc etc? I have worked hard there, now I want to settle down on my own terms. They would probably have gotten to know about our relationship if they had asked. But it only occurs to me now that all I was asked, apart from when I would marry and why I wasn’t immediately, was about my studies, where I lived and a bit of haranguing about my job.
My boyfriend says he has no control over their actions, and he doesn’t, given his typical detachment over whatever doesn’t interest him, but I know that if had been in my position, I would have fought tooth and nail and stood between them and him. I wouldn’t have let them harangue and hurt him.

Wondrous discoveries: noodles/ pasta cooks well if you don’t constantly sit it on the gas. The less you toss, the better. Yesterday, I put in the scrambled egg, pasta and cheese sauce while the cooking pan was off the gas, mixed it and put it back on the gas for a few minutes. Turned out very well.
And carrots cut very fine and fried just a little bit taste lovely in pasta. Also, mushrooms need to be fried a little more than my mother did yesterday. Yesterday’s pasta rocked! :-D I cooked it with carrots, onion, mushroom, celery (I don’t care for it) and scrambled eggs and a dash of cheese sauce. With the pasta, cheese sauce and scrambled eggs added to the fried veggies off the gas and tossed just a little. The less on the gas, the better. Yum yum.
I only wish all my tomato based thingies didn’t taste the same. Do different varieties of tomatoes taste different? And man that cheese ragu is expensive.

I read such sad, dire stuff in a blog right now, but my day has been, well, pleasant, though I think Woody Allen’s words “Why are we here? And why is it so terrible?” rings a strong bell of recognition. I went to my colleague’s house today for lunch. She has a large flat and though she cribs about it not being well done-up (she wants one lemon yellow and another purple wall), I love going there, despite the hellishly long distance. The walls are white-washed, there is not a lot of furniture or things hung up on the walls and there is a balcony with large glass doors. She cooked us tubey pasta and lovely keema. I also had Amul fat-free chocolate ice-cream I took with me, a thing to be avoided at all costs from now on. I cooked some linguine pasta myself yesterday, with tomato-based keema thingy and scattered a lot of grated processed Amul cheese on top, and despite it not being parmesan as the recipes keep demanding, I think it was the best thing going for the dish. Rachel of racheleats, I WILL make that tomato sauce you wrote of so lovingly, some day to go with pasta. Next: the celery has to be finished off before it goes the same road as the basil. Likewise for mushroom. And there’s the leftover tuna and the huge jar of cheese sauce and the rapidly-becoming rancid cheese. This pasta phase will go on for a while yet. Also, I think I like linguine more than this bizarre array of penne, twisty or shell-shaped nonsense. Kissan grape squash is also very very good. I almost wanted to crush grapes and make some myself.
Aaand my dog and I went walking again. It might be monsoon time, but it’s still hellishly humid when it isn’t raining. So I almost melted and my dog was hot and panted for a good half hour after we returned. And how she sniffed. Offfffff. No lamp post, tree trunk, car tyre must be left unsniffed. Add to that the fact that we have a dog in our building, who I am sure pees on the stair landings because my dog bends her front legs and half sits, with hind quarters raised to sniff out every bit of its scent. I had to drag her away from some of these lamp posts because she wouldn’t stop sniffing. This was all quite tiring because it was so hot. The 5am walks are far more pleasant.
My dog also ate a small plastic packet and vomited today. When she was very little, she had enthusiastically made a hole in a one-litre packet of cooking oil to drink it. Then she vomited all the boiled vegetables my mother had painstakingly fed her.
I think my dog is the funniest when she raises her hindquarters, with front legs bent, to concentrate on something she is excited by, like say an insect. She also likes to push her way and create a space between the sofa backrest and a person she likes who is sitting on it. She then lodges herself firmly in that space and lounges. She also tries, occasionally, to bite your butt when you aren't looking.