"A sprawling North London parkland, composed of oaks, willows and chestnuts, yews and sycamores, the beech and the birch; that encompasses the city's highest point and spreads far beyond it; that is so well planted it feels unplanned; that is not the country but it is no more garden than Yellowstone; that has a shade of green for every possible felicitation of light; that paints itself in russets and ambers in the autumn, canary-yellow in the splashy spring; with tickling bush grass to hide teenage lovers and joint smokers, broad oaks for brave men to kiss against, mown meadows for summer ball games, hills for kites, ponds for hippies, an icy lido for old men with strong constitutions, mean llamas for mean children and for the tourists, a country house, its facade painted white enough for any Hollywood close-up, complete with a tea room, although anything you buy from there should be eaten outside with the grass beneath your toes, sitting under the magnolia tree, letting the white upturned bells of blossoms, blush-pink at their tips, fall all around you. Hampstead Heath! Glory of London! Where Keats walked and Jarman fucked, where Orwell exercised his weakened lungs and Constable never failed to find something holy"
- Zadie Smith, "On Beauty"
(Because I don't have to explain why the only place in London I would consider moving to (from three minutes away from Regents Park) is three minutes away from the Heath)
To tell you the truth, it didn't start out that way. At first, we tried to convince ourselves that we were open to other neighborhoods. We would look at it if it satisfied two conditions - a reasonably large park close by, and 15 minutes to get to Kings Cross[1] (door to National Rail). Islington lost out because of the first condition, as did most of the close-to-City neighborhoods. Bayswater lost because of the second, and the other areas around Hyde Park weren't exactly our favorite neighborhoods. Not just because we couldn't afford it. But because what will we do around diplomats and American expats and Harrods shoppers and the Notting Hill crowd? That pretty much left our little neighborhood, north of Marylebone maybe a little way up to St Johns Wood[2]. But since one of the reasons for this moving idea is that we should try some other neighborhood (the other reason being getting a little more space, if possible), we had pretty much decided not to move. Then we gave in a little and said maybe the river will do instead of the park. That gave us the London Bridge area, east of the Tower Bridge but wait, the bankers! Oh no. If we moved there, our entire year will be spent bitching about the "high IQ morons" who live around us in these convereted warehouses. I mean, imagine Bill and moi living next to these bankers in Shad Thames. See, see now. I would so do that if I was writing one of those "undercover" books, yes.
So then we gave up on everything else and said yes, Hampstead is expensive and it has just the Northern Line and its not Zone 1 BUT it has the Heath. Which we so love. If there's one place in London that you won't hear me complaining about (or comparing to the city by the lake), its the Heath. And the Northern line from Hampstead will get to Kings Cross in less than 15 minutes. We should at least check the neighborhood out. We owe it to the Heath.
So it was on a glorious Saturday morning we got on a bus to check out the neighborhood. Out of habit, we just went straight to the Heath instead of getting down at the High St. Up Parliament Hill road, into the Heath and up the Hill. As usual, random mix of locals and tourists sitting on benches enjoying the view. Photos being shot. We do our usual comedy.
"You know someone's going to shoot us one of these days. Especially if we move here"
"Hey, freedom of speech remember?"
"Nonsense. You keep making fun of these people, they aren't going to tolerate it"
"Oh c'mon. These Brits are crazy. This is so like the whole Changing of the Guard thing. All they do is dress up and walk up and down for an hour and its some big deal. Tradition, my foot"
"Who said I don't agree? But you can't come to Parliament Hill every day and make fun of people who are here to see the skyline view"
"Skyline. Ha Ha Ha! Skyline, indeed. Rooftop view, I would call it. All these cute Victorian houses. Chal, lets count how many rooftops we see"
"People are staring at us"
"So? If the city doesn't have a skyline, it doesn't have a skyline. Just because you climb up a Hill, wait, a mound called Parliament and claim its a skyline doesn't make it anything of the sort."
"Enough, lets go"
"I love America"
"Too loud. Not the right sentiment in this liberal haven. Chal lets go"
The next couple of hours was spent in the Heath taking in everything you have read about already in the beginning of this post. We got lost a couple of times but that's what you are meant to do in the Heath so it turned out to be fine. Finally we got out and decided to walk up and down streets to see if they made sense. They did.
"Squirrel Hill[3] man"
"Too hep to be Squirrel Hill. I'd say Shadyside"
"I guess"
"Its the Shady Ave part of the Shadyside. Also that Amberson Ave types near where you and BM used to live"
"Yeah, but its all up and down like Negley. Hmm"
"What?"
"So you like it?"
"I think so, yes. What's that?"
"Some street festival. Probably a block party."
"Looks nice. Good music"
"Way too many kids"
"Fuck, yes. Forget what I said. We won't live here"
"I know. Kids could be a problem. Plus even if we want to, they wouldn't let us live here. We wouldn't qualify"
"Hmm"
A few minutes later we are at the Heath St.
"Dude, this is nice"
"I know. Such lovely cafes and these stores are nice too"
"Wait, whats that queue there?"
"What?"
"Its some food stall. Wait, its a creperie. With 15 people waiting in line. I am going there"
"I don't know man. It looks like some general stall"
"You go do something else. I want crepes"
Bill comes back twenty minutes later.
"You have hardly moved!"
"That's because they make those crepes in front of you. Mouth watering, they are. Look, they are some big deal around here. They have all those press things written about them"
"Whatever. I am a little skeptical. But we will see"
We finally get out crepes. A slab of butter. Buckwheat batter. Chocolate and banana. All together. Bill gets the classic ratatouille. I take a bite. Bill's paying (for once). I take another bite. I cross the street and run away. There's no way in hell I am sharing this with him.
"Hey, where did you run away?"
"Here only. I was just looking at this bus timetable to see whether you can get to Kings Cross if the Northern line is not functioning. There's a bus that takes you to KC in 12 minutes. All's cool"
"So you have decided to move here?"
"Have you tried the crepe?"
"Not yet"
"Try it and tell me you don't want to move here"
"Fuck"
"Orgasmic, isn't it?"
"Close. Close. Let me try yours."
"No...wait, here's a Waterstone's. A bookstore so close. See, good choice to move here. Come lets go in"
Inside Waterstone's. I am somewhere in popular fiction. Local author, it says, Julian Barnes. Zadie Smith. Hmm.
"Hey, you should come check this out"
"What?"
"Come, check this section"
I follow Bill. A huge section. Jewish interest.
"Oh, I didn't tell you. I was thinking about it when I said Squirrel Hill. The area north of here, like north of the station and then going up to Golders Green"
"Yeah?"
"Its all supposed to be all majorly intellectual and all. Also, euphemism for Jewish"
"Okay then. We are moving here"
"Righto Mr Eli Feynman[4]. We are indeed moving here"
See, moving decisions are that easy. All you have to do is to get your priorities right.
PS: This doesn't mean we are moving. We haven't even started looking at flats. Excuse to check out neighborhoods really.
[1] For those of you who think I am mean to Bill, please read the sentence again. You will see how considerate I really am.
[2] I know, it gets a little too yuppie around here sometimes with all the LBS crowd moving in and all but you can't have everything, you know.
[3] Bill's very Jewish neighborhood in Pittsburgh
[4] I am not making this up. There was a time when Bill used to call restaurants for reservations under the name of Eli Feynman[5]. It was very interesting to watch people go crazy when we actually turned up.
[5] Coined by BM. Please to ask her for details
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Bill at the Barbican
At this afternoon's performance of A Disappearing Number, a play about Mathematics, creativity, infinity, mysticism, mortality and everything you can think about on those lines. I liked it, the stagecraft was excellent, the cast was good, the plot was contrived at times but overall worked for me. The main characters are Ramanujan, Hardy, a current day Math professor, a string theorist and a hedge fund guy, so let me see if I can get Bill to write something about the play.
So anyway, we are at this play, the theatre is almost full. Numbers thrown around everywhere. The opening scene, probably the best, starts with the professor writing numbers on the whiteboard and explaining that its integral to the evening's performance. Yes, yes, Riemann zeta, -1/12, 1+1/2+1/4+1/8... have all made their appearance already. Three minutes into it and Bill whispers:
"Yes, this is so cool"
"The numbers?"
"No. The Zeta"
"What?"
"She gets the Zeta right. No one draws a perfect Zeta. Its not exactly an easy letter to write"
"If you say so. Shut up now"
Halfway into the play. By now, numbers are everywhere. Black board, screen, conversations, voice overs that junta's stopped paying attention to the numbers and are trying to concentrate on the play. Voice over of Ramanujan. He is on the ship from Madras to London and is talking about his journey. It goes something like this:
"We leave Madras which is at 13 degree latitude, 13 is a prime number and then we turn to XXX whose latitude is 7 which is also a prime number....(this goes on for sometime and finally)...into the English Channel and we reach London, latitude is 51 which is also a prime number"
This time, Bill's voice is loud and clear.
"No, its not"
Some 56 pairs of eyes turn towards us. Obviously everyone wants to see the man who dares to contradict Ramanujan (well, the one in the play). An uncomfortable 5 seconds and I am about to burst into laughter when Bill goes:
"Well, its still not prime. 3. Try 3"
So anyway, we are at this play, the theatre is almost full. Numbers thrown around everywhere. The opening scene, probably the best, starts with the professor writing numbers on the whiteboard and explaining that its integral to the evening's performance. Yes, yes, Riemann zeta, -1/12, 1+1/2+1/4+1/8... have all made their appearance already. Three minutes into it and Bill whispers:
"Yes, this is so cool"
"The numbers?"
"No. The Zeta"
"What?"
"She gets the Zeta right. No one draws a perfect Zeta. Its not exactly an easy letter to write"
"If you say so. Shut up now"
Halfway into the play. By now, numbers are everywhere. Black board, screen, conversations, voice overs that junta's stopped paying attention to the numbers and are trying to concentrate on the play. Voice over of Ramanujan. He is on the ship from Madras to London and is talking about his journey. It goes something like this:
"We leave Madras which is at 13 degree latitude, 13 is a prime number and then we turn to XXX whose latitude is 7 which is also a prime number....(this goes on for sometime and finally)...into the English Channel and we reach London, latitude is 51 which is also a prime number"
This time, Bill's voice is loud and clear.
"No, its not"
Some 56 pairs of eyes turn towards us. Obviously everyone wants to see the man who dares to contradict Ramanujan (well, the one in the play). An uncomfortable 5 seconds and I am about to burst into laughter when Bill goes:
"Well, its still not prime. 3. Try 3"
This and that
Generally busy at work and stuff. So couple of random updates.
1. So I had to go to the US Consulate yesterday to get visa done[1]. (Aside - TR: Exactly how many times have you been to the States in the last ten years? I had eight entries and the form had enough space for at least four more. Or is this some special form you Profs have to fill?) Having not been to the US consulate in a while, I had forgotten how painful the experience is. So anyway, I was sitting in the waiting room cursing myself for not carrying a book when I saw this Visit USA Travel Planner lying around. Page 47 - a half pager about the great lake state of Michigan with a couple of pictures. The star picture looked familiar, so I looked again. Lake Michigan, yes, but the skyline was that of Chicago! Stealing the Chicago skyline to con poor Londoners to go to Michigan! WTF?
2. This whole magic realism thing. I love it, some of my favorite writers fall into this category but I always felt that I never completely got it. I wouldn't be lying if I say that for the most part, I am partial to the non-magic world. There, I have said it. Shoot me. Now for the part which is going me get me tortured. These writers who weave all this magic stories. Its not that they are not capable of doing the real world (yeah right, Marquez can't do real world), after all, the best of these writers are the ones who tie in the real so gloriously with the unreal (or the "internal" if you want to call it that), but its that they are just not serious enough about reality. I think at the end of the day they just don't care that much about it. But if you bloody well have so much passion for it and you can write about it so well, why do you need to resort to these magical experiments (especially when they are simply not your forte)? Why the fuck do you need Saleem Sinai when you have Animal? I don't get it. But apart from that, I loved it. If you read just one on the shortlist, read this book. It's a ride you won't forget that easily. Indra Sinha's Animal' s People. My pick for the Booker.
[1] Yes, yes, I am going to the see the city by the lake. The second reason why I took current job (first being the rent) was that I get to go to Chicago thrice a year. So cool, no?
1. So I had to go to the US Consulate yesterday to get visa done[1]. (Aside - TR: Exactly how many times have you been to the States in the last ten years? I had eight entries and the form had enough space for at least four more. Or is this some special form you Profs have to fill?) Having not been to the US consulate in a while, I had forgotten how painful the experience is. So anyway, I was sitting in the waiting room cursing myself for not carrying a book when I saw this Visit USA Travel Planner lying around. Page 47 - a half pager about the great lake state of Michigan with a couple of pictures. The star picture looked familiar, so I looked again. Lake Michigan, yes, but the skyline was that of Chicago! Stealing the Chicago skyline to con poor Londoners to go to Michigan! WTF?
2. This whole magic realism thing. I love it, some of my favorite writers fall into this category but I always felt that I never completely got it. I wouldn't be lying if I say that for the most part, I am partial to the non-magic world. There, I have said it. Shoot me. Now for the part which is going me get me tortured. These writers who weave all this magic stories. Its not that they are not capable of doing the real world (yeah right, Marquez can't do real world), after all, the best of these writers are the ones who tie in the real so gloriously with the unreal (or the "internal" if you want to call it that), but its that they are just not serious enough about reality. I think at the end of the day they just don't care that much about it. But if you bloody well have so much passion for it and you can write about it so well, why do you need to resort to these magical experiments (especially when they are simply not your forte)? Why the fuck do you need Saleem Sinai when you have Animal? I don't get it. But apart from that, I loved it. If you read just one on the shortlist, read this book. It's a ride you won't forget that easily. Indra Sinha's Animal' s People. My pick for the Booker.
[1] Yes, yes, I am going to the see the city by the lake. The second reason why I took current job (first being the rent) was that I get to go to Chicago thrice a year. So cool, no?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
A weekend with Sir Humphrey
Bill wanted to have a go at this bitching and conversations thing since he thinks I am spreading all wrong rumors about him, and moi, being all magnanimous offered him space. The real reason though, I think, is that he wants Professors to be all impressed with him too. So without further ado, I hand this over to Bill.
No, we haven't been watching Yes, Minister DVDs again. I have been trying to file our UK tax returns. A weekend of tax returns and these are the three things I have gained:
1. An intimate understanding of Sir Humphrey's mind
2. A light bulb moment when you finally realize how is it that this island ended up ruling the world and
3. An appreciation of American disdain for any form that has more than 5.5 boxes to fill
It all started innocently enough.
"We have to file these tax return things"
"We have to or you have to?"
"Separate forms but both of us have to"
"Inland Revenue doesn't send me love letters every other day. I don't have to fill anything"
"What nonsense?"
"That's what they do na. Every day there's a letter for Dr Bill. I haven't received anything from them"
"You haven't received that self assessment form that everyone has to fill?"
"No. So I think I don't have to file a return"
"And yet you make more than double I make"
"This country is vague that way"
"That doesn't sound right. Randomly they sent me so many letters asking me not to feel daunted. The tax returns are fun etc. etc. I think we both have to file"
"I told you - they just love you. And anyway, if you are so sure we both have to file, why don't you be useful for once and do the returns? I will give you my P60 and stuff"
"Okay, okay, how difficult can it be? 1040EZ in the US was an hour's work. Let us see, the key dates are 30 Sep 2007, 30 Dec 2007, 31 Jan 2008,..."
"Oh so it's not like we have to fill it now"
"They tell us exactly in paragraph 2.1, subsection a. ...
If you fill in a paper tax return, you must get it to us by 30 Sep 2007 if you want us to calculate your tax, collect tax through PAYE tax code, if possible, where you owe less than 2000 Pounds (If we receive your paper tax return before 30 Sep and process it before 30 December, we will still try to collect tax through your tax code. If your kitten dies before 30 November, you are allowed 17.2 extra days).
Uh, can you hand me the laptop so I can draw a flowchart?"
"Here it is. Just file it now and forget the other dates"
"Ok, here goes. Answer the questions 1.1 to 1.21, except 1.19..."
"That seems easy, 20 questions, look up a tax table, and you are done"
"... to find out if you are a resident.
Q 1, what date did you come in (only if before Apr 5 but not before 30 Sep)
Q2. Calculate the number of hours from entry in active employment (please do not count minutes spent travelling (round to the nearest half second)) .
Q3. Subtract the number of minutes in question 2.1 above from the sine of theta, where theta is two times your monthly salary expressed in radians."
"See, I told you this is made for you. I think I am going to cook now. If you are done by the time I am done, I will give you some Malabar fish curry. Ta ta"
"Wait, I can't work on this new-fangled Excel of yours. Give me my laptop with Linux and Perl"
"Okay, here it is. You can file the tax return in Perl"
"Notes for non-residents. Broadly you are a resident of the UK if you spend at least half of a tax year here, or regularly spend at least a quarter of each tax year here. Your precise position will depend on your particular circumstances, and the notes should be read accordingly. The notes will help you decide whether or not you should complete your tax return on the basis that you are:
(Two hours later)
"Are you done? The food is ready."
"Yes I finished the resident form. We are apparently resident in the UK, and ordinarily resident for 2007, and domiciled in the Commonwealth, but not domiciled in the UK."
"Are we getting money back or not?"
"Don't be so American. There's only 12 more forms to fill, and then we can calculate our tax"
"Okay, why don't you fill up the forms. I have to meet some people after lunch, but I will come back and calculate our tax"
"Very clever, you get to look up a figure in the tax tables and I get to fill 13 forms, all designed by Sir Humphrey"
"Be thankful you don't have to complete those forms in triplicate. I'm off"
(six hours later)
"Hey, I am back. How did it go? Did you fill all the forms?"
"Oh, it got predictable after a while. Not so much challenge after all, at least after I solved that multivariate regression problem on page 22."
"If only that would guarantee a PhD! Anyway, I can look up the tables to calculate my tax"
"Oh yes, that is going to be real easy. Here, this forty-page booklet has all the information you will need to calculate your tax. I need some coffee, so see you in a bit"
"Yeah, but there are no tables in this booklet"
"Who said anything about there being a table? It has all the information. All 236 questions and 21 worksheets."
"All I am looking for is two numbers. You tell me a figure, I look it up to get the second figure. I write that, sign, and we are done"
"Not really. You take this thirteen forms, fill in the answers to the 236 questions, and you will get that figure. I have even underlined the relevant figures in the thirteen forms for you."
"Very funny. But didn't they say they will calculate your tax for you?"
"Yes, they will. But do you trust them to hand back your money? This is Sir Humphrey we are talking about here"
"Oh. How about we do this tomorrow? We can both do it together. That way we will finish real fast"
"I thought you said you are going to do this by yourself"
"Yeah but what if we do it wrong? You will have to double-check anyway. Why don't we do this together tomorrow?"
"Yeah yeah! I knew this."
Long time readers of this blog would have no doubt guessed what really happened in the morning. Madam had an urgent appointment and had to go away somewhere. I was stuck filling 236 questions.
"Hey, you done? Let's go out for lunch"
"Yeah. My tax was uncannily accurate, down to the hundredth of a pence. I don't owe them, they don't owe me."
"And what about mine?"
"Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs (hereinafter referred to as HMRC) owe you a thousand and three pounds"
"What? Let's send this in today. Where do I need to sign?"
"There's just one problem. You need a Universal Tax Reference Number, but since they never sent you a form, you don't have one. You can't file this."
"Say that again?"
"Actually, by subsection 3a of Clause 31 of the Income Tax Act, 1988, as amended in 1995, 1996 and by Statutory Orders as appropriate, you aren't required to file a tax return if they don't send you one."
"Let me understand this. They don't owe you a penny, so they send you love letters every day asking you to file. I on the other hand am not required to file this, despite the fact, or perhaps because of the fact, that they owe me a thousand pounds?"
"I think that's accurate"
"I don't believe this! These fucking bastards should be sent to be a firing squad. Stealing my money!"
"Actually, firing squad as a method of permissible execution was outlawed in 1949. Anyway, the question is moot, since we no longer have the death penalty (it was abolished in 1998 and even before was never a punishment for theft), and furthermore, you will note that the Bastardy laws were repealed in 1931!"
"Enough, Sir Bernard!"
No, we haven't been watching Yes, Minister DVDs again. I have been trying to file our UK tax returns. A weekend of tax returns and these are the three things I have gained:
1. An intimate understanding of Sir Humphrey's mind
2. A light bulb moment when you finally realize how is it that this island ended up ruling the world and
3. An appreciation of American disdain for any form that has more than 5.5 boxes to fill
It all started innocently enough.
"We have to file these tax return things"
"We have to or you have to?"
"Separate forms but both of us have to"
"Inland Revenue doesn't send me love letters every other day. I don't have to fill anything"
"What nonsense?"
"That's what they do na. Every day there's a letter for Dr Bill. I haven't received anything from them"
"You haven't received that self assessment form that everyone has to fill?"
"No. So I think I don't have to file a return"
"And yet you make more than double I make"
"This country is vague that way"
"That doesn't sound right. Randomly they sent me so many letters asking me not to feel daunted. The tax returns are fun etc. etc. I think we both have to file"
"I told you - they just love you. And anyway, if you are so sure we both have to file, why don't you be useful for once and do the returns? I will give you my P60 and stuff"
"Okay, okay, how difficult can it be? 1040EZ in the US was an hour's work. Let us see, the key dates are 30 Sep 2007, 30 Dec 2007, 31 Jan 2008,..."
"Oh so it's not like we have to fill it now"
"They tell us exactly in paragraph 2.1, subsection a. ...
If you fill in a paper tax return, you must get it to us by 30 Sep 2007 if you want us to calculate your tax, collect tax through PAYE tax code, if possible, where you owe less than 2000 Pounds (If we receive your paper tax return before 30 Sep and process it before 30 December, we will still try to collect tax through your tax code. If your kitten dies before 30 November, you are allowed 17.2 extra days).
Uh, can you hand me the laptop so I can draw a flowchart?"
"Here it is. Just file it now and forget the other dates"
"Ok, here goes. Answer the questions 1.1 to 1.21, except 1.19..."
"That seems easy, 20 questions, look up a tax table, and you are done"
"... to find out if you are a resident.
Q 1, what date did you come in (only if before Apr 5 but not before 30 Sep)
Q2. Calculate the number of hours from entry in active employment (please do not count minutes spent travelling (round to the nearest half second)) .
Q3. Subtract the number of minutes in question 2.1 above from the sine of theta, where theta is two times your monthly salary expressed in radians."
"See, I told you this is made for you. I think I am going to cook now. If you are done by the time I am done, I will give you some Malabar fish curry. Ta ta"
"Wait, I can't work on this new-fangled Excel of yours. Give me my laptop with Linux and Perl"
"Okay, here it is. You can file the tax return in Perl"
"Notes for non-residents. Broadly you are a resident of the UK if you spend at least half of a tax year here, or regularly spend at least a quarter of each tax year here. Your precise position will depend on your particular circumstances, and the notes should be read accordingly. The notes will help you decide whether or not you should complete your tax return on the basis that you are:
- Not resident in the UK
- Not ordinarily resident in the UK
- Not extraordinarily non-resident in the UK
- Entitled to split year treatment
- Not domiciled in the UK
- Not domiciled in the EU
- Not domiciled in the Commonwealth (Note: The USA does not belong to the Commonwealth, nor is it part of the European Union)
- Not an ordinary resident of the Milky Way
(Two hours later)
"Are you done? The food is ready."
"Yes I finished the resident form. We are apparently resident in the UK, and ordinarily resident for 2007, and domiciled in the Commonwealth, but not domiciled in the UK."
"Are we getting money back or not?"
"Don't be so American. There's only 12 more forms to fill, and then we can calculate our tax"
"Okay, why don't you fill up the forms. I have to meet some people after lunch, but I will come back and calculate our tax"
"Very clever, you get to look up a figure in the tax tables and I get to fill 13 forms, all designed by Sir Humphrey"
"Be thankful you don't have to complete those forms in triplicate. I'm off"
(six hours later)
"Hey, I am back. How did it go? Did you fill all the forms?"
"Oh, it got predictable after a while. Not so much challenge after all, at least after I solved that multivariate regression problem on page 22."
"If only that would guarantee a PhD! Anyway, I can look up the tables to calculate my tax"
"Oh yes, that is going to be real easy. Here, this forty-page booklet has all the information you will need to calculate your tax. I need some coffee, so see you in a bit"
"Yeah, but there are no tables in this booklet"
"Who said anything about there being a table? It has all the information. All 236 questions and 21 worksheets."
"All I am looking for is two numbers. You tell me a figure, I look it up to get the second figure. I write that, sign, and we are done"
"Not really. You take this thirteen forms, fill in the answers to the 236 questions, and you will get that figure. I have even underlined the relevant figures in the thirteen forms for you."
"Very funny. But didn't they say they will calculate your tax for you?"
"Yes, they will. But do you trust them to hand back your money? This is Sir Humphrey we are talking about here"
"Oh. How about we do this tomorrow? We can both do it together. That way we will finish real fast"
"I thought you said you are going to do this by yourself"
"Yeah but what if we do it wrong? You will have to double-check anyway. Why don't we do this together tomorrow?"
"Yeah yeah! I knew this."
Long time readers of this blog would have no doubt guessed what really happened in the morning. Madam had an urgent appointment and had to go away somewhere. I was stuck filling 236 questions.
"Hey, you done? Let's go out for lunch"
"Yeah. My tax was uncannily accurate, down to the hundredth of a pence. I don't owe them, they don't owe me."
"And what about mine?"
"Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs (hereinafter referred to as HMRC) owe you a thousand and three pounds"
"What? Let's send this in today. Where do I need to sign?"
"There's just one problem. You need a Universal Tax Reference Number, but since they never sent you a form, you don't have one. You can't file this."
"Say that again?"
"Actually, by subsection 3a of Clause 31 of the Income Tax Act, 1988, as amended in 1995, 1996 and by Statutory Orders as appropriate, you aren't required to file a tax return if they don't send you one."
"Let me understand this. They don't owe you a penny, so they send you love letters every day asking you to file. I on the other hand am not required to file this, despite the fact, or perhaps because of the fact, that they owe me a thousand pounds?"
"I think that's accurate"
"I don't believe this! These fucking bastards should be sent to be a firing squad. Stealing my money!"
"Actually, firing squad as a method of permissible execution was outlawed in 1949. Anyway, the question is moot, since we no longer have the death penalty (it was abolished in 1998 and even before was never a punishment for theft), and furthermore, you will note that the Bastardy laws were repealed in 1931!"
"Enough, Sir Bernard!"
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Mister Pip
Falstaff reviews Lloyd Jones's Mister Pip here.
My review of the same book:
The blurb was all about the transformative power of books, and how a lone white man in a remote South Pacific island changes peoples' lives by reading Great Expectations to them during a blockade. Doesn't exactly sound promising, does it? That's what I figured too, and I gave up for a while after reading the first chapter. The book begins with the narrator talking about a white man nicknamed Pop Eye who used to drag his huge native wife through the village on a trolley in the afternoons. This Pop Eye guy even has a red clown nose. The writing was simple and engaging but really, I wasn't going to read another of these things. When it appeared on the shortlist a few days later, I felt vindicated - yes, look, they even put it on that shortlist, it can't be that good. Yesterday, I decided to give it one more try - after all, its about Great Expectations[1], how bad can it be?
Well, not bad at all. Its the best of the ones on the shortlist that I have read but that doesn't mean much as the other two are the McEwan and the Hamid. But that's really all that I can say about it! The story is set in the early 1990s, and it is narrated by Matilda, originally of Bougainville, now an immigrant Australian. Matilda is thirteen when the blockade begins. The world has forgotten their fertile little island, the boys have all gone to join the rebels ("rambos"), the "redskins" fly above in their choppers, the teachers have taken the last boat out. Mr Watts aka Pop Eye, the only white man in the village agrees to teach the children. He introduces them to Mr Dickens through Great Expectations. Matilda, like most other children immediately takes to the rimy mornings and the marshes of Victorian England, and falls in love with Pip and Joe Gaggery. To her mother's chagrin, Pip becomes more dear to her than the relatives in the family tree, or the God that her mother worships with a dangerous intensity. The situation worsens as is expected, and its only a matter of time before the redskins get to the village. Any world would be nice to escape to in such a situation, and (I guess) Dickensian England qualifies.
Jones's writing is simple but clever, folksy in a way, and his descriptions of the island and the people are charming. The problem though is that it doesn't go much beyond "charming". The characters are stereotypes, (though they speak in a really endearing manner) and its left to the reader to figure out why Pip should prove to be important to Matilda or anyone else for that matter. Its almost as if any other book or character would have done quite as well - why Pip? why Dickens? (As Falstaff points out somewhere in his review, one gets the feeling that Enid Blyton and the Famous Five would have done quite as well)
But wait, we aren't done with the story yet. Jones is not content with letting Pip live in his fictitious world, and this (sort of) saves the book. The redskins arrive, and seeing the beach-side shrine that Matilda built for Pip, they are convinced that Pip is a rebel and demand that he be handed over. With that, Pip is solidly in the island, he is one of them. Atrocities happen as expected and I don't want to give away the rest of the plot but will just say that it involves a story within a story narrative where Mr Watts spins his life, the stories of the islanders, and the story of Pip, basically everything that we have read so far into a neat yarn spread over seven nights. Interested? Go read.
Again, Jones is a clever writer, and I especially liked the way he describes the atrocities of war. So simple, understated, matter-of-fact and yet it conveys so much. The problem is that you don't really feel for the characters - I am reading about these brutalities thinking how clever the writing is, and not really about what the thirteen year old protagonist is going through and that doesn't seem quite right. Also, Jones unfortunately doesn't end the story in the island - he goes on for another fifty or so pages about Matilda's Dad, and Australia, and England and Dickens which is all very inane and serves no purpose whatsoever.
So did I like it? Yeah, it was nice. Pleasant reading. The writing is cool, some parts of the narrative are engrossing, and its good to see the author going beyond just the escapism theme. Worth a read, I would say. But it doesn't stay in the mind - because the characters are two-dimensional, the plot is contrived (which would have been okay if the characters were sketeched out well), and Jones tries a little too hard - he so much wants not to be the outsider, and he so wants us to like the characters that the effort is what shows up throughout. Not much in terms of results.
[1] Is there anyone in the world whose favorite Dickens is not Great Expectations? Really?
My review of the same book:
The blurb was all about the transformative power of books, and how a lone white man in a remote South Pacific island changes peoples' lives by reading Great Expectations to them during a blockade. Doesn't exactly sound promising, does it? That's what I figured too, and I gave up for a while after reading the first chapter. The book begins with the narrator talking about a white man nicknamed Pop Eye who used to drag his huge native wife through the village on a trolley in the afternoons. This Pop Eye guy even has a red clown nose. The writing was simple and engaging but really, I wasn't going to read another of these things. When it appeared on the shortlist a few days later, I felt vindicated - yes, look, they even put it on that shortlist, it can't be that good. Yesterday, I decided to give it one more try - after all, its about Great Expectations[1], how bad can it be?
Well, not bad at all. Its the best of the ones on the shortlist that I have read but that doesn't mean much as the other two are the McEwan and the Hamid. But that's really all that I can say about it! The story is set in the early 1990s, and it is narrated by Matilda, originally of Bougainville, now an immigrant Australian. Matilda is thirteen when the blockade begins. The world has forgotten their fertile little island, the boys have all gone to join the rebels ("rambos"), the "redskins" fly above in their choppers, the teachers have taken the last boat out. Mr Watts aka Pop Eye, the only white man in the village agrees to teach the children. He introduces them to Mr Dickens through Great Expectations. Matilda, like most other children immediately takes to the rimy mornings and the marshes of Victorian England, and falls in love with Pip and Joe Gaggery. To her mother's chagrin, Pip becomes more dear to her than the relatives in the family tree, or the God that her mother worships with a dangerous intensity. The situation worsens as is expected, and its only a matter of time before the redskins get to the village. Any world would be nice to escape to in such a situation, and (I guess) Dickensian England qualifies.
Jones's writing is simple but clever, folksy in a way, and his descriptions of the island and the people are charming. The problem though is that it doesn't go much beyond "charming". The characters are stereotypes, (though they speak in a really endearing manner) and its left to the reader to figure out why Pip should prove to be important to Matilda or anyone else for that matter. Its almost as if any other book or character would have done quite as well - why Pip? why Dickens? (
But wait, we aren't done with the story yet. Jones is not content with letting Pip live in his fictitious world, and this (sort of) saves the book. The redskins arrive, and seeing the beach-side shrine that Matilda built for Pip, they are convinced that Pip is a rebel and demand that he be handed over. With that, Pip is solidly in the island, he is one of them. Atrocities happen as expected and I don't want to give away the rest of the plot but will just say that it involves a story within a story narrative where Mr Watts spins his life, the stories of the islanders, and the story of Pip, basically everything that we have read so far into a neat yarn spread over seven nights. Interested? Go read.
Again, Jones is a clever writer, and I especially liked the way he describes the atrocities of war. So simple, understated, matter-of-fact and yet it conveys so much. The problem is that you don't really feel for the characters - I am reading about these brutalities thinking how clever the writing is, and not really about what the thirteen year old protagonist is going through and that doesn't seem quite right. Also, Jones unfortunately doesn't end the story in the island - he goes on for another fifty or so pages about Matilda's Dad, and Australia, and England and Dickens which is all very inane and serves no purpose whatsoever.
So did I like it? Yeah, it was nice. Pleasant reading. The writing is cool, some parts of the narrative are engrossing, and its good to see the author going beyond just the escapism theme. Worth a read, I would say. But it doesn't stay in the mind - because the characters are two-dimensional, the plot is contrived (which would have been okay if the characters were sketeched out well), and Jones tries a little too hard - he so much wants not to be the outsider, and he so wants us to like the characters that the effort is what shows up throughout. Not much in terms of results.
[1] Is there anyone in the world whose favorite Dickens is not Great Expectations? Really?
Why there is no point in Bill graduating...
(Via the Kid who seems to have nothing better to do than finding excuses for his brother)From here. (Where else?)
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Animal's Spirit
Falstaff's review of Indra Sinha's Animal's People here. I think he likes it - I didn't read the review in its entirety as I read a couple of chapters at the bookstore and would like to read it without any spoilers. So.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Pollachi pookaran* needed!
As seen in front of the Council House this afternoon while walking to brunch at Marylebone. You thought they sent these buses off to the scrap metal yard, didn't you?
Oh, and here's a couple more. You never know what you run into when you walk by the Thames. I am beginning to appreciate camera phones, I think.
*Flower guy from Pollachi. Who should be the only guy decorating things during weddings.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Booker shortlist
Booker shortlist is out. Here.
On the shortlist, we have:
Darkmans by Nicola Barker
The Gathering by Anne Enright
Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
Animal's People by Indra Sinha
Mela reviews so far:
Darkmans by Nicola Barker
Self Help by Edward Docx
The Gift Of Rain by Tan Twan Eng
The Gathering by Anne Enright - Falstaff
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid - Veena
The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies - Falstaff
Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones
Gifted by Nikita Lalwani
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - Bill
What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn - Falstaff, Veena
Consolation by Michael Redhill - Falstaff
Animal's People by Indra Sinha
Winnie & Wolf by A.N. Wilson
The shortlist includes a couple of books that I think shouldn't be there, but hey, there's a reason why they don't let me sit on these things! Its been a very unproductive work for me in terms of reading but hopefully can make up for that later in the month. Anyway, we still have a month to go, so if you have any reviews up, let me know.
On the shortlist, we have:
Darkmans by Nicola Barker
The Gathering by Anne Enright
Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
Animal's People by Indra Sinha
Mela reviews so far:
Darkmans by Nicola Barker
Self Help by Edward Docx
The Gift Of Rain by Tan Twan Eng
The Gathering by Anne Enright - Falstaff
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid - Veena
The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies - Falstaff
Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones
Gifted by Nikita Lalwani
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - Bill
What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn - Falstaff, Veena
Consolation by Michael Redhill - Falstaff
Animal's People by Indra Sinha
Winnie & Wolf by A.N. Wilson
The shortlist includes a couple of books that I think shouldn't be there, but hey, there's a reason why they don't let me sit on these things! Its been a very unproductive work for me in terms of reading but hopefully can make up for that later in the month. Anyway, we still have a month to go, so if you have any reviews up, let me know.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
You know those people....
who cannot read maps and are for some reason, very proud of the fact that they say it to all and sundry. I used to wonder all the time who hangs out with these people, and today I have my answer. In fact, I even know who gets married to them. People who buy furniture from Ikea and then pay "assembly professionals" to assemble said furniture. Really. They deserve each other, don't you think?
In other unrelated news, the only thing (concerning work) that I know everything about, or rather, no one's accused me not knowing has become unrecognizable now. Microsoft's gone and done it again. Does anyone recognize this? (Please click on it to see larger picture in all its goriness..err..Macness)
No, its not iTunes people. Its Excel 2007. Bill (No, not you dammit, and no, you do not tell me to switch to Linux[1]), WHY? I take a break for a month and this is what you do?
[1] Anoop, that's for you too.
PS: On the bright side, all old keyboard shortcuts work. So all's not lost methinks.
In other unrelated news, the only thing (concerning work) that I know everything about, or rather, no one's accused me not knowing has become unrecognizable now. Microsoft's gone and done it again. Does anyone recognize this? (Please click on it to see larger picture in all its goriness..err..Macness)
No, its not iTunes people. Its Excel 2007. Bill (No, not you dammit, and no, you do not tell me to switch to Linux[1]), WHY? I take a break for a month and this is what you do?
[1] Anoop, that's for you too.
PS: On the bright side, all old keyboard shortcuts work. So all's not lost methinks.
Monday, September 03, 2007
More proof that I am not meant to work
So I decide that I better start working again if we are to pay next month's rent. Figure out job and get to work this morning. What's the first thing I hear once I get there? Tube on strike for 72 hours! Looks like God and the People have gotten together and decided that moi going to work is not a good thing.
Bill, are you listening?
Bill, are you listening?
Sunday, September 02, 2007
On Chesil Beach
Another Booker review as part of the Mela. Bill (yes, Bill. See what all some "well intentioned laziness" on my part can do!) on Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach:
The billboards in London are announcing the film version of Atonement. As a person who really liked that book, I am very skeptical of a film version starring Keira Knightley, and by the director of last year's Pride and Prejudice, no less. What I would have no problems with, however, is with them adapting On Chesil Beach to the screen. It might even improve on the book, since it's hard to see how they could make it worse (famous last words).
Two days ago, I wouldn't have thought I would say this of a McEwan book. Even the books that are admittedly not his best, like The Innocent, for instance, are books I admire for his precise descriptions of mood, of characters. He can create an atmosphere that you know is fictional but are engrossed in nonetheless. With those expectations, this book comes across as even more of a disappointment than it would have been otherwise.
The story is about the honeymoon night of a young English couple, in the year 1962. Florence and Edward are trapped hopelessly in an old-fashioned conventionality, unaware of the approaching sexual revolution (nineteen-sixty-three, as Larkin tells us. I don't know much more, but this guy surely does). This is the first time either of them are going to have sex, and both carry a heavy baggage of anxieties and preoccupations. A lot of repressed emotions, things left unsaid, and endless fumbling later, the night will end in tragedy.
The plot of course is nothing to write home about, but McEwan can transform even the thinnest of plots and make it engrossing. This time he doesn't actually succeed, partly because the characters are extremely unconvincing caricatures. Florence comes from an upper class family, with an Oxford philosophy professor for her mother and a successful businessman for her father. She herself plays violin in a classical music quintet. (what else!) And Edward is from solid middle-class background, with all his friends gone to trade schools. He is busy trying to hide his country background at University by pretending not to know the names of trees. Not satisfied with this rich girl poor boy dynamic, we then get chaste girl horny boy also. Florence has once before run away screaming when Edward placed her hand on his groin. Edward cannot stop longing for sex, in the "long lazy afternoons, before going to sleep, after waking up" before his wedding.
McEwan seems to set out to explore the consequences of repression and decorum, in a polite English world. The mood is set by the very first sentence: They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible. That sentence pretty much sums up the book. My problem with the book is that he never delivers on the promise of the sentence that follows: But it is never easy. Embarrassment is not unknown during a first-time encounter with sex even in our enlightened times, and surprising though it may seem, people actually did have sex before the sexual revolution (in industrial quantities too!). Exploring that era needs something more than a "Oh, they couldn't talk about it".
The billboards in London are announcing the film version of Atonement. As a person who really liked that book, I am very skeptical of a film version starring Keira Knightley, and by the director of last year's Pride and Prejudice, no less. What I would have no problems with, however, is with them adapting On Chesil Beach to the screen. It might even improve on the book, since it's hard to see how they could make it worse (famous last words).
Two days ago, I wouldn't have thought I would say this of a McEwan book. Even the books that are admittedly not his best, like The Innocent, for instance, are books I admire for his precise descriptions of mood, of characters. He can create an atmosphere that you know is fictional but are engrossed in nonetheless. With those expectations, this book comes across as even more of a disappointment than it would have been otherwise.
The story is about the honeymoon night of a young English couple, in the year 1962. Florence and Edward are trapped hopelessly in an old-fashioned conventionality, unaware of the approaching sexual revolution (nineteen-sixty-three, as Larkin tells us. I don't know much more, but this guy surely does). This is the first time either of them are going to have sex, and both carry a heavy baggage of anxieties and preoccupations. A lot of repressed emotions, things left unsaid, and endless fumbling later, the night will end in tragedy.
The plot of course is nothing to write home about, but McEwan can transform even the thinnest of plots and make it engrossing. This time he doesn't actually succeed, partly because the characters are extremely unconvincing caricatures. Florence comes from an upper class family, with an Oxford philosophy professor for her mother and a successful businessman for her father. She herself plays violin in a classical music quintet. (what else!) And Edward is from solid middle-class background, with all his friends gone to trade schools. He is busy trying to hide his country background at University by pretending not to know the names of trees. Not satisfied with this rich girl poor boy dynamic, we then get chaste girl horny boy also. Florence has once before run away screaming when Edward placed her hand on his groin. Edward cannot stop longing for sex, in the "long lazy afternoons, before going to sleep, after waking up" before his wedding.
McEwan seems to set out to explore the consequences of repression and decorum, in a polite English world. The mood is set by the very first sentence: They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible. That sentence pretty much sums up the book. My problem with the book is that he never delivers on the promise of the sentence that follows: But it is never easy. Embarrassment is not unknown during a first-time encounter with sex even in our enlightened times, and surprising though it may seem, people actually did have sex before the sexual revolution (in industrial quantities too!). Exploring that era needs something more than a "Oh, they couldn't talk about it".
Friday, August 31, 2007
What Was Lost
First, Falstaff doesn't seem to like The Welsh Girl
Moving on to what I think of Catherine O'Flynn's What Was Lost:
There's really nothing I have to say about this book that hasn't been said already, far more eloquently too, but I liked the book enough to risk the repetition charges so here goes. (But I promise to keep it short)
In 1984, ten year old Kate Meaney opens her own detective agency Falcon Investigations and sets out to find crime in Green Oaks shopping center. Kate lives with her grandmother in a run down Birmingham neighborhood and goes to school with kids from the housing estates. She spends her summers and holidays at Green Oaks hoping to nab bank robbers. Kate is intelligent and diligent, and her attempts at being a real detective makes those of us who attempted this at fourteen feel very stupid. Kate thinks she has a prospective suspect, and the book moves on to 2003 to the lives of a security guard Kurt who sees Kate's ghost on CCTV, and Lisa, a duty manager at a music store whose brother was suspected of having something to do with Kate's disappearance. Green Oaks has grown too during these years, into the sprawling monster that we all know by different names - Schaumburg Mall, Oxford St, The Forum. Kurt and Lisa, miserable in their dead-end jobs and lives, get together to find the little girl gone missing nearly twenty years ago and the mystery is finally unraveled.
Life as seen through a ten year old's eyes is not exactly easy to do, but O'Flynn does this almost effortlessly - the first part of the book which deals with Kate's drab life and her adventures, or rather her search for exciting adventures is charming and utterly delightful to read. (Of course premium office supplies are very important to an effective investigator. Who among us has not been enamored by the stationery cupboards in school and in the stores and not deemed them essential for whatever it is that we were doing right then?) The professionalism that Kate displays in her investigative work is exemplary, something that only a precocious ten year old is capable of, and something which will make you fall in love with this child with her monkey.
With Kurt and Lisa, O'Flynn is not as comfortable - a bit clunky when Kurt and Lisa talk about their unhappy states of mind but O'Flynn doesn't delve too long there; she switches to their everyday tasks and the people they work with, and these parts are lovely. A missing brother who sends birthday tapes every year, a mother who still shops in the High St, a conversation with a co-worker given to violent urges, a corporate trainer who goes on about helicopters and ladders, the imminent store inspection which (almost) never materializes all manage to be so depressingly funny. The most important character in the novel other than Kate is Green Oaks itself and here, in describing the mall and the people who inhabit it, who make it the monster that it has become, O'Flynn is just perfect. How does one manage such a scathing critique of the lives we lead in what is clearly an emotional story about a missing girl? Or wait, is it really the loss of our moral and intellectual lives that O'Flynn is talking about while cleverly inserting the poignant story of a ten year old detective? Well, you will have to go read the book to figure that out.
So all's perfect then, you ask? Not really. In an attempt to tie in all loose ends, the plot becomes way too twisted. But if you think this book is about the plot once you have read it, you need to get your head checked. Really. Oh, and one more thing. Falstaff mentions this in his review but I have a feeling this will sound more credible coming from me - What Was Lost is one of the most accessible books that I have read in recent months. Just because Falstaff loves it so much does NOT mean its not readable. Quite the contrary. It is a fast read and in all probability, you will finish it in less than three hours. O'Flynn's success is precisely that she manages to put in so much in what is a hugely enjoyable read. (And it is to find authors such as O'Flynn that we have long lists. And Melas!)
PS: Just received word from library that three of my reservations Mister Pip, Winnie and Wolf, and Darkmans are all available for pickup. The weekend is looking very good, methinks!
Moving on to what I think of Catherine O'Flynn's What Was Lost:
There's really nothing I have to say about this book that hasn't been said already, far more eloquently too, but I liked the book enough to risk the repetition charges so here goes. (But I promise to keep it short)
In 1984, ten year old Kate Meaney opens her own detective agency Falcon Investigations and sets out to find crime in Green Oaks shopping center. Kate lives with her grandmother in a run down Birmingham neighborhood and goes to school with kids from the housing estates. She spends her summers and holidays at Green Oaks hoping to nab bank robbers. Kate is intelligent and diligent, and her attempts at being a real detective makes those of us who attempted this at fourteen feel very stupid. Kate thinks she has a prospective suspect, and the book moves on to 2003 to the lives of a security guard Kurt who sees Kate's ghost on CCTV, and Lisa, a duty manager at a music store whose brother was suspected of having something to do with Kate's disappearance. Green Oaks has grown too during these years, into the sprawling monster that we all know by different names - Schaumburg Mall, Oxford St, The Forum. Kurt and Lisa, miserable in their dead-end jobs and lives, get together to find the little girl gone missing nearly twenty years ago and the mystery is finally unraveled.
Life as seen through a ten year old's eyes is not exactly easy to do, but O'Flynn does this almost effortlessly - the first part of the book which deals with Kate's drab life and her adventures, or rather her search for exciting adventures is charming and utterly delightful to read. (Of course premium office supplies are very important to an effective investigator. Who among us has not been enamored by the stationery cupboards in school and in the stores and not deemed them essential for whatever it is that we were doing right then?) The professionalism that Kate displays in her investigative work is exemplary, something that only a precocious ten year old is capable of, and something which will make you fall in love with this child with her monkey.
With Kurt and Lisa, O'Flynn is not as comfortable - a bit clunky when Kurt and Lisa talk about their unhappy states of mind but O'Flynn doesn't delve too long there; she switches to their everyday tasks and the people they work with, and these parts are lovely. A missing brother who sends birthday tapes every year, a mother who still shops in the High St, a conversation with a co-worker given to violent urges, a corporate trainer who goes on about helicopters and ladders, the imminent store inspection which (almost) never materializes all manage to be so depressingly funny. The most important character in the novel other than Kate is Green Oaks itself and here, in describing the mall and the people who inhabit it, who make it the monster that it has become, O'Flynn is just perfect. How does one manage such a scathing critique of the lives we lead in what is clearly an emotional story about a missing girl? Or wait, is it really the loss of our moral and intellectual lives that O'Flynn is talking about while cleverly inserting the poignant story of a ten year old detective? Well, you will have to go read the book to figure that out.
So all's perfect then, you ask? Not really. In an attempt to tie in all loose ends, the plot becomes way too twisted. But if you think this book is about the plot once you have read it, you need to get your head checked. Really. Oh, and one more thing. Falstaff mentions this in his review but I have a feeling this will sound more credible coming from me - What Was Lost is one of the most accessible books that I have read in recent months. Just because Falstaff loves it so much does NOT mean its not readable. Quite the contrary. It is a fast read and in all probability, you will finish it in less than three hours. O'Flynn's success is precisely that she manages to put in so much in what is a hugely enjoyable read. (And it is to find authors such as O'Flynn that we have long lists. And Melas!)
PS: Just received word from library that three of my reservations Mister Pip, Winnie and Wolf, and Darkmans are all available for pickup. The weekend is looking very good, methinks!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
There and back again
Back from Scotland.
Important lessons learned:
- Climbing up a waterfall isn't as difficult as you think. Climbing down is another story however
- Always listen to the Don. When he tells you that your toenails are too long when he says goodbye at the airport, they are too long. You better clip them as soon as you get home. If not, you will go to Scotland to climb mountains and while descending one of them, your long nail will get mashed against your hiking boots and that is not fun
- If I ever write a book, it will be called Climbing the wrong mountain. So what if we have compass and OS maps and everything?
There are a few good stories from the trip but they will have to wait. This stupid laptop is Bill's which means it runs on Linux and for some reason, it is refusing to let me upload pictures. Bill refuses to help (as usual), so you will have to wait till next week. Of course I can go on without pictures but you know, I also have pictures of a few heavenly lakes (among other things) that I want to show off too!
Important lessons learned:
- Climbing up a waterfall isn't as difficult as you think. Climbing down is another story however
- Always listen to the Don. When he tells you that your toenails are too long when he says goodbye at the airport, they are too long. You better clip them as soon as you get home. If not, you will go to Scotland to climb mountains and while descending one of them, your long nail will get mashed against your hiking boots and that is not fun
- If I ever write a book, it will be called Climbing the wrong mountain. So what if we have compass and OS maps and everything?
There are a few good stories from the trip but they will have to wait. This stupid laptop is Bill's which means it runs on Linux and for some reason, it is refusing to let me upload pictures. Bill refuses to help (as usual), so you will have to wait till next week. Of course I can go on without pictures but you know, I also have pictures of a few heavenly lakes (among other things) that I want to show off too!
Friday, August 24, 2007
Chotu Motu off to Highlands
I barely believe it myself but it seems to be true. After yesterday, Bill apparently decided that he should do something to get me out of home, so he's gone and planned this entire thing himself! Yes, it is Bill I am talking about. Perhaps I should stay home for the next few months, you think? Tickets, car, hotels all done supposedly. Off early tomorrow - no, will not be spending time in Edinburgh just there to pick up car. Inverness, Skye, the Lochs and single malt the next four days. Be back on Thursday.
PS: Anoop, no, that's asking for too much, don't you think? He booked the car in my name, I am driving.
PS: Anoop, no, that's asking for too much, don't you think? He booked the car in my name, I am driving.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Scenes from a Marriage: The Unemployed life
"This is not sustainable"
"What is not sustainable?"
"This life"
"What life are you talking about?"
"What did you do today?"
"Hmm..let me think. After you left, I read for a bit. Saw a movie. Had lunch, went to library and got some other books and DVDs. Walked in the park. Came home, talked to mom. Reading now"
"You could have cooked something na?"
"Didn't feel like it. One of these days, I will"
"What did you do yesterday?"
"More or less the same. Why do you want to know all this now?"
"And the day before?"
"Similar stuff only. Wait, yesterday I figured I will do some shopping. Not that I wanted anything but you know, let me go see what all these shoppers do and maybe get something"
"And?"
"Usual only. Got so sick of it after fifteen minutes. Oxford St is so claustrophobic. And all those people..eeks!"
"You know you only go shopping when you want to feel all superior to those shoppers who have nothing better to do"
"Could be true. But really, it puts me off so much. If I want anything, I will fly to America and shop at a mall there. If nothing else, its so not pretentious like it is here. And next time I tell you that I want to go shopping when I don't have to buy anything please remind me of the last time I did that"
"My pleasure. But coming back to the point, this schedule you got going, this is your life now?"
"Well, no. Next week I am thinking I will go to a few museums. There are some special exhibits which sound interesting"
"What about planning for this Scotland trip?"
"I have to plan for that now?"
"Well you are the one sitting at home with nothing to do"
"Not entirely accurate. I am getting so much reading done"
"Why can't you spend some time and plan this trip?"
"You know why"
"No, I don't"
"Where is the money going to come from?"
"What money?"
"The money for the trip. Now that I don't work, we can't afford it you idiot. Where are you going to find the money?"
"Oh"
"Its not like before. We can't take off anywhere we want to"
"And for some reason, you are so happy with this life"
"I am just getting used to it. Now that I have lived it for three whole days, I see how this can grow on you. I am beginning to understand how you could do five years of your life doing nothing. Its fun"
"Fun?"
"Isn't it? Why did you do it if it wasn't?"
"Hello, I was working the last five years of my life"
"Yeah right. Towards what? As far as I know, you don't even have a PhD"
"Lots of people don't graduate"
"Yeah yeah. You know what? Falstaff, even Falstaff is writing his dissertation ok? Look at you!"
"That doesn't mean anything. Even I have written my dissertation"
"Whatever"
"The point is that you have to get your act together"
"I have to do what? Hello, I am happy the way I am thank you"
"You can't live this life!"
"Why? I will be happy. And anyway, you promised me food and clothes"
"I did what?"
"I have photographic evidence ok? And BM was there too. After the wedding when we were in Cal, they got you to give me one plate with sari and food and they said it meant that you will provide with clothes and food for the rest of my life. I don't forget such things"
"Oh my God!"
"I am a woman of modest needs. Food I can even cook when I feel like it. And I don't particularly like shopping. Very low maintenance. You have the dream wife!"
"No no no, I had the dream wife. She used to pull in more than twice as much as I made. And she wanted to go to Scotland and everywhere else. Now I am left with you!"
"So what are you going to do?"
"This is not what I signed up for. I want my money back"
"Excuse me, what money? If anyone is getting paid in this, its me. Shall we do accounts now?"
"Oh no. Leave that alone, I didn't say anything. Oh God, what am I going to to?"
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all"
"What is not sustainable?"
"This life"
"What life are you talking about?"
"What did you do today?"
"Hmm..let me think. After you left, I read for a bit. Saw a movie. Had lunch, went to library and got some other books and DVDs. Walked in the park. Came home, talked to mom. Reading now"
"You could have cooked something na?"
"Didn't feel like it. One of these days, I will"
"What did you do yesterday?"
"More or less the same. Why do you want to know all this now?"
"And the day before?"
"Similar stuff only. Wait, yesterday I figured I will do some shopping. Not that I wanted anything but you know, let me go see what all these shoppers do and maybe get something"
"And?"
"Usual only. Got so sick of it after fifteen minutes. Oxford St is so claustrophobic. And all those people..eeks!"
"You know you only go shopping when you want to feel all superior to those shoppers who have nothing better to do"
"Could be true. But really, it puts me off so much. If I want anything, I will fly to America and shop at a mall there. If nothing else, its so not pretentious like it is here. And next time I tell you that I want to go shopping when I don't have to buy anything please remind me of the last time I did that"
"My pleasure. But coming back to the point, this schedule you got going, this is your life now?"
"Well, no. Next week I am thinking I will go to a few museums. There are some special exhibits which sound interesting"
"What about planning for this Scotland trip?"
"I have to plan for that now?"
"Well you are the one sitting at home with nothing to do"
"Not entirely accurate. I am getting so much reading done"
"Why can't you spend some time and plan this trip?"
"You know why"
"No, I don't"
"Where is the money going to come from?"
"What money?"
"The money for the trip. Now that I don't work, we can't afford it you idiot. Where are you going to find the money?"
"Oh"
"Its not like before. We can't take off anywhere we want to"
"And for some reason, you are so happy with this life"
"I am just getting used to it. Now that I have lived it for three whole days, I see how this can grow on you. I am beginning to understand how you could do five years of your life doing nothing. Its fun"
"Fun?"
"Isn't it? Why did you do it if it wasn't?"
"Hello, I was working the last five years of my life"
"Yeah right. Towards what? As far as I know, you don't even have a PhD"
"Lots of people don't graduate"
"Yeah yeah. You know what? Falstaff, even Falstaff is writing his dissertation ok? Look at you!"
"That doesn't mean anything. Even I have written my dissertation"
"Whatever"
"The point is that you have to get your act together"
"I have to do what? Hello, I am happy the way I am thank you"
"You can't live this life!"
"Why? I will be happy. And anyway, you promised me food and clothes"
"I did what?"
"I have photographic evidence ok? And BM was there too. After the wedding when we were in Cal, they got you to give me one plate with sari and food and they said it meant that you will provide with clothes and food for the rest of my life. I don't forget such things"
"Oh my God!"
"I am a woman of modest needs. Food I can even cook when I feel like it. And I don't particularly like shopping. Very low maintenance. You have the dream wife!"
"No no no, I had the dream wife. She used to pull in more than twice as much as I made. And she wanted to go to Scotland and everywhere else. Now I am left with you!"
"So what are you going to do?"
"This is not what I signed up for. I want my money back"
"Excuse me, what money? If anyone is getting paid in this, its me. Shall we do accounts now?"
"Oh no. Leave that alone, I didn't say anything. Oh God, what am I going to to?"
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all"
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Reluctant Fundamentalist
Since Falstaff's refused to review a couple of books, I figured I will do them first before moving to the others. Here's my take on Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist
In a cafe in Lahore's Old Anarkali district, a bearded Pakistani named Changez converses with an American who happens to be in the area. The conversation is one-sided, humility mixed with a good amount of sarcasm. The narrator talks about his life in the States and his reasons for his return to his homeland. His intentions and the identity of the American remain unknown; they are immaterial. Changez's story goes something like this:
Changez comes from an upper middle class family from Lahore where even the women are professionals. His upbringing is that of a typical upper class male (though slowly dropping off from that strata) in the developing world. He goes to Princeton on a scholarship and his life there is unremarkable. After a successful interview with a valuation firm called Underwood Samson (US), Changez moves to New York. He takes to NY and US, and the focus of his life is on "fundamentals" as US wants it to be. He rises fast and becomes the Boss's favorite. He also gets into a relationship with an all-American Princetonian called Erica, and through her is inducted into NY society.
While on a business trip to Manila, Sep 11 happens and watching it on TV, our man smiles at the symbolism of it. Back in the States, the world is changing. The attack on Afghanistan, racial profiling and slurs that he is subjected to, a trip back to the homeland, another trip to Chile where the client talks to him about janissaries and most of all, the alienation of Erica who now lives only in nostalgia all make Changez realise that he is wasting his time in the States. He quits his job, packs his bags and moves back to Pakistan. Whether he is a different kind of a fundamentalist now, one which the world is more familiar with, is left unanswered.
Its a nice enough setup, interesting in a number of ways. Hamid's writing is smooth and the book is a real fast read. The atmosphere is just right - one gets the feeling of sitting in a cafe, chilled out, listening to this man's story. Hamid, like good diasporic writers is very good with cultural displacement - his comparisons between Manila and Lahore, his reactions to Erica's father's remarks on Pakistan, the lack of refinment that he finds in his fellow Princetonians, their disregard for money, even the smile when the Towers come down are nice touches which most immigrants in the New World will be able to associate with. But beyond that, there's nothing more to the book - the plot is trite, Changez's transformation is too simplistic. The characters - Jim, Erica, Changez - are engaging but they all seem etched out by pop Western imagination than by anyone who's walked the streets of Lahore and Mahattan. The monologue, Changez's relationship with Erica which mirrors his relationship with America, the names of the characters are all interesting but in the absence of a credible storyline they seem mere stunts that are there to make up for the lack of a plot.
The other issue that bugs me about the book is this: we live in times when conversations between the West and the Islamic world are absolutely essential. Fundamentalism can be of more than one kind, everyone who disagrees with America is not a terrorist are all ideas that everyone should be made aware of and Hamid is to be appreciated for starting this conversation. But here's the thing: this book is currently on the Times bestseller list. Millions of Americans read this and (perhaps) think that they understand the other side, the terrorist psyche, they understand Changez. For some reason, that's a little disconcerting.
Don't get me wrong, its a nice enough book and I liked it. I would readily pick it up at an airport bookstore to keep me entertained on a short flight. As long as its understood that this is mostly entertainment, and it is not hugely insightful or substantative. Which is why I think that the right tribute for this book is not the Booker (though considering the times, its not surprising that it made it to the longlist) but a Hollywood adaptation. Which I am sure will happen soon enough.
In a cafe in Lahore's Old Anarkali district, a bearded Pakistani named Changez converses with an American who happens to be in the area. The conversation is one-sided, humility mixed with a good amount of sarcasm. The narrator talks about his life in the States and his reasons for his return to his homeland. His intentions and the identity of the American remain unknown; they are immaterial. Changez's story goes something like this:
Changez comes from an upper middle class family from Lahore where even the women are professionals. His upbringing is that of a typical upper class male (though slowly dropping off from that strata) in the developing world. He goes to Princeton on a scholarship and his life there is unremarkable. After a successful interview with a valuation firm called Underwood Samson (US), Changez moves to New York. He takes to NY and US, and the focus of his life is on "fundamentals" as US wants it to be. He rises fast and becomes the Boss's favorite. He also gets into a relationship with an all-American Princetonian called Erica, and through her is inducted into NY society.
While on a business trip to Manila, Sep 11 happens and watching it on TV, our man smiles at the symbolism of it. Back in the States, the world is changing. The attack on Afghanistan, racial profiling and slurs that he is subjected to, a trip back to the homeland, another trip to Chile where the client talks to him about janissaries and most of all, the alienation of Erica who now lives only in nostalgia all make Changez realise that he is wasting his time in the States. He quits his job, packs his bags and moves back to Pakistan. Whether he is a different kind of a fundamentalist now, one which the world is more familiar with, is left unanswered.
Its a nice enough setup, interesting in a number of ways. Hamid's writing is smooth and the book is a real fast read. The atmosphere is just right - one gets the feeling of sitting in a cafe, chilled out, listening to this man's story. Hamid, like good diasporic writers is very good with cultural displacement - his comparisons between Manila and Lahore, his reactions to Erica's father's remarks on Pakistan, the lack of refinment that he finds in his fellow Princetonians, their disregard for money, even the smile when the Towers come down are nice touches which most immigrants in the New World will be able to associate with. But beyond that, there's nothing more to the book - the plot is trite, Changez's transformation is too simplistic. The characters - Jim, Erica, Changez - are engaging but they all seem etched out by pop Western imagination than by anyone who's walked the streets of Lahore and Mahattan. The monologue, Changez's relationship with Erica which mirrors his relationship with America, the names of the characters are all interesting but in the absence of a credible storyline they seem mere stunts that are there to make up for the lack of a plot.
The other issue that bugs me about the book is this: we live in times when conversations between the West and the Islamic world are absolutely essential. Fundamentalism can be of more than one kind, everyone who disagrees with America is not a terrorist are all ideas that everyone should be made aware of and Hamid is to be appreciated for starting this conversation. But here's the thing: this book is currently on the Times bestseller list. Millions of Americans read this and (perhaps) think that they understand the other side, the terrorist psyche, they understand Changez. For some reason, that's a little disconcerting.
Don't get me wrong, its a nice enough book and I liked it. I would readily pick it up at an airport bookstore to keep me entertained on a short flight. As long as its understood that this is mostly entertainment, and it is not hugely insightful or substantative. Which is why I think that the right tribute for this book is not the Booker (though considering the times, its not surprising that it made it to the longlist) but a Hollywood adaptation. Which I am sure will happen soon enough.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Booker links etc.
Mela reviews while I have been away: Falstaff on Anne Enright's The Gathering here. And just so that you think he reviews only forgettable books, he think Catherine O'Flyn's What Was Lost a splendid read.
Just got back after a couple of weeks of eating fish and lazing about. Three flight related questions:
1. Can anyone please tell me why is it that in all major London airports (Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted), it doesn't matter which gate you fly into, you always always walk at least 20 minutes to get to the immigration counters? In no other country this seems to be the case. I mean, its not like other airports aren't busy or anything. The most flights that I have taken have been into or out of O'Hare and the most one takes to get to immigration is about 10 minutes. And yes, its busier than Heathrow.
2. Who decides in-flight entertainment on Emirates? They have some comedy where they claim to bring in news tickers from the BBC. On my flight from Calcutta to Dubai, the only two pieces of news that happened were regarding: a China Airlines place that caught fire in Japan and some enquiry into last month's Brazil plane crash. Right after these news stories happened, the pilot announced that we were going to land in Dubai in 20 minutes. That helped me feel better for a few minutes until I realised that we didn't seem to be going anywhere - the plane was just turning around. I checked the aircraft map (which is the only inflight entertainment I usually watch) and I was right! The plane had turned 180 degrees and was heading straight back into the Gulf, at this rate we will be in Karachi in an hour. I was sure this was a hijacking but no else seemed concerned. I immediately tuned to air traffic control (which ofcourse is the only inflight channel I listen to) but only static there. It was another 20 minutes before the pilot announced that we were in some sort of holding pattern which would continue for another hour.
3. Are there any bookstores in Dubai airport? It has numerous department stores and stuff but I couldn't find a single bookstore. On my flight here, I was reading Ryszard
Kapuscinski's The Shadow of the Sun: My African Life and in an essay on Ethiopia, he talks about how there is only one bookstore in the entire country and even that's filled with empty shelves. Obviously this is just the airport, but the airport is a reflection of the country and consumer traffic through it, no?
Just got back after a couple of weeks of eating fish and lazing about. Three flight related questions:
1. Can anyone please tell me why is it that in all major London airports (Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted), it doesn't matter which gate you fly into, you always always walk at least 20 minutes to get to the immigration counters? In no other country this seems to be the case. I mean, its not like other airports aren't busy or anything. The most flights that I have taken have been into or out of O'Hare and the most one takes to get to immigration is about 10 minutes. And yes, its busier than Heathrow.
2. Who decides in-flight entertainment on Emirates? They have some comedy where they claim to bring in news tickers from the BBC. On my flight from Calcutta to Dubai, the only two pieces of news that happened were regarding: a China Airlines place that caught fire in Japan and some enquiry into last month's Brazil plane crash. Right after these news stories happened, the pilot announced that we were going to land in Dubai in 20 minutes. That helped me feel better for a few minutes until I realised that we didn't seem to be going anywhere - the plane was just turning around. I checked the aircraft map (which is the only inflight entertainment I usually watch) and I was right! The plane had turned 180 degrees and was heading straight back into the Gulf, at this rate we will be in Karachi in an hour. I was sure this was a hijacking but no else seemed concerned. I immediately tuned to air traffic control (which ofcourse is the only inflight channel I listen to) but only static there. It was another 20 minutes before the pilot announced that we were in some sort of holding pattern which would continue for another hour.
3. Are there any bookstores in Dubai airport? It has numerous department stores and stuff but I couldn't find a single bookstore. On my flight here, I was reading Ryszard
Kapuscinski's The Shadow of the Sun: My African Life and in an essay on Ethiopia, he talks about how there is only one bookstore in the entire country and even that's filled with empty shelves. Obviously this is just the airport, but the airport is a reflection of the country and consumer traffic through it, no?
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Consolation
First of the Mela reviews - Falstaff finds Michael Redhill's Consolation, a novel about preserving the past unsurprising and well, forgettable.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Booker Mela time
Yes, its that time of the year again - the 2007 Man Booker longlist is out. There are a lot of relatively unknown people on the list and since I am running very behind on my resolution of reading one unread author every month[1], this seems like a great way to rectify that. So I am going to try to read as many books on the list as possible. How about you?
Here's the complete longlist. Please let me know if you plan to review any of these before Oct, the 16th.
Darkmans by Nicola Barker
Self Help by Edward Docx
The Gift Of Rain by Tan Twan Eng
The Gathering by Anne Enright - Falstaff
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid - Veena
The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies - Falstaff
Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones - Falstaff, Veena
Gifted by Nikita Lalwani
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - Falstaff, Bill
What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn - Falstaff, Veena
Consolation by Michael Redhill - Falstaff
Animal's People by Indra Sinha - Falstaff
Winnie & Wolf by A.N. Wilson
[1] I have read lots of new authors this year but mostly bite-size portions thanks to Granta's Best Young American novelists, so it cannot be counted. I LOVE Gary Shteyngart btw.
Here's the complete longlist. Please let me know if you plan to review any of these before Oct, the 16th.
Darkmans by Nicola Barker
Self Help by Edward Docx
The Gift Of Rain by Tan Twan Eng
The Gathering by Anne Enright - Falstaff
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid - Veena
The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies - Falstaff
Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones - Falstaff, Veena
Gifted by Nikita Lalwani
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - Falstaff, Bill
What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn - Falstaff, Veena
Consolation by Michael Redhill - Falstaff
Animal's People by Indra Sinha - Falstaff
Winnie & Wolf by A.N. Wilson
[1] I have read lots of new authors this year but mostly bite-size portions thanks to Granta's Best Young American novelists, so it cannot be counted. I LOVE Gary Shteyngart btw.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
More Rooster stories
Once every couple of hours, the Rooster gets mocha frappuccino cravings and runs away to Starbucks. By the fifth time, we decided to go along with him just to make sure that its just the coffee.
We enter the store, the Rooster points out the mocha frappuccino and jumps up and down, bemoans the absence of Starbucks in Sweden, goes to counter, orders the frappuccino and a couple of Belgian chocolate brownies (yes, now you know why I like this guy),turns on full charm and makes small talk with the girl at the till. Nothing strange. Then,
"That's 6.80"
"Here, let me give you change"
The Rooster pulls out wallet which is the size of a football. He takes out a couple of bills, and then empties all his change on the counter. There are about 35 coins.
"Let me see now. Here's 50p, no, that's Swedish krona"
The girl at the counter, in an attempt to be helpful, picks up a couple of coins.
"This looks.."
"No, not that. That's Danish 20p. Here, take this"
She looks a little confused.
"50p..."
"This doesn't looks like..."
"Oh I am sorry, that's Finnish"
The girl is more than a little upset now.
"Here, take this"
"That's Euros Sir"
"Oh, I am so sorry but I always end up with different currencies in my wallet and its confusing"
I pull out my wallet, and take out a few coins and give it to the girl.
"Here, I have change. That's 2.80...that's enough, right?"
"Yes, thanks ma'am"
The Rooster glowers at me.
"What? You don't want this money now?"
"No, its alright"
Five minutes later.
(Bill) "What was that about?"
"Yeah, what was that I am Scandinavian, I travel all over vibes you were putting on? And don't look at me like that. What did I do?"
"What did you do?! I had this nice little thing going on there..."
"Yeah right. That girl was going to throw you out any moment"
(Bill) "Wait, that whole thing is your pickup line?"
"More like pickup process"
"Pickup process? But wait, Finland is Euro"
"Exactly"
"But why confuse the hell out of that poor girl by throwing out so much change?"
"Billster, don't tell me you can't figure that out"
"No, I see it but I was just thinking that I can't calculate tip"
"Nobody said you can do arithmetic"
"I see. Does it work?"
"Sometimes"
"Wait, hang on both of you, you are telling me that you pulled out all those coins because you wanted to test her arithmetic skills?"
"She is cute but you know, I have standards"
*********
This next segment isn't exactly funny and I am not comfortable posting all of it, so this might seem more choppy than usual. I couldn't resist posting this mostly because of the dig at the end!
An hour later, we are on the grass at Regents Park enjoying some rare sunlight and talking about the Rooster's future plans. Astute readers no doubt remember that our Rooster is another Sergey Brin in the making.
"Yes, if this takes off, then I will have to move to San Francisco for a while"
"Yeah, that makes sense"
"If I live there for a few years, its not unlikely that I will meet someone I like"
"If you stop working 255 hours a week, yes, that's probably true"
"That can be managed. Its also likely that she will be American"
"In San Francisco I won't be that sure. But I see your point"
"Anyway she would want to live in the States"
"That's a problem?"
"Yes, because if we decide to have kids, then they will be American"
"What?"
"They will be American. That's unacceptable"
"Why? You don't mind living there but you don't want your kids to grow up there!"
"Of course. Can you imagine your kids growing up to be American? Why are you both laughing so hard? What's funny?"
"Just thinking of people I know who don't want their kids to be American"
"Yeah?"
"No, just that they reach the same conclusion for diametrically opposite reasons"
"Oh, I see. Anyway, it is unlikely that I will end up with an American woman"
"I thought you just said it was likely"
"Yeah, but there are so many cultural differences. It will be difficult to make it work"
"Cultural differences? Between you and this woman you will meet in San Francisco? Right"
"No really. I agree, its not the same as A~ and M~ where one of them is Indian and the other is American but still there will be differences"
"Like what?"
"Gender issues, I guess. That's the main one"
"What?"
"How many American women do you know who are feminists?"
"Well, you are most likely to meet them in San Francisco than anywhere else in the country"
"That doesn't mean much to a Swede"
"You are telling us that you will meet no one in the States who has similar views on gender?"
"No, not that. Its easy to be that way right now"
"What?"
"When we are young and single and there's just two of us all this is easy"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. This happened in Sweden during the second wave. But once people settle down especially once they have kids, women just revert to gender stereotypes"
"Stop working or switch to part time, move to suburban obscurity, become a soccer mom types?"
"Yes, that's all that happens in the States. That's a little difficult to take"
"Oh! So all you want to do is to sit at home while poor partner does all the work and brings in money"
"No, that's not what I said. That's your husband you are thinking about there"
In other news, a whirlwind trip to Chola land is happening tomorrow, so will be out of commission for the next 48 hours or so
And yes, just saw the Man Booker longlist. We will do a proper mela this time. There's so many authors in there I know nothing about and should rectify that. Will put up Mela post once I get back. Falsie, as usual, you are signed up for everything except the one you couldn't even finish.
We enter the store, the Rooster points out the mocha frappuccino and jumps up and down, bemoans the absence of Starbucks in Sweden, goes to counter, orders the frappuccino and a couple of Belgian chocolate brownies (yes, now you know why I like this guy),turns on full charm and makes small talk with the girl at the till. Nothing strange. Then,
"That's 6.80"
"Here, let me give you change"
The Rooster pulls out wallet which is the size of a football. He takes out a couple of bills, and then empties all his change on the counter. There are about 35 coins.
"Let me see now. Here's 50p, no, that's Swedish krona"
The girl at the counter, in an attempt to be helpful, picks up a couple of coins.
"This looks.."
"No, not that. That's Danish 20p. Here, take this"
She looks a little confused.
"50p..."
"This doesn't looks like..."
"Oh I am sorry, that's Finnish"
The girl is more than a little upset now.
"Here, take this"
"That's Euros Sir"
"Oh, I am so sorry but I always end up with different currencies in my wallet and its confusing"
I pull out my wallet, and take out a few coins and give it to the girl.
"Here, I have change. That's 2.80...that's enough, right?"
"Yes, thanks ma'am"
The Rooster glowers at me.
"What? You don't want this money now?"
"No, its alright"
Five minutes later.
(Bill) "What was that about?"
"Yeah, what was that I am Scandinavian, I travel all over vibes you were putting on? And don't look at me like that. What did I do?"
"What did you do?! I had this nice little thing going on there..."
"Yeah right. That girl was going to throw you out any moment"
(Bill) "Wait, that whole thing is your pickup line?"
"More like pickup process"
"Pickup process? But wait, Finland is Euro"
"Exactly"
"But why confuse the hell out of that poor girl by throwing out so much change?"
"Billster, don't tell me you can't figure that out"
"No, I see it but I was just thinking that I can't calculate tip"
"Nobody said you can do arithmetic"
"I see. Does it work?"
"Sometimes"
"Wait, hang on both of you, you are telling me that you pulled out all those coins because you wanted to test her arithmetic skills?"
"She is cute but you know, I have standards"
*********
This next segment isn't exactly funny and I am not comfortable posting all of it, so this might seem more choppy than usual. I couldn't resist posting this mostly because of the dig at the end!
An hour later, we are on the grass at Regents Park enjoying some rare sunlight and talking about the Rooster's future plans. Astute readers no doubt remember that our Rooster is another Sergey Brin in the making.
"Yes, if this takes off, then I will have to move to San Francisco for a while"
"Yeah, that makes sense"
"If I live there for a few years, its not unlikely that I will meet someone I like"
"If you stop working 255 hours a week, yes, that's probably true"
"That can be managed. Its also likely that she will be American"
"In San Francisco I won't be that sure. But I see your point"
"Anyway she would want to live in the States"
"That's a problem?"
"Yes, because if we decide to have kids, then they will be American"
"What?"
"They will be American. That's unacceptable"
"Why? You don't mind living there but you don't want your kids to grow up there!"
"Of course. Can you imagine your kids growing up to be American? Why are you both laughing so hard? What's funny?"
"Just thinking of people I know who don't want their kids to be American"
"Yeah?"
"No, just that they reach the same conclusion for diametrically opposite reasons"
"Oh, I see. Anyway, it is unlikely that I will end up with an American woman"
"I thought you just said it was likely"
"Yeah, but there are so many cultural differences. It will be difficult to make it work"
"Cultural differences? Between you and this woman you will meet in San Francisco? Right"
"No really. I agree, its not the same as A~ and M~ where one of them is Indian and the other is American but still there will be differences"
"Like what?"
"Gender issues, I guess. That's the main one"
"What?"
"How many American women do you know who are feminists?"
"Well, you are most likely to meet them in San Francisco than anywhere else in the country"
"That doesn't mean much to a Swede"
"You are telling us that you will meet no one in the States who has similar views on gender?"
"No, not that. Its easy to be that way right now"
"What?"
"When we are young and single and there's just two of us all this is easy"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. This happened in Sweden during the second wave. But once people settle down especially once they have kids, women just revert to gender stereotypes"
"Stop working or switch to part time, move to suburban obscurity, become a soccer mom types?"
"Yes, that's all that happens in the States. That's a little difficult to take"
"Oh! So all you want to do is to sit at home while poor partner does all the work and brings in money"
"No, that's not what I said. That's your husband you are thinking about there"
In other news, a whirlwind trip to Chola land is happening tomorrow, so will be out of commission for the next 48 hours or so
And yes, just saw the Man Booker longlist. We will do a proper mela this time. There's so many authors in there I know nothing about and should rectify that. Will put up Mela post once I get back. Falsie, as usual, you are signed up for everything except the one you couldn't even finish.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Taking over the world, Svensk style
Two weeks ago. Saturday morning.
“When is the Rooster getting here? It thought he was supposed to be here by now”
“Yeah..maybe I should call him. Wait, here’s a text”
At
“The usual what?”
Just to give you an idea of what the Rooster looks like, lets say that if you were teaching a bunch of school kids in
“No, not mistaknen. Nowadays they are just careful about Swedes”
"Yeah right"
"No seriously"“Why is that?”
“Look around you”
Bill and I looked around.
“Because you are on some most wanted list?”
“No, don’t look at me. Look around you. Look at your apartment and tell me why Swedes are dangerous”
We looked around again.
“You don’t mean what I think you mean?”
“What else could it be?”
“What do you see around you?”
“I see both of you”
“Not us”
“I see two couches, this armchair, bookshelf, dining table and chairs..”
“Exactly”
“What? Oh, wait. You mean, you mean Ikea?”
“Yes”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Ikea. Ikea terrorists. That’s what they are afraid of”
“Because of the stampede that results when a new store opens? Or because people die every year in the process of assembling their furniture?”
“Yes, that definitely. But its not just that”
“Then?”
“They think Ikea is the first step”
“Towards what?”
“World domination”
“Sweden taking over the world? How many of you are there again?”
“Nine million. But that’s hardly the point. How many officers were there in the India service again?"
"Yeah ok. But Swedes aren't exactly Brits. And this is 2007"
"So? A country of nine million and we have Ikea, SKF, Volvo, Saab, Bergman, and Bamse. Among other things. And not to forget, Absolut!”
“Yeah, a state owned vodka company. I have always wanted to move to Sweden”
“If they let us in, they are afraid that soon the world will convert”
“To what?”
“Everyone will be a social democrat. All states will become welfare states with a thriving market economy”
“And that’s bad because? No one wants to have the Swedish quality of life, I suppose”
“You guys know that. But they don’t agree. That’s why we are hunted”
“Hunted? Did you say hunted?”
“Yes. You know that EU passport line in the airports for instance. The only people they are learnt to be careful about are the Swedes”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, they ask us all sorts of things before letting us through”
“Like what?”
“They ask us whether we work for Ikea”
"They might just be curious. I would do that if I were this immigration officer. I mean, I have always wanted to know the two people who come up with names for the products.”
(Bill) "Wait, so what happens in immigration?"
“If we say No, we don't work for Ikea then they ask us if we plan to open a new store”
“Oh”
“And we have all been taught to say No”
“Taught? By whom?”
“Bamse”
“Of course”
Am back
Well, surfacing really between industrial quantities of neymeen and kappa. All the bad fish karma in the universe I am bent on collecting. Anyway, quick update on what I have been upto:
- One all-Mallu flight from Gelf to Trivandrum. First timer on one of these things and must say that it is way too much fun (as long as you are not the flight attendant). For some reason, food was served before beverages which created a huge uproar with everyone complaining (in Mallu) that the travel agent had promised them beer. The flight attendant tried to explain beer is on the way but somehow couldn't get her message across as she could speak only English and Mandarin. Apparently in a flight that was more than 95% Mallu, the crew spoke every single language in the world (incl. Swedish) except Malayalam. Anyway they finally started serving beverages but the beer got over before row number 22. These Mallus!
- Two propah fights with auto-drivers in Kochi. It always happens in Kochi. Probably because I had already fought with every auto-driver in Trivandrum that no one dare fight with me nowadays. Also think its something to do with Central Kerala being slightly xenphobic because the minute they realise that I am Tam, the price goes up exponentially. And explanations of how in Tamland they cheat you more start happening. Soon they realize that's bad argument
to use with me but its already too late. This time, among other things, I nearly whipped out my Std X marksheets to show him my Malayalam marks but the Don stopped me. He is a little soft on such things. Its because of people like him that auto drivers think they can do what they want. Anyway.
- Kappa, karimeen, and fish curry meals at Grand Hotel. Which is really the only real reason to visit the city.
- Trains, yes trains. So Don and I took the 6.25 Janashatabdi to Ernakulam, reached there at 9.45, went our separate ways, finished visa appt/meeting at 11, regrouped somewhere on MG Road equidistant between the two Ernakulam stations (Jn and Town or South and North) Don had forgotten to take the railway timetable with him and so we made our own. We wrote down all trains that go from Ernakulam to Trivandum, back calculated Ernakulam timings based on the arrival time in Trivandrum and whether the train is routed through Kottayam or Alappuzha, and wrote down whether the train stops at North or South. Based on this timetable, we had about 2 hours which we spent very diligently (at Grand Hotel), and then turned up at North station at 13.05. Three trains in the next hour as we had calculated - Parasuram (yes, from Mangalore, look at the name, where else will it be from?), Sabari and Korba. Caught Parasuram and got home for late afternoon tea. Checked railway timetable, we had gotten all trains to TVM, and all of them were within 20 minutes of estimated time! Cool, aren't we? (The only train I missed that the Don caught was Sabari which is supposedly a relatively new Hyd - Tvm daily)
Other than that, everything seems to be the same in God's own land. Rains are still around though the ferocity is gone as this is August, fish season isn't great but Rani manages to get the good stuff, Don and Amma are fighting over everything as usual, and the thirteen thousand nephews and nieces are all around. Things have quietened down a bit and the Rooster stories will continue soon.
- One all-Mallu flight from Gelf to Trivandrum. First timer on one of these things and must say that it is way too much fun (as long as you are not the flight attendant). For some reason, food was served before beverages which created a huge uproar with everyone complaining (in Mallu) that the travel agent had promised them beer. The flight attendant tried to explain beer is on the way but somehow couldn't get her message across as she could speak only English and Mandarin. Apparently in a flight that was more than 95% Mallu, the crew spoke every single language in the world (incl. Swedish) except Malayalam. Anyway they finally started serving beverages but the beer got over before row number 22. These Mallus!
- Two propah fights with auto-drivers in Kochi. It always happens in Kochi. Probably because I had already fought with every auto-driver in Trivandrum that no one dare fight with me nowadays. Also think its something to do with Central Kerala being slightly xenphobic because the minute they realise that I am Tam, the price goes up exponentially. And explanations of how in Tamland they cheat you more start happening. Soon they realize that's bad argument
to use with me but its already too late. This time, among other things, I nearly whipped out my Std X marksheets to show him my Malayalam marks but the Don stopped me. He is a little soft on such things. Its because of people like him that auto drivers think they can do what they want. Anyway.
- Kappa, karimeen, and fish curry meals at Grand Hotel. Which is really the only real reason to visit the city.
- Trains, yes trains. So Don and I took the 6.25 Janashatabdi to Ernakulam, reached there at 9.45, went our separate ways, finished visa appt/meeting at 11, regrouped somewhere on MG Road equidistant between the two Ernakulam stations (Jn and Town or South and North) Don had forgotten to take the railway timetable with him and so we made our own. We wrote down all trains that go from Ernakulam to Trivandum, back calculated Ernakulam timings based on the arrival time in Trivandrum and whether the train is routed through Kottayam or Alappuzha, and wrote down whether the train stops at North or South. Based on this timetable, we had about 2 hours which we spent very diligently (at Grand Hotel), and then turned up at North station at 13.05. Three trains in the next hour as we had calculated - Parasuram (yes, from Mangalore, look at the name, where else will it be from?), Sabari and Korba. Caught Parasuram and got home for late afternoon tea. Checked railway timetable, we had gotten all trains to TVM, and all of them were within 20 minutes of estimated time! Cool, aren't we? (The only train I missed that the Don caught was Sabari which is supposedly a relatively new Hyd - Tvm daily)
Other than that, everything seems to be the same in God's own land. Rains are still around though the ferocity is gone as this is August, fish season isn't great but Rani manages to get the good stuff, Don and Amma are fighting over everything as usual, and the thirteen thousand nephews and nieces are all around. Things have quietened down a bit and the Rooster stories will continue soon.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Introducing The Rooster and The Bear
Yes, I know. Two posts in a day! No, I am not turning into Falstaff. That would be a little too depressing. I am off to India tomorrow morn[1] and there are so many posts to put up - one on Stockholm, a few on Berlin, a couple of conversations now that I don't have a job, etc., but I am not sure when amma will allow me near a computer, so I figured might as well put this up now.
By rights, this week should have a Bergman theme but since enough people will do that and I have nothing insightful to say anyway, I will do the next best thing and do a series on The Rooster and The Bear, both from Bergman's beloved Svenska. The Bear we will come to know soon enough. The Rooster, otherwise known as Emil from the Great City of Lund, turned up in London the past weekend and proved to be an endless source of entertainment, so I think its only fair that I spread the joy. Just to give you an idea of how much of a success The Rooster is, let me tell you how popular he was when he happened to be in India for a wedding a few years ago. Amazed (and more than a little puzzled, I guess) after seeing a few apartments and houses in some of our cities, The Rooster whenever he was introduced to anyone immediately put on his best Swedish smile and said: "Hi, I am Emil. From the Great City of Lund. Where do you fuck?" Needless to say, he was a great hit.
In case you think he is some sort of an uncouth fellow from the Northern parts of the world, The Rooster wants you to think about the question he raised. Please note that he did not ask people "How do you fuck?" - now that's just silly and plain rude. Instead, he asked "where", which is really a very thoughful question - these are all small, open style crowded apartments that he saw, how the hell does a country get to one billion people here, he really was puzzled, you see. And if you still not satisfied, the Rooster, among other things, hobnobs with the co-founder of the Feminist Initiative, alright? You better love this guy. (Emil, I know you are reading this. Happy now?)
So anyway, the Rooster comes back home after a hard day's work putting on his best Sergey Brin act (he had on the perfect pair of torn jeans) and impressing a bunch of City bankers.
"Did you hear the news? Its a sad day for Sweden, eh?"
"Yes, I did. He is so timeless. Can you believe that he's dead?"
"When did you hear the news?"
"I was in the meeting and I received a text message. I couldn't believe it. I said "Holy Shit. Bergman's dead" and these damn Brits looked up and said "Bergman who?". It was so painful"
"Yeah"
"I will read you the newspapers. Everyone's writing about it. In Sweden, Bergman's next only to Bamse"
"Bamse? As in Bamse, the Bear?"
"No, you don't talk that way about Bamse. Bamse is not just a bear. Damn. How do I explain Bamse to you? Bamse is just Bamse. Bamse is Svenska"
"Okay?!"
"Let me put it this way. You know how in America there are Republicans and Democrats and all those other people?"
"Yeah those bad people. Yes"
"If you take Bamse and introduce him to Americans, do you know what will happen?"
"What?"
"There will be no Republicans. There will be no Democrats. No bad people"
"Then?"
"There will only be Social Democrats. And everyone would ask What would Bamse do before going to stupid wars"
"Ah, I see. Bamse is a propaganda machine"
"No, No. Bamse is no such thing. Bamse is the strongest bear ever. He gets strong when he drinks thunder honey"
"He drinks what?"
"Thunderhoney. Now if you and I were to drink it, we will get stomach ache for three days. But Bamse gets strength"
"Oh"
"Bamse is not the just strongest bear, he is also the kindest bear in the whole universe"
"Of course"
"You can go read about him in Wikipedia if you want. Bamse has values. No racism, no bullying, no violence. He is very clear about his values"
"No capitalism too, I suppose?"
"Not really. But the villain in the Bamse stories is an evil capitalist"
"Obviously"
"Bamse is the reason we do so well. It is the reason for our high per capita income"
"Well, I thought its because the capita, which is the denominator in that calculation, is you know, close to zero"
"Zero? Nine million people. We are nine million people"
"If you say so. Bamse is also the reason then I suppose there are no Starbucks in Sweden"
The Rooster suddenly looks unhappy.
"I guess so. Bamse wouldn't approve of it"
Back story: The Rooster is actually the perfect example of how rampant American consumerism and capitalism destroys young, innocent boys from Bamseland. The Rooster, in his seventeenth year, spent a year in Seattle as an exchange student. Up until this point in his innocent life, he's had zero cups of coffee and two cans of Coke. Yes, in seventeen years of existence. In Seattle, he had one Mocha Frappuccino and spent two weeks roaming the streets of the city completely stoned. He became a convert and since then, he roams the world in search of mocha frappuccino and spends every night dreaming of the day Starbucks will open its doors in Sweden.
"So you have to choose between Bamse and Starbucks"
"Like that's a real choice"
"Yes, but you still fly to London for the mocha frappuccino"
"Once in a while, its okay. Bamse wouldn't mind"
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am sure. Hey, I need to figure out what time I need to be at the airport tomorrow"
"International flight. They will say three hours"
"That's what BA says. I am flying SAS. They were brought up on Bamse. They won't lie"
"Oh"
"What are you guys doing? Tax returns?"
"Yeah, these Brits are crazy. There's about 35 sheets to fill"
"We don't do anything of this sort. We just have two lines A and B. You put what you have in your bank and all other savings and send it off. Thats all"
"And you never hear about it again"
"Yeah, they calculate everything and the money goes to Bamse"
"What does he do with the money?"
"He uses it to buy thunderhoney"
"And then he becomes strong"
"Yes, but he is also the kindest, remember? So he takes care of everything"
"It all makes sense now"
"Of course it does. Good night now"
Coming up: The friendly neighborhood Swedish terrorist, and The Scandinavian Pick-Up process
[1] Little over a week at home in God's own country, then to the city by the sea for a couple of days, and a longish weekend in the pretentious city by the river to see the in-laws. The first couple of places I can entertain myself but any suggestions on what to do in the East will be muchly appreciated.
By rights, this week should have a Bergman theme but since enough people will do that and I have nothing insightful to say anyway, I will do the next best thing and do a series on The Rooster and The Bear, both from Bergman's beloved Svenska. The Bear we will come to know soon enough. The Rooster, otherwise known as Emil from the Great City of Lund, turned up in London the past weekend and proved to be an endless source of entertainment, so I think its only fair that I spread the joy. Just to give you an idea of how much of a success The Rooster is, let me tell you how popular he was when he happened to be in India for a wedding a few years ago. Amazed (and more than a little puzzled, I guess) after seeing a few apartments and houses in some of our cities, The Rooster whenever he was introduced to anyone immediately put on his best Swedish smile and said: "Hi, I am Emil. From the Great City of Lund. Where do you fuck?" Needless to say, he was a great hit.
In case you think he is some sort of an uncouth fellow from the Northern parts of the world, The Rooster wants you to think about the question he raised. Please note that he did not ask people "How do you fuck?" - now that's just silly and plain rude. Instead, he asked "where", which is really a very thoughful question - these are all small, open style crowded apartments that he saw, how the hell does a country get to one billion people here, he really was puzzled, you see. And if you still not satisfied, the Rooster, among other things, hobnobs with the co-founder of the Feminist Initiative, alright? You better love this guy. (Emil, I know you are reading this. Happy now?)
So anyway, the Rooster comes back home after a hard day's work putting on his best Sergey Brin act (he had on the perfect pair of torn jeans) and impressing a bunch of City bankers.
"Did you hear the news? Its a sad day for Sweden, eh?"
"Yes, I did. He is so timeless. Can you believe that he's dead?"
"When did you hear the news?"
"I was in the meeting and I received a text message. I couldn't believe it. I said "Holy Shit. Bergman's dead" and these damn Brits looked up and said "Bergman who?". It was so painful"
"Yeah"
"I will read you the newspapers. Everyone's writing about it. In Sweden, Bergman's next only to Bamse"
"Bamse? As in Bamse, the Bear?"
"No, you don't talk that way about Bamse. Bamse is not just a bear. Damn. How do I explain Bamse to you? Bamse is just Bamse. Bamse is Svenska"
"Okay?!"
"Let me put it this way. You know how in America there are Republicans and Democrats and all those other people?"
"Yeah those bad people. Yes"
"If you take Bamse and introduce him to Americans, do you know what will happen?"
"What?"
"There will be no Republicans. There will be no Democrats. No bad people"
"Then?"
"There will only be Social Democrats. And everyone would ask What would Bamse do before going to stupid wars"
"Ah, I see. Bamse is a propaganda machine"
"No, No. Bamse is no such thing. Bamse is the strongest bear ever. He gets strong when he drinks thunder honey"
"He drinks what?"
"Thunderhoney. Now if you and I were to drink it, we will get stomach ache for three days. But Bamse gets strength"
"Oh"
"Bamse is not the just strongest bear, he is also the kindest bear in the whole universe"
"Of course"
"You can go read about him in Wikipedia if you want. Bamse has values. No racism, no bullying, no violence. He is very clear about his values"
"No capitalism too, I suppose?"
"Not really. But the villain in the Bamse stories is an evil capitalist"
"Obviously"
"Bamse is the reason we do so well. It is the reason for our high per capita income"
"Well, I thought its because the capita, which is the denominator in that calculation, is you know, close to zero"
"Zero? Nine million people. We are nine million people"
"If you say so. Bamse is also the reason then I suppose there are no Starbucks in Sweden"
The Rooster suddenly looks unhappy.
"I guess so. Bamse wouldn't approve of it"
Back story: The Rooster is actually the perfect example of how rampant American consumerism and capitalism destroys young, innocent boys from Bamseland. The Rooster, in his seventeenth year, spent a year in Seattle as an exchange student. Up until this point in his innocent life, he's had zero cups of coffee and two cans of Coke. Yes, in seventeen years of existence. In Seattle, he had one Mocha Frappuccino and spent two weeks roaming the streets of the city completely stoned. He became a convert and since then, he roams the world in search of mocha frappuccino and spends every night dreaming of the day Starbucks will open its doors in Sweden.
"So you have to choose between Bamse and Starbucks"
"Like that's a real choice"
"Yes, but you still fly to London for the mocha frappuccino"
"Once in a while, its okay. Bamse wouldn't mind"
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am sure. Hey, I need to figure out what time I need to be at the airport tomorrow"
"International flight. They will say three hours"
"That's what BA says. I am flying SAS. They were brought up on Bamse. They won't lie"
"Oh"
"What are you guys doing? Tax returns?"
"Yeah, these Brits are crazy. There's about 35 sheets to fill"
"We don't do anything of this sort. We just have two lines A and B. You put what you have in your bank and all other savings and send it off. Thats all"
"And you never hear about it again"
"Yeah, they calculate everything and the money goes to Bamse"
"What does he do with the money?"
"He uses it to buy thunderhoney"
"And then he becomes strong"
"Yes, but he is also the kindest, remember? So he takes care of everything"
"It all makes sense now"
"Of course it does. Good night now"
Coming up: The friendly neighborhood Swedish terrorist, and The Scandinavian Pick-Up process
[1] Little over a week at home in God's own country, then to the city by the sea for a couple of days, and a longish weekend in the pretentious city by the river to see the in-laws. The first couple of places I can entertain myself but any suggestions on what to do in the East will be muchly appreciated.
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