The horrible exams are over. I can't even begin to describe their horribleness. Apart from the fact that I had no clue what answers the questions demanded, the classrooms we had to sit in were so cold that my fingers were completely numb for the first half an hour. Tried wearing a pair of gloves but then I couldn't even hold my pen.
I really can't make up my mind whether I hate Delhi summer more, or its winter. Right now, I'm thinking of sun and heat with longing, but I'm pretty sure come May, I'll be cursing it all and wanting the cold back. Oh well. I just have to accept the fact that nothing makes me happy. Except misery.
My father's in Delhi this week but because of the cruel distances, I won't get to see him. That doesn't matter though because since we're getting a long weekend (cheers, Republic Day), I'm flying back with him to Madras for a few days. Apart from the fact that I'll be escaping the cold and vegetarianism, I also get to see PM and the dogs and the sea. What fun.
I remember the last time I went, I used to cycle down to the sea a lot and one day, after quite a few Bloody Marys, I got hopelessly lost. So there I was, cycling round and round some sort of fishing village, drunk out of my mind, with no clue where I was or how I got there or how I was going to get back. After panicking, I just gave into the lovely drunkness and after twenty minutes of cycling through twisted little paths and dusty fields, I found myself outside Dad's house. I don't know how that happened, but obviously my unconscious is a lot more intelligent than my conscious self.
I read Wuthering Heights yesterday. I tried reading it once when I was fifteen but I gave up after three pages. I don't know why I did because this time round, I found it completely unputdownable. Way better than Jane Eyre and definitely the best novel I've read in a long time. Completely besotted by Heathcliff obviously, and Hareton as well. Though I'd never want a Heathcliff in my life. I wouldn't know what to do with him. I also read Great Expectations, after years, and I've decided that it's the only Dickens book I can stand. I hate Charles Dickens with a passion.
Oh fuck it. I have nothing to write about. I'm going to take a nap.