The Great England Trip: Volume I

Volume I: Stratford upon Avon

I'd always wanted to visit Stratford. And this year, I thought it would be nice to go there with the Annoying One. However, A.O. was busy with exams and he is a disastrous planner (though he vehemently denies this). So by the time he actually agreed to a weekend in Stratford (I'm sure he was lying anyway), my aunt Susan - who is the most organised person I've ever come across - had sent me a detailed five day tour of Stratford that she'd laid out for me. My cousin Pria's friend Izzie, who was on her gap year, was keen to see Stratford too. Was I willing to go with her?

I was willing. The trip was very tempting. And it meant I didn't have to take care of anything myself - by the time I emailed her, accommodation had been sorted, plays had been booked, and talks had been organised. How could I say no to that? Besides, I had a sneaking suspicion that a Stratford trip with A.O. would turn into a binge drinking session at his local pub. I never say no to binge drinking, but since I actually wanted to visit Shakespeareland, I decided to give it a shot.

It was to have disastrous consequences but more on that later.

Before I left, my cousin Rajeet asked whether I had any id on me. He seemed doubtful that I'd be let into a pub without one, since I look about fifteen years old compared to most English girls my age. He seemed even more doubtful after seeing my id which, I have to admit, looked a tad bit on the shady and fake side since it was a duplicate of my college id (which I'd lost obviously). Decided not to risk my passport though (which I'm convinced was one of the few wise decisions I have ever made) and packed it (the id) along with two sweaters, a raincoat, and a summer dress (optimism).

Izzie and I left for Stratford on the Monday after I arrived in London; her mother, Ruth, drove us there. I got into the car and before we were out of Dulwich, I was asleep. When I woke up, we were in Stratford, outside the B&B we were going to be staying at. Izzie had an oh crap look on her face. As in, oh-crap-am-I-going-to-be-stuck-with-a-hibernating-jackass-the-entire-week.

I can't remember the name of the couple who owned the B&B. The lady was tall, thin, blonde, middle-aged, wrinkled, and haggard. I don't remember what her husband looked like. I only remember that he wore glasses and that his voice, unlike hers, didn't sound like it was going to burst into song.

The first thing they did was point to the breakfast menu. Breakfasts are a very important part of Bed and Breakfasts (surprise, surprise) and people in the English countryside take their breakfasts seriously.

Could we, they asked, place out order with them the day before to make things more convenient? So there, at noon, I ordered my breakfast for the next morning. Full English which comprises...wait for it...two eggs (either fried or scrambled or poached or in omelette form), bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, toast, and tea or coffee. Cereal and juice to start with if you wish. By the time the three of us (Ruth was staying the night) ordered our breakfast, we felt really hungry, so we dumped our bags in our rooms and head out to explore Stratford/search desperately for some lunch.

Several things struck me about Stratford. 1) It’s tiny, 2) It’s pretty, 3) It’s full of tourists (I think the locals spend most of their time in hiding). 4) Every second house is a B&B (so maybe the locals spend their time cooking breakfast all day). 5) There are lots of little shops and cafes, and everywhere you go, you see big signs advertising all day breakfasts. 

So, I decided, people were obviously obsessed with two things there- Shakespeare (a wild guess) and breakfast (hard to miss).

We had lunch on Henley Street, which is the street where Shakespeare’s birthplace is, at a lovely outdoor cafe. Across the street was a musician playing a lute and two people, dressed in Elizabethan costume and sprayed in gold, moving like robots and doffing their caps to fat Americans and large groups of Japanese in slow motion. 

It was strange.

Next to the cafe was a shop called The Nutcracker Shoppe. It looked like a Christmas shop. Ruth said, yes, it probably was an all year round Christmas shop. First time I’d ever heard of an all year round Christmas shop and of course, I had to go in. The interior was terrifying. There were shiny baubles hanging everywhere, and coloured bells tinkling, and lights flashing, and fake Christmas trees piled into corners, and fat Santa Clauses sitting on shelves staring with beady eyes. Like Chucky except with white hair  and a beard and a red cap with a bell on it. I got out of there as fast as I could. Izzie came running after me, hair wild, eyes wide, murmuring about how sinister the entire thing was. I knew then that we were going to get along fine.

The three of us decided to do a bit more exploring and wound our way down the High Street until we reached the park. It was a relatively sunny day so naturally, it was crowded with half naked people trying to get a tan. A glimpse of twenty first century culture. 

The river Avon ran along one end and along its banks stood what seemed like hundreds of Japanese tourists, all feeding the swans that had accumulated by the shore. Some of them (the swans, not the tourists) had the audacity to actually get out of the river and waddle around the park, going up to lobster red tourists and honking at them. These people instead of screaming and running away or calling Animal Control, like any normal person would do, laughed and acted like it was great fun to be menaced by gigantic birds with yellow beaks and evil eyes.

I managed to drag Izzie and Ruth away from the river and we walked to the local church – The Church of the Holy Trinity – where Shakespeare is buried. It’s a very beautiful church. Quite small, made of pale grey stone with some really lovely stained glass windows. 

Shakespeare’s grave is before the alter. His important position, we were told, was nothing to do with his status as a playwright (even though he was already pretty famous by the time of his death) but because he held an important position in the Church. There’s a specific term for it but I don’t remember what. His wife, Anne, is buried next to him. What really excited me was his epitaph which I’d heard about – the lines are legendary after all – but never completely believed in. I can say with complete confidence now that Shakespeare will indeed curse whoever dares to steal his bones. Epic.

That night, we went to see Morte de Arthur, based on Mallory’s book. There wasn’t a single moment where I got bored or wished it would end quickly. Considering it was four hours long, I think that says something about the performance.

The next morning, we tackled the Full English. It took a while, but I managed clearing my plate.

Afterwards, Ruth drove us to Anne Hathaway’s cottage and it really is as beautiful as it looks in photographs. It’s surrounded by vegetable and flower gardens and the cottage itself (which has been built up since her time) is gorgeous. Apparently when she lived there, it comprised only two or three rooms on the ground floor and in the living room, we saw actual tables that SHE MUST HAVE USED and the bench where SHAKESPEARE MUST HAVE SAT WHEN HE CAME TO COURT HER. I went into some strange, slightly psycho mode, where I kept touching the furniture left over from her time and imagining I was Anne, waiting for William to come over so we could make love in front of the fireplace (note: she was six months pregnant when they got married and also, the Shakespeare in my head looked like Joseph Fiennes, not the original bald Shakespeare). I could totally make love to Joseph Fiennes in front of a fireplace.

But I digress.

We went upstairs (there hadn’t been an upstairs when Anne lived there; it was built later by her brother) and I have to admit, the floorboards did make me feel a bit nervous. I could see the floor below through the gaps. The rooms all lead into one another, Tudor style. It made me wonder how people had privacy back then. I was informed that they didn’t. My respect for Shakespeare and Anne, in light of their pre nuptial activities, increased.

Ruth dropped us off at the town centre and drove back to London. We wandered around Stratford for the rest of the day – visited Shakespeare’s birthplace. And then we did a whole lot of things that were mildly interesting then, but which will bore anyone if I set them down now. And to tell you the truth, I don’t really remember what we did. We ate a lot and we looked at the shops (I went slightly insane when I found an H&M which was having a 70% discount) and then we trudged back to the B&B. 

We were already realising the downside to country towns: there is, literally, nothing to do.

The next day had been set aside for us to do whatever we wanted. No plays, no talks, nothing. We woke up and looked blankly at each other before sadly heading down to our Full English.

In the morning, we went to Hall’s Croft, which was where Shakespeare’s daughter moved to after she got married. She married a Dr Hall who was the town physician and who was bloody rich. The house was gorgeous but the garden, even more so. Apparently, people can get married there and I instantly pictured myself surrounded by roses in full bloom getting married to a host of tall, green eyed men. (When I mentioned this to Minnie, she said I was sick).

We stretched lunch out for three hours and by the time we were done, it was five thirty. We were walking on Henley Street and stopped in front of a pub that claimed to be Stratford’s oldest pub.

Stratford’s oldest pub.

Built in the sixteenth century.

Standing during Shakespeare’s time.

Located on the street where Shakespeare lived.

Izzie and I looked at each other and walked – no, I think the appropriate word would be ran – in. It wasn't as empty as I thought it would be, considering it still wasn't even six (to be honest, it wasn't even five thirty). Evidently, people were as fed up as we were. 

Izzie ordered a gin and tonic but I couldn’t make up my mind. There were so many choices in front of me (including cider). I asked to see the wine menu and the bartender (who was kind of gorgeous) pointed to a single menu that stood on a shelf attached to the wall. Then, looking at me, he realised it was a hopeless cause and, sighing a bit, came round and lifted it down for me.

Honestly. It’s not my fault the English are unnaturally elongated.

Looked at the wine, debated for ten minutes whether to have red or white and finally settled for what Izzie was drinking. 

The bartender looked thoroughly fed up.

May I just say though, that the English know how to drink. The glass my gin and tonic was served in wasn't an Indian sized glass, oh no, it was the size of...of...three Indian sized glasses. I had one and Izzie had one and then we had another and when we stepped out, we were happy. Not drunk, not tipsy, just happy.

And then Izzie decided she needed food and once she started describing how much she was craving Italian, I decided I needed food to. We walked around for a bit, looking for a nice place and ended up (half an hour later) outside the pub, cursing because we couldn’t find Italian food anywhere. Lots of sandwich places, lots of breakfast places, even a Cornish pasty house but no Italian. We were bitching about how lame country towns are when we saw that there was a really nice looking Italian place right next to the pub. We must have missed it earlier.

Went in and I can’t remember what we ate but I do remember that they served a very nice house wine. We finished off an entire bottle and stepped out.

“We should go back now,” said Izzie, swaying slightly.

“Yes, we should,” I agreed.

So we started walking back to the B&B but on our way, we passed a pub which looked warm and cosy and inviting and without even looking at each other, we walked in. 

I knew we’d get along.

I insisted on buying Izzie another gin and tonic and then once we’d finished that, she insisted on buying me one in return. Once we finished that, I realised I had to return the favour. She bought the next round, except it wasn’t gin, it was vodka.

 Things get a little hazy after that, but I vaguely remember stumbling out of the pub in search of cigarettes (I had quit but when you’re drunk, you need cigarettes.) We were walking around Stratford – it must have been about eleven thirty by then – stopping random people, asking them if they’d seen any cigarette shops. No, they all said. But they were looking for one too. Damn country towns.

We then ended up outside a club and the bouncer stamped our hands and ushered us through (he didn't ask me for id - score!) and then we were inside this crazy place with flashing lights and people dancing. They were all drunk and they’d been dancing for a while. You could tell by their wild hair and the slightly glazed expression in their eyes. We ordered something to drink – more vodka tonic – and then we saw a machine with cigarettes inside in a corner. Everything else turned blurry (well, blurrier) and I saw the machine clearly (more or less). It was bright red and it was calling my name. Stumbled towards it, shoved some money in and there it was, sitting in my hand, the first cigarette pack I’d held in weeks.

On the way out, we had a quick shot (to celebrate finding cigarettes) and then we ended up smoking with some French people and we were all, I am ashamed to say, bitching about Japanese tourists. Came back in, had another shot (to celebrate smoking cigarettes) and then I think we ended up sitting on the pavement for a bit. Finally, we decided we should get home so we went in for a...uh...nightcap and then we were lurching about on the streets, giggling. There were other people too, stumbling around. Bless tourists who claim to be literary.

Somehow, this Dutch guy attached himself to us and we kept walking and suddenly, we found ourselves outside another club. We went in and I really don’t remember much except the music was loud and the Dutch guy kept buying us these cute little green shots (when I mentioned this to Min, she said it was absinthe but I don’t think it could’ve been because there’s no way I would’ve been standing.) 

When we finally stumbled out, it was nearly dawn. Izzie and I decided we really needed to get back to the B&B and the Dutch guy gallantly insisted on escorting us. The trouble was, we were too drunk to remember the way back and we found ourselves climbing down a little hill until we were right in front of the Avon. The sun still hadn't come up but the sky was pale grey and the Avon was misty and wonderful. Best of all, IT HAD NO SWANS.

(Daddy, I know you read my blog and for the love of all that is holy, do NOT mention what I am going to write to my mother.)

“I feel like swimming in it,” I said happily.

“You will not swim in it,” said the Dutch guy, laughing.

“I will swim in it,” I said, annoyed.

“Trish, don’t be ridiculous,” said Izzie.

I glared at them, stripped, and dived in.

There are no words to describe that moment. When I’m on my deathbed and my life is flashing before my eyes, that moment will be there. Call it legendary, call it idiocy, it wasn’t just a moment. It was a Moment. Izzie and the Dutch guy looked at each other, looked at me (I’d started swimming across to the other side) and jumped in as well.

The water was cold but in a good way. It seemed clean. There was a point when we saw a boat emerging out of the mist and started scrambling around to get out but we sort of forgot after ten seconds and started floating on our backs. Later, when we were finally climbing into bed, I asked Izzie what happened to the boat.

“I don’t know,” she said, looking at me with wide eyes.

“But we all saw it coming out of the mist,” I said.

“I know.”

We looked at each other for a second and turned around and went to sleep. 

We dragged ourselves out of bed four hours later and went to attend a backstage tour. I’m really glad I went (even though I felt like I was dying on the way) because I heard two stories, told to us by the guide, that absolutely made my day.

Story #1:

Two actors had a major fallout. They were in the same play and there was a scene where one of them (let’s call him A) had to hand the other one (B, obviously) a letter which was then read out on stage. Now, B didn't memorise what the letter said because he could, naturally, just read it from the paper which was handed to him.

So it was the night of a big performance (the guide didn’t mention the name of the play) and A handed B an envelope. B opened it but there was nothing inside except a blank piece of paper.

Without blinking an eye, he tossed it back to A, saying, “I can’t be bothered to read this. You read it.”

We never learnt what A did.

Story #2:

Hamlet, who wasn't needed on stage for a couple of scenes, went out for a quick cigarette. He managed locking himself out. No one knew where Hamlet was because he hadn’t bothered telling anyone, evidently not anticipating that he wouldn’t be able to get back in. In fact, no one realised Hamlet was missing.

So the show carried on smoothly until Hamlet was needed. 

But there was no Hamlet. 

Now ordinarily, the show goes on no matter what (Antony, in one of the performances of Antony and Cleopatra broke his nose, but didn’t go to the hospital till after) but you can’t really stage Hamlet without Hamlet. So they had to stop the performance and search high and low for Hamlet who was finally discovered sitting on a stoop, muttering to himself and chain smoking frantically. At least he was in character.

That night we went to see King Lear. I don’t really like the play much because it depresses the hell out of me, but it was a really good performance. The Fool was especially good and I was thrilled to learn (not to mention surprised) that she’d be playing Cleopatra the next night.

But before I go there, I have to talk about how I managed to ruin the phone my aunt had lovingly bought for me to use in England.

This is the phone conversation I had with her when I called her from Izzie’s phone to tell her about my phone.

Me: *trying to sound cheerful* Hello!

Sue: *actually cheerful* Hi. Having a good time?

Me: *nervously but in a tone that would hopefully strike the chords of her heart* Something really bad happened.

Sue: What? Are you alright?

Me: I am, but the phone isn’t.

Sue: Oh no. Did you lose it?

Me: Nope. Dropped it in a fountain.

Sue: *silence*

Me: It wasn’t my fault. A swan attacked me.

Sue: *faintly* A...a swan?

Me: They’re evil. I’ve been telling you this for years.

I don’t think she believed me and I can’t really blame her but later events were to make my entire family sit up and take notice that I really do not exaggerate when I say birds are evil and they seem to have specially marked me out for persecution.

Anyway, the Stratford holiday was (thankfully) drawing to a close. The plan was that Sue would drive up on Saturday afternoon and the three of us would watch Antony and Cleopatra before heading to Oxford. We were going to spend the night at St Catherine’s, her old college, before having breakfast with my cousin Pria (a shadow of her former self because she was in the midst of finals and she’s one of those people who gets stressed out before exams even though she always does brilliantly) and then drive back to London.

Now I enjoyed my time in Stratford – well, some of the time – but six days is too long. Too long. Iz and I spent our last afternoon in the local library, reading. 

My aunt came and we had dinner and we watched the play (definitely my favourite, mainly because of Kathryn Hunter who played Cleopatra) and then we headed to Oxford. All according to plan.

The next morning, before we left to meet Pria for breakfast, my aunt showed me around her college a little.

We were standing in front of a little moat (there was a pretty stone wall separating us from it) when an Incident occurred. And yes, it fully deserves a capital I. 

Like I said, we were standing in front of the moat and on the other side, waddling along the bank was a duck. The duck looked at us, waddled (unable to think of another word to describe its movement) towards the water, swam across the moat, hopped onto the wall and flew at me.

And I regret to say that for once, I am not exaggerating.

Anyway, I was traumatised (and I probably always will be) but everyone finally believed that perhaps it hadn’t actually been my fault that my phone had been annihilated. For once, as my mother unkindly pointed out. I think that was rather unfair. The time it fell into the sea wasn’t my fault either.

Had breakfast with Pria. I managed a Full English once again, but Iz gave up and ordered the muesli and yoghurt. She doesn’t have any stamina.

And that was the end of my trip to Stratford upon Avon. It was an unforgettable experience.

Unfortunately, the Lake District was going to be unforgettable too. 

The Great England Trip: Prologue

Prologue: The Journey.  
Actually, the fun (I use the term loosely) started the day before I was supposed to leave. My grandmother fell really sick and had to be taken to hospital and my mother went with her, leaving me at home, anxious and panicky, almost nauseous in fact, mostly because I felt worried about my grandmother, partly because I felt rotten leaving for holiday just when she'd fallen so sick, and a little because my mother had left me unattended and I still had to pack.

Min had come over and because she is a lifesaver, helped me pack one suitcase; the other one was packed by midnight and repacked half an hour later by my disgusted mother who told me I was a disorganised disgrace. She has a way with words, she does.

Fell asleep then and was rudely awakened by my alarm clock at five thirty the next morning. After a lot of last minute packing, we left for the airport and we were only half an hour late.

On the way there, Mama kept asking me whether I'd remembered this and that. My glasses? Yes. My contact lense solution? Yes. My camera? Yes. My charger? Yes. Hairbrush? Yes (unusual).

This was making me very nervous because I seemed to have remembered to pack everything. That never happens to me. I always forget. I'd just convinced myself that I'd probably forgotten something major when she asked me if I had my passport.

"Passport?" (Me, repeating her question)

"Yes,"

"Passport?" I was stalling for time, you see. Frantically checked my handbag. My wallet was there and so was my ticket but no passport.

"I told you," she said, and her voice was raised slightly but only slightly because she hadn't yet realised I'd left it behind, "to put it somewhere safe,"

"I did put it somewhere safe," I'd emptied out my handbag by now, and gone through the main compartments of my rucksack as well.

"So where is it?"

I shifted away from her so she wouldn't be able to hit me too easily and whispered something.

"WHAT?"

"At home,"

I won't go into the drama that ensued. Let me just say there was a lot of noise involved but luckily no physical violence.

When we were halfway home, I vaguely remembered a scene from the night before when my mother came into my room and told me to put my passport in a safe place and not in my handbag like I usually do. This is because my handbag isn't really a handbag but a piece of purple cloth fashioned into a mutated, hanging, zip-less basket. I vaguely remembered putting it in that safe place.

So I unzipped my rucksack and checked a tiny compartment in the back and sure enough, my passport was nestled in a safe place, as per Mama's instructions.

So I really don't get why she yelled so much. She should have been happy that I'd decided to take her advice for once. And she should have been happy that we didn't have to go all the way home after all. There's no pleasing some people.

Anyway, got to the airport, had an emotional farewell (because at the end of the day, she does, with good reason, adore me) and got on the plane. Kingfisher was quite nice. They actually served breakfast even though I didn't eat it because I don't like airline food because you never know where it's been. The flight was uneventful despite the usual minor heart attack I had during take off.

It was when we landed in Delhi (that familiar old City of Hell) that the problems started. I had to catch a connecting flight to London which, according to my ticket, was going to take off in thirty five minutes. I wasn't sure where to go so I asked the ground personnel what I had to do.

"No problem," one of the men said and then continued talking into his walkie talkie.

"I'm glad it's not a problem," I said, "but what should I do?"

"Wait here," And then he firmly turned his back on me.

So I waited. And waited. Waited by the plane, on the hot tarmac, under the hot sun, for someone to take me to the plane that would get me to London.

After fifteen minutes, realising that my plane to London was going to take off very soon, and there was a chance it wouldn't wait for me, I marched up to the man and tugged his shirtsleeve.

"Yes?"

"Get me to my plane, please. It takes off in twenty minutes."

"Yes, yes,"

He suddenly bundled me into a white jeep and drove me through the airfield. It was kind of cool actually. We stopped at a crossroads kind of thing and a plane casually rolled by. I believe it was from Malaysia.

Anyway, I got dropped outside a building and suddenly, all these officious looking people in uniforms surrounded me.

"Civilians not allowed here. What are you doing here? Who brought you here?"

A bit bewildered (I'd expected a more welcoming greeting), I pointed vaguely to the jeep which had now receded into the distance.

"You can't be here,"

I explained to them, as calmly as I could, that it wasn't my fault they were all incompetents and if they didn't get me on my plane, which was taking off in fifteen minutes, I would sue- not Vijay Mallya because I'd lose that lawsuit- but each and every one of them personally for incompetence, unprofessionalism, ignorance and unwillingness to assist a passenger. Or as Kingfisher likes to put it, guest.

And then before I knew it, I was sprinting through the airfield, surrounded by officials on all sides and they were all yelling things and telling me to hurry. I was wearing sneakers so I managed to keep up and they bundled me into the Domestic terminal and pointed to a Kingfisher desk.

I marched up to the lady there, shoved my ticket at her and told her I had a flight to catch.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You're very late,"

I lost it. I lost it completely. I think it must have been airport rage because never in all my life have I done the thing I did next.

I leaned over the counter, grabbed her arm, pulled her forward until her face was inches from mine and yelled into it, telling her that I had to make this flight and I didn't care if it had to fly back to pick me up. It was a life or death situation and I wouldn't let anyone stop me from getting on to that plane.

It would have been awesome if she, at this point, had looked terrified and personally escorted me to the plane. But things never pan out the way I want them to. Instead she looked at me as if I was crazy (which, let's face it, I was. It's called airport rage) and said, "All I meant, Ma'am, was that the shuttle to the international terminal has departed and you'll have to take a pre-paid cab,"

I deflated instantly and apologised for freaking out on her, telling her I was relatively normal most of the time. It was obvious she didn't believe me but she very kindly called a man in a uniform over and told him to get me in a cab. She was even nice enough to call it a "top priority situation".

The man took me to a cab just outside the airport. There were three old Arab women getting into it from their wheelchairs and he put me in the front seat while they were settled into the back. The cab driver was a skinny, scowling sort of bloke who kept muttering rude things about the Arabs under his breath. And then we were off.

I really didn't think I'd survive the journey to the International Terminal. The driver was insane. He drove like a maniac, talked to himself and when I told him to take me to Terminal 2, the international section, he said (in Hindi), "Yeah, yeah. Chup kar."

I was so taken aback I didn't even tell him off.

We reached the airport five minutes before my flight was about to take off and I shamelessly jumped out of the car leaving the poor Arab ladies sitting there with the driver and ran into the airport. I was detained by a security guard who, after glancing at my ticket, told me I was very late.

I explained to him, as patiently as I could, that it was the fault of Delhi Airport, not mine. He told me I needed to have more control over situations. I fought the temptation to flip him the middle finger and ran into the airport. Skidded to the Kingfisher desk, yelled at the lady when she asked me why I was late. She filled out my immigration form for me. While I was standing there (and this really is very funny), a phone call came through. Apparently three elderly ladies in wheelchairs were missing. I was happy to help them out so I told them to look outside the airport for a cab with a mad driver who was probably spitting on the road and they'd find the women sitting in the backseat. The lady at the desk thanked me and then called an official who whizzed me through immigration, security and escorted me onto the plane. I was the last passenger to arrive.

The flight was uneventful. Not much sleep because I can never sleep unless I'm by the window and I had an aisle seat this time. The food was okay and I watched lots of movies.

I love landing in England. There’s always this moment when the plane shifts from an expanse of cloudless, blue, sunny sky, through a misty blanket to a sky that is grey and gloomy. Patchworks of green and yellow fields cover the earth’s surface and they are dotted with the occasional farm and country house. I would feel cheated if I landed in a sunny England but it’s never happened yet.

The line at immigration was long and I usually hate long lines but this I didn’t mind because it was a great place for people watching. The people who were in groups were talking to each other- the American accent dominating everyone else’s- and the people who were alone, were fiddling with their phones. The man at immigration wasn’t very nice.

“Where are you from?” he said brusquely.

I refrained from pointing out that he was holding my Indian passport in his hand and said I was from India.

“What are you doing here?”

I was tempted to tell him I was here to blow up Victoria but he didn’t seem like he had a sense of humour so I told him I was on holiday.

“When are you leaving? Who are you staying with? What do they do? Are you sure you’re leaving in a month? Go through please. No, not that way. This way.”

Getting my luggage was another traumatising experience.  I kept taking the wrong suitcases off the baggage carousel. This happened to me at least three times and I was on the verge of a meltdown because there were people standing around watching me drag suitcases off and then shoving them back on, evidently thinking I was slightly mentally retarded. After twenty minutes, I saw a pile of suitcases six feet to my left. My bags were among them. Checked the name tags, they matched, put them on the trolley and practically ran towards the exit, almost knocking over a gaggle of toddlers on the way.

Sue was waiting for me. It was strange not having Pria there but it was so good to see her. She told me how worried she’d been because she’d been an hour late thanks to some roundabout getting blocked up but as I pointed out to her, she can always count on me being later than everyone else.

The car ride home was familiar and uneventful and when we entered the house, Pepsi walked straight up to me and purred, rubbing herself against my legs. This was very pleasant because usually she bites me. The wonderful dinner was marred a bit because I wouldn’t stop sneezing but I didn’t think it was anything important. Then. A nice long bubble bath (my first in a year and a half), an annoying conversation with A.O. who is absolutely usless over the phone, and bed.  

I mentally prepared myself for a long, relaxing holiday, filled with no events that were capable of causing me any anguish or trauma whatsoever.

I was, as usual, wrong. 

Death is not extinguishing the light. 

It is putting out the lamp 

Because the dawn has come.

Sleep.

I just woke up from one of the best naps I've had in a long time. It was just about to storm when I settled down for my nap and when I woke up, it had finished storming. I'm not upset about missing the storm because I left my window open and when I woke up there was a lovely lot of water spray on my face. Kind of like astringent except nicer smelling without the sting. I like to think the storm influenced my sleep because I had a dream where it was raining and I was naked at a school reunion but no one seemed to notice because my mother was singing a song about Dogras really loudly and no one knew what a Dogra was.

As usual, I digress. I don't want to write about storms today. I want to write about sleep because sleep is a very wonderful, often unappreciated activity.

The benefits of sleep are numerous. Good skin, good hair, probably longevity of life (fact: people who sleep less than seven hours a day do not have as long a life span as people who sleep seven or more hours a day. I average about eleven to twelve hours a day, so I'm probably going to outlive all of you). There are also many forms of sleep.

 Hibernation
 This occurs after a long period of sleeplessness. Reasons for sleeplessness could be exams, other forms of work, parties, unreasonable parents and room-mates, hyperactiveness and insanity.

The last two reasons are especially intriguing. My friend Tanvi has, since she was a little girl, refused to succumb to sleep which she has always regarded a mortal enemy. At sleepovers, I would be asleep by eleven thirty while she insisted on watching cricket till 4, sleeping till 5, talking to her boyfriend (who was obviously equally insane) till 7 and then rushing off to do some sort of volunteer work with the Nature Club. She'd be back by ten at which point I'd wake up and we'd have breakfast together. But it does sometimes catch up with her; occasionally she will lower her defences and sleep for a good eleven hours. Occasionally. This is because she is insane. My roommate, Meghana, is a hyperactive person. She will jump around and make strange sounds till the early hours of the morning and suddenly, fall flat where she is and sleep for the next twelve hours. And then she'll wake up and the jumping and loud noises will continue... I adore Meghana, I really do, but I love her best when she's in a state of hibernation. Although she does sometimes make strange noises even then.

Other creatures, like bears and squirrels and snakes, hibernate too. If nature supports this, then it can be nothing except beneficial.


Naps 
The best part. You have power naps, which give you energy. I like taking power naps during exams. I set the alarm for half an hour later, then reset it and reset it once again. A good hour and a half of sleep and I am energised (and, until the last alarm goes off, smug because I know that I have extra time to sleep). This is why I usually get good grades. I study for an hour and sleep for two. My brain is constantly rejuvenated. My power nap gives me a powerful brain. Technically a power nap is supposed to be only fifteen minutes long, but only insane or hyperactive people can achieve that.

Naps can be taken at all hours of the day. My favourite time to nap is in the morning, between breakfast and lunch. I also like napping in the afternoon. And in the evening. It prevents boredom, especially if you have a creative brain which makes for interesting dreams.

 Napping also helps me lose weight. This is because I tend to eat when I'm bored. If I go to sleep instead, my problem is usually solved and I fit into my jeans again within a week.

They're versatile, naps are. You can nap in bed, on the sofa, in a cosy armchair, in class and in the backseat of a car. I'm told it's not advisable to nap if you're in the driver's seat. This happened to my uncle one night (by accident) and he rammed his car into a pole. He was okay, the car was not.


Siestas
Like naps. In my opinion however, they have a couple of characteristics that distinguish them from naps: Naps can be taken anywhere, anytime. Siestas can only be taken after lunch. And they only count if you live in a relatively hot country like India, Mexico or Spain. You cannot take a siesta if you live in London; you must settle for naps.


Regular sleep
If you are a human being, this usually occurs at night. The average human being sleeps seven to nine hours a night. As discussed before, sleep has numerous benefits so as wonderful as naps are, there is nothing that really beats this form of sleep. A very wise person once said that there's no substitute for either work or sleep. I agree although I strongly believe that when work gets too daunting, the best cure is more sleep.


Death
Permanent, dreamless sleep. Must be quite boring because of the lack of dreams so I believe we must sleep as much as possible while we're alive. This is also- as mentioned earlier- believed to postpone death. A win-win situation.


There are many ways to ensure a good session of sleep. Minimum amounts of light and minimum amounts of noise are a must (although sometimes it does help to have soft music playing in the background). It's easier to sleep on clean sheets than dirty ones and to sink into a soft bed after a nice warm bath is one form of paradise on earth. Lots of pillows- I never sleep without less than two. Sometimes three. Sleeping with four pillows is just plain greedy. I generally don't like sleeping with stuffed toys or dolls- never did although I tried when I was younger because everyone used to- because then you end up sleeping on them and you spend the entire night with something sharp poking into your back (this can also be applied to other things when you're older).

There are few things more wonderful than waking up in the morning to darkness, silence, absolute stillness and cold pillows (if it's summer) or a warm duvet (if it's winter) and realising you can go back to sleep for as long as you want which, after a small and satisfied grunt, you usually do.

Sleep: it's a necessity, it's comfort and it's luxury. It's also free.

Birds.

I don’t like birds. I don’t like them at all.

I don’t understand people who like birds. “Oh,” they coo, “birds are so sweet, birds are so pretty. Birds are the best fucking thing in this whole, wide, miserable world next to peanut butter.” Have they never noticed the beaks, so capable of gauging their eyeballs out? “Come here,” an innocent little girl says one day, to a relatively harmless looking Tweety. She picks Tweety up and holds Tweety in the palm of her hand, whispering sweet nothings to Tweety who obligingly pecks at her eyes and then takes a chunk out of her nose for good measure. A traumatising trip to the hospital follows while Tweety sits on its perch and warbles happily as the sun sets.

And then you have the wings. Oh sure, they’re as colourful as a Crayola set. A splash of deceiving beauty; indigos and scarlets and emeralds and gentle browns creating a dazzling canvas. But then the wings start flapping. Flap, flap, flap. Flapflapflap. All those feathers, so soft and innocent individually, turned into a single and threatening unit that can only cause trauma and pain. Have you ever had a bird fly over your head? Felt the feathers flap against your hair with that horrible thudding sort of noise - it’s the same sort of noise you hear when an innocent little puppy is run over by a bus. Whoosh and then a thud, and then a whoosh again as the bird/bus makes its escape. Have any of you bird lovers out there ever stopped to imagine what it would feel like if those wings brushed – no, I mean flapped – against your face leaving moulting feathers glued to your skin and your hair and your neck. This would probably make you slightly nervous because it’s only human to be nervous when you’re covered in feathers and then you’d probably start sweating from all the nervousness and then the feathers would stick to you. That’s right. They’d STICK TO YOU. Can you imagine anything more disgusting then being covered with feathers stuck to your skin with your own sweat acting as an adhesive?

The third thing I don’t like about birds are their legs. Why do they have such skinny, scaly legs? Like an anorexic who lives in Alaska and never uses moisturiser except ten thousand times more disgusting. They’re so brittle that if you touched one- not that anyone in their right mind would want to- it would break into little pieces and there you’d be, standing and gaping at twelve little pieces of scaly bird leg lying in your hand. The claws are also pretty creepy. When I was little, I sometimes used to imagine a bird leg dragging its way towards my bed before leaping into the air, performing a couple of somersaults and landing, claw first, into my wide open mouth. It’s the reason why I never sleep with my mouth open if I can help it. You never know what strange bird parts might land in it.

And finally, there’s bird poop. Bird poop actually comes in a variety of forms. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a smelly drop of water that lands on your shoulder. At other times, it’s like the white of an egg, maybe with a bit of yolk thrown in. Then there’s hard bird poop, the sort you find on your car window on Monday mornings. A congealed mass of egg yolk (with a bit of green thrown in) gone wrong. Birds are really incredibly rude and inconsiderate about their bowel movements. I know most people think they can’t help it but if you ask me, the stupid creatures enjoy emptying their stuff on human beings and human possessions deliberately.  Why else would it land on your head and not on the pavement next to you? On the windshield of your moving car and not in the gutter where it belongs? Why does it usually land on you when you’re wearing a new and incredibly gorgeous dress and not an old hand me down t-shirt from your grandfather? Why on your way to school and never on your way back? The latter would enable you to come home quickly and have a shower and throw your clothes in the wash. The former means you have to go through six hours with bird poop on your shoulder before you can get rid of it. It also means all your friends will avoid you and you will become a social pariah, being forced to eat lunch alone. Even maths becomes more difficult than usual because it just isn’t possible to concentrate on logarithms when there’s a splotch of greenish yellow goo on your otherwise pristine white uniform. The worst thing about bird poop is that it can’t be avoided. If you come across dog poop on the road (or as is the case in Delhi, cow poop) you simply step around it. All you have to do is keep an eye trained on the ground you’re walking on. Now if you keep an eye trained on the sky, chances are the bird poop will land on your face. It’s a lose-lose situation.

I don’t think I was born with a fear of birds. Experiences over the years have simply changed my feelings from indifference to mild dislike to burning hatred, all tinged with a dollop of good old fashioned fear. 

It started off when I was really little and I used to come and visit my grandparents. They lived in a tall building – well, tall for Calcutta – on the tenth floor; our flat has its own terrace which leads to the building’s terrace. I used to go up there often in the evenings and stare at the big, dignified brown kites that used to perch themselves on the paraphets. I’d always make my grandfather come up with me because I was confident the kites would be too in awe of him to do anything to me. Which they were. As I grew older, I started venturing out there on my own. The kites that sat around on our terrace usually let me be but whenever I went to the big terrace outside, to throw water balloons at the boys playing cricket downstairs, there used to be a lot of kites flying in circles overhead. They usually do that at dusk. At first they let me alone but as time went by, they used to swoop lower and lower until one actually dared to brush against my head. I have never known such pure terror (except when I’m on a plane and it’s about to takeoff. Oh, and when I lost my teeth. But that’s neither here nor there). I was so scared, I nearly leaped over the paraphet trying to escape from it but I was too short which was a good thing because if I’d fallen eleven storeys I think I would have broken a lot more than my teeth. After that, I always took Pinky, our maid, up with me. She wasn’t scared of the kites but they seemed suitably in awe of her. They even stayed away from Bimala, another maid, although one occasionally swooped down to inspect her. She was very small and skinny. Quite easy to carry away but I don’t think she would have made a good meal (she didn’t bathe very often) and they seemed to sense this. Also she had a habit of screeching at them which alarmed them a bit and so they stayed away. I picked up this trick from her and one day, I went up on my own to try it out. Almost at once, three or four kites began to swoop down menacingly but I screeched really loudly. To make my performance even more effective, I ran around in circles with my hands curled into fists, waving them threateningly above my head. After I stopped, due to exhaustion, I noticed about six or seven kites sitting on the water tanks with their hooded eyes gleaming at me in a We’re-going-to-eat-your-eyes-and-tear-out-your-hair sort of way. I ran indoors as quickly as possible and only went up again if I had someone with me, or my grandmother’s umbrella. After my grandfather died, my mother and I moved to Kusum to live with my grandmother and even though I always go to the terrace with my friends, I never ever go out there alone. I know when I've been beaten. 

Now I come to the crows. When we moved in with my grandmother, my mother made me start walking to school and back because it’s only a ten minute walk from our home and also because she knows I hate walking and she used to enjoy seeing me suffer. During the course of these walks, a crow would occasionally fly by and I have to give those creatures a little bit of credit and admit that they didn’t do it on purpose; not initially. However, I’d always flinch a little because crows are the worst of all birds. Their eyes are beady, their beaks are like granite, their legs are indescribably gross and to make it worse, they’re black all over. So I’d always shudder a bit and duck, or hide behind a lamp post until the coast was clear. They soon realised this and what became an occasional bad experience became a constant nightmare. I started getting attacked by crows nearly everyday. I turned, from a reasonably normal human being, to a cowering, bird fearing, psychologically disturbed person. I’d often land up at school with bird poop on me. In fact, it got so bad that I began carrying toilet paper in my bag. One day, I was late for school, and I was running down the road. There were a group of at least fifteen crows on the pavement ahead of me eating pieces of bread that some half baked idiot had given them. I was running, running- still at some distance from them – and I was about to turn and cross the road, because to me, getting run over by a lorry is less scary than running through a gaggle of bread eating crows – when an inconsiderate moron honked his horn and in a moment that will forever be frozen in my mind, alongside the time that shark in Jaws 2 ate that boy who was trying to climb into a boat, they rose up in the air, one solid mass, and began to fly towards me. I am not ashamed to say that I screamed. I am slightly ashamed to say that I threw myself forward, face first, onto the pavement, with my arms around my head. I felt a nasty and dangerous breeze ruffle my hair as they flew away and when I cautiously sat up, I saw a line of cars which were filled with school girls (most of whom knew me) gaping, pointing and laughing at me. It was not a happy moment.

The very next week – yes, that’s right, the very next week – I was walking back home with my friend Jayatri when I noticed a crow standing on the pavement. Despite a tiny quiver of fear, I decided to ignore it and keep walking because, I have to confess, it was on Jayatri’s side of the pavement. I was closer to the road. Now I swear to god I am not making the next part up. You can ask Jayatri for confirmation – as soon as we neared the crow, it deliberately hopped across the pavement, crossing Jayatri’s path and stood in front of me. It just stood there, on its two scaly legs, looking at me. I could see the challenge in its gaze and, knowing I was beaten, I meekly crossed over to the other side of the road.  

Sometimes, when I’m  sitting in my room, happily minding my own business, there’s a thud against my window. The glass pane vibrates. It could be a mini earthquake, or a flying saucer but it’s usually nothing more than a visually challenged, mentally retarded bird crashing into my window. I have to admit, it gives me malicious pleasure because it is, perhaps, the only time that I score one up on the birds.

But to give them their due, they won the war a long time ago. 

Where have the Manly Men gone?

My definition of a Manly Man is slightly different from my brother's. He believes a Manly Man is someone who can fart to the Mission Impossible theme song. That's not manly, that's disgusting.

Let's explore several areas that show the difference between Manly Men and Justin Timberlake :

1. Makeup: Manly Men do not wear makeup. No concealer, no eyeliner, no mascara and NO FUCKING NAILPOLISH. Who the hell wants to date someone who's going to steal your Mac brushes? And I don't want to discuss makeup a man, thank you very much, or have him take longer than me to get ready for a night out. That is just sad and wrong. 

2. Pedicures/Manicures/Waxing/Facials: This is also out. Now to be honest, most women do not have a problem with this. In fact, they actively encourage the men in their lives to go and sit glumly in parlours while their face is prodded with needles and their chest hair is ripped out. I'm not a huge fan of excessive chest hair but come on, have you seen Pierce Brosnan? His hottie quotient would be a lot lower if he plucked his eyebrows and waxed his chest. As for a man getting a facial- yes, his skin may look smooth and polished and pore free- but I don't think I'd be able to sleep with anyone who spent their Sundays with a mud pack on their face.

3. Presents: Manly Men do not give their girlfriends teddy bears and simpering cards with hearts and flowers and itty bitty purple butterflies on them (unless under extreme pressure because girlfriend is a freak). Manly Men give their girlfriends diamonds and sexy lingerie and helicopter rides over Cambodia.

4. Tears: I know I'm being slightly ridiculous now, and as a literature student I am fully aware about the construction of gender roles and how people are conditioned to fall in with stereotypes. Well sue me, I'm conditioned. If I ever see a man cry, I freeze. There's something so weak and defenceless about men who bawl. Kittens are weak and defenceless; Manly Men are not. Of course, a lot depends on the reason. If I saw a man crying because his mother died or because Keeles stopped making their beef sausages, I would understand. I have to admit however, that a man who cries because he fought with his girlfriend needs to butch up a bit. How the hell can a reasonably intelligent woman be attracted to someone who whimpers over the phone because she called him a few names during a heated argument? Answer: She can't.

5. Fixing things: Manly Men know how to fix things. They can change light bulbs and fiddle with car engines and fix leaky shower heads. This is why women keep men around. A man who can't fix things is not a Manly Man and therefore not useful and therefore, should be gotten rid of. It's quite simple really.

6. Hygiene: Manly Men are not necessarily slobs. They don't sit around, without showering for days on end, burping on beer. They brush their teeth, they use Old Spice and they do shampoo their hair. However, they draw the line at conditioner and flossing.

7. Sport: Manly Men like sports. Once again, I know I am adopting gender stereotypes but please, give me a man who watches football over a man who watches America's Next Top Model any day. The ultimate Manly Man should also be good at sport, should be athletic. There is nothing sexier, in my opinion, then watching a toned and tanned (from being outdoors, not from spray) Manly Man, running around in shorts and kicking footballs into nets. Unless it's a Manly Man in swimming trunks that show off his chiselled torso while his biceps ripple as he ploughs his way through water. Mm.

8. Food: I like to see men eat. Men should eat. It's wrong when a man eats three tomatoes and half a head of lettuce for lunch. What does that say about his libido? I don't mean that men should keep gorging on pizzas and pies until they look like Henry VIII (who, by the way, was more of a Pig than a Manly Man) but it's nice to see a man enjoying a steak and a glass of beer. This also applies to women. Women who live on grapefruit are- but I shall save this rant for another time.


So where have all the Manly Men gone? You never see them anymore. Men are either too busy fussing over their hair products or sleeping and ditching every woman they can get their hands on. It's all very sad. One of my male friends is scared of cockroaches, another has a earring collection and there is of course, the infamous Man Whore Friend who is not Manly, just a whore. 

I really don't understand the current fascination with metrosexual men. I'd hate to be with someone prettier than myself; the damage to my already frail self esteem would be too much for me to cope with. It's sad because a lot of metrosexual men are actually quite good looking. But if you ask me, David Beckham, the ultimate metrosexual, looks his best when he's sweating on the football pitch, and not when he's wearing a sarong with his braided golden hair being gently ruffled by the wind. That should be left to Rapunzel who was a bloody useless female anyway.