You Wouldn't Know Joy If You Didn't Know Pain... How Could I Complain?

The days that I call "Meh" days are all too frequent now. You know, the ones that merge in to the previous day? These days can't even be called good days. That sounds far more melodramatic than necessary but it seems the best way to describe them as they are not memorable for any reason. What I've learned though, is that these "Meh" days are necessary to make the other days comparable; a yard stick (I'm still resisting the transfer to the the metric system) by which to measure how time has treated me and my existence. And vice versa. There was a day a few weeks ago that I should have written about immediately. It was awesome. I mean that in the traditional sense of the word; breath-taking and astounding, not just "cool" as the overuse of the word implies these days.


My normal working days are non-descript and have seen me hurtle through this sticky summer (ok, it's raining now but it'll be humid again, believe me. I am Indian, I can sense an Indian summer!) as my routine is rigid; I get up at the same time everyday, I get the same train everyday, I get served my usual coffee by the same hot Italian barista everyday - that's not a complaint! - I get to the office at the same time everyday. I then listen to women moan about shit that doesn't really matter. Every. Fucking. Day. Their complaints prompt me to want to shout, "It's only a sodding lipstick! Get a grip!" but I can't and have to pretend that their issue is the worst thing in the world. Until I take up the next complaint, then the fact that someone only got four samples in her bag, rather than five, becomes the most serious matter I've ever had to deal with. You're feeling my pain, right?


So, this day - Wednesday 21st July - promised a break from the monotony and delivered spectacularly. Firstly, I was permitted a day away from my desk! Several brands stocked by the company I work for were visiting our office and educating us in new products. Now, for most of you that probably sounds rather boring but this is the part of my job I love and is why I do what I do. The science behind the products and the way they work with the layers of the skin is all product porn - mmm! And then there's the freebies!


Anyway, after this daytime of fun(!) I was meeting a friend to venture to a venue on Little Portland Street to see Pete Lawrie and his band play. Yes, I'm still obsessed with the man's music. And this gig was even more exciting for me as it was back in my comfort zone on West London rather than the Trustafarian North London site of the last shindig. My working day finished earlier than expected so I popped to the local cafe for an extra hot skinny chai latte (you know I'm particular!) to wait for my friend. I was pleasantly surprised to discover my favourite Italian barista was working. He falls under the "favourite" category mostly because he's young and hot, not for his coffee making skills, unfortunately. The place was empty so The Barista joined me for a coffee and a chat. We've been jokily flirting for some time now so this isn't as weird as it may sound. He was very charming and made me laugh lots, I felt like a fifteen year old with a ridiculous crush as I giggled coquettishly. I tweeted, in my jovial way, about the situation I found myself in. The Barista is a regular tweet topic and my followers get concerned if he's not mentioned for a while. "Having coffee with The Hot Italian Barista. Does this count as a first date?" My followers were appreciative of the update. All except one; A guy I was almost involved with at the time. My friend arrived at the same time as a text from this guy telling me to delete all his details and wishing me luck with The Barista. I didn't realise coffee meant marriage these days! That kind of behaviour would have got sympathy from me and made me feel so guilty just six months ago. Now though, I have no time for it so I fulfilled his wishes. Not even his ridiculous outlook on our, erm, "romance" could dampen my spirits.


So, then the highlight of my day - Pete's gig. I hadn't realised he was gigging until the week before. I'd been called a racist term in the street on my way to work and tweeted about it. Pete was the first to respond with sound advice, "Ignore them, Biscuit". After a few exchanges he informed me that he was playing in Londres so I booked my ticket tout de suite. I also made Pete promise he'd give me a massive hug - well, there must be some advantages to being his favourite blogger! This, before you say anything, is a title he bestowed upon me. Yes, perhaps it was to shut me up but I still wear my crown with pride. Like an excitable pup I entered the venue, got myself a gin and tonic and made myself comfortable in a booth not too far from the stage. I was engrossed in conversation with my friend when a tap on the shoulder and "Where's my hug then?" alerted me to the presence of Pete. A very nervous Pete. We spoke for a little while before he went of to prepare for his headlining moment. As I sat down again I noticed I was being thrown "evils" by some girls. Ho hum. The second act, a guy called Tinashe, was brilliant. He had such energy and a beautiful voice. His drummer reminded me of Animal from The Muppets. No Joke. They were very entertaining to watch.


And then (drum roll please - Elliot?) the headline act - Pete Lawrie and the band. There were teething issues - mic lead, I think - so Pete silenced the crowd in order that he and Elliot could perform the first song without microphones with Pete on guitar and Elliot tapping some box thing. My knowledge of musical instruments is second to none! Normal service was resumed as the lead was found. I was in my element as Pete, Elliot and Mike played. It doesn't take too much to please me, as well you know, but listening to them live seems to transport me to my happy place. There were very amusing points of the evening too - mainly seeing the usually cool Mike getting increasing irritated by the venue's sound guy passing him at least twice during every song to check the levels. Not something that one would usually find irritating but Mike had to move the neck of his bass in the middle of songs every time this guy traipsed past him.


I managed not to shed a tear during Jimmy and the Birds on Fire - one of my favourites as it's about losing a friend - despite crying every time I listen to it, including on my train journeys to and from work. As I spotted the set list, stuck with gaffer tape on the wall near Elliot, I saw a song called HAG which I was hoping Pete had written about me, aside from the unflattering title. Turns out it's actually short for Half As Good. This brought my second goosebump moment of the evening; HAG flowed in to Dust and they are both beautiful songs. So beautiful that I was mesmerised for the few minutes they were played. I almost forgot to breathe.


You see, I can't moan about the "Meh" days because days like the one I experienced wouldn't stand out so much. I'd take them for granted. This day gave me the ReadyBrek glow that not even a text from the aforementioned weird guy when I got home could dim. Please don't pity me. There have been more good, great and awesome days lately for which I am incredibly grateful. As the title of this post suggests, we must take the rough with the smooth. The title, for your reference, is from Pete's song How Could I Complain and he kindly gave me permission to use it. Actually, he's the only one I've ever asked for permission so he should feel privileged!


The only thing that could have made my night slightly better would have been a smile from Elliot. Despite following him on Twitter (and warning him about the time difference as you travel along the M4) and, most importantly, having made eye contact a few times, I was not permitted an Elliot grin. Perhaps he thinks I'm a silly girly groupie type. For your information, I'm not. I save my jockey slutting for Mark Ronson! But next time I see them I'm determined I'll get a smile out of him. I've had one from ultra-cool Mike and several from Pete, Elliot's is the only one I'm missing from the collectors' series.


Oh, the other reason I was thrilled at the gig was although they'd played at Glasto and several other festivals since I'd last seen them, there was still present the humility that captivated me the first time. No airs and graces, just three lads who'd had an adventure together over, what sounds like from Pete's tweets and blog, and epic and amazing summer for them - they even seemed to enjoy their infamously unreliable van being robbed and running out of fuel at inopportune moments.


Pete's new EP, All That We Keep, is out now. I've heard the songs. Two words - buy it. And if you're in London tomorrow night - Wednesday 25th August - he's playing in Soho. Please go. you'll have an amazing time listening to amazing music. I won't be able to go to my happy place tomorrow as I can't make the gig due to funds being tight for various reasons this month. And I haven't bought the EP just yet for the same reason. I'm not being a hypocrite deliberately, honestly. Just because I'm not going doesn't mean you shouldn't. They're probably sick of the sight of me by now anyway!



Remember the name, people - Pete Lawrie. This time next year he'll be huge. x

Don’t Depend On A Guy To Validate Me/I Wish I Was A Little Bit Taller…

“You’re the two Ss really, aren’t you? We should call you S’n’S”. S and S? I’d heard of R and R but this was a new one on me. “You know, short and single!” Oh right, charming. Once again I was reminded of the two aspects about my life that seem to bother other people more than they do me. I won’t reveal who said that as he was horrified when I informed him that had those comments been aimed at someone who was deeply affected by those “afflictions” it could be deemed offensive.

So let’s deal with the two Ss shall we? The two factors of my life that other people have an issue with. I’m the good, little Hindu girl, I’m twenty-nine years old and I’m single. There, I said it. Sorry to those of you who winced at the word. And the idea. As I’ve said many times before, being sans partner doesn’t trouble me in the slightest. That’s not to say I dislike being in a relationship, I do like it, but people’s reactions to my singleness is bizarre!

At a work gathering recently, I was sat with two female colleagues who were talking about how their relationships with their partners were about compromise and sacrifice. “But that’s all relationships, surely?” I piped up, “Whether they be with family, friends or partners we find ourselves in give and take situations with those we care for.” I was given the look that all attached people give; the “pipe down dear, this doesn’t involve you singletons” look. I’m sure you’ve all been privy to it at some point, perhaps having even shot the look at a single person yourselves. The look doesn’t bother me any more than being single does as the way I see it is that I’d rather be involved with the right person, whenever they come along, than the wrong one. We all feel like that I believe, it’s not only singles’ desire.

I was made aware of my singledom at a friend’s barbeque a few weeks ago. Not that being made aware of it affected me negatively at all. I arrived at the barbeque with a single male friend and aside from him and the host I knew nobody. All attendees were incredibly friendly and chatty and all topics of conversation were covered. You know, the normal getting to know you having met you two hours ago type of stuff. An hour or so after the food had been consumed it was time to kick back on one of the million picnic rugs laid out on the sizeable lawn. That’s when it hit me; most of the others were part of a couple! The reason it hit me then is because at this point of any gathering couples gravitate to their partners. Only for about ten minutes of affection but it does happen. They had all snuggled up for a squeeze of the hand, a kiss and a cuddle or to rest their heads upon their partners’ laps as they grabbed a quick snooze. This behaviour doesn’t bother me. I can deal with couples’ public displays of affection up until the point they start sucking face and getting too touchy-feely. There’s no need for those kinds of actions in polite company. Anything that might make an outsider to the relationship feel uncomfortable needs not happen. Anyway, so whilst the couples shared their moment of affection (and I sat their alone - single male friend had found another single man to discuss football with, oblivious to the couple-magnet happenings) I played with my iPhone and updated myself on the goings on in my trusted Twitterworld. And then the female half of one couple asked why I wasn’t sat with my boyfriend. What boyfriend? Aah, the assumption that because I’d arrived with a guy, we must be stepping out. You see? It seems to bother other people more than it does me! That’s how I was made aware of it. I wasn’t offended by it as I’m easy either way. I understand our whole purpose on Earth is to procreate and the emotional side of that means that we seek companionship. But I’m comfortable waiting for companionship to find me rather than seeking it out; is that cool with everyone else?

The thing I know for definite bothers everyone more than it bothers me is my height. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination, not even a seven year old’s, could I ever be considered tall. The aforementioned seven year old is taller than me. But I’m fine with that. I stand at four feet and eleven inches. A fact that doesn’t escape anyone I meet and that most feel the need to comment on at some point. No, I’m not considered a midget and don’t have a disabled parking badge for my car. It may surprise you that I raise these points but they are questions I have been asked in the past so I thought I’d clear up any confusion before it arises. I’m the product of parents who are five feet three-quarters of an inch and five feet eight inches tall. I was never destined to be a giant and that’s ok with me. I grew up being reassured that “small is beautiful”. I’m not quite sure who they were reassuring as I certainly didn’t need it – I don’t mean that I was sure about being beautiful but rather small.

I admit that being short (or horizontally challenged or whatever the politically correct term is these days) does have some disadvantages. The first is that some people taller than me think it an affectionate gesture to pat me on the head. I am not a child or a dog, despite my appearance. It is not therefore affectionate and acceptable, it’s ruddy patronising! Please don’t do it, even to be funny. Imagine if someone that could reach did it to you – it’d get annoying, right? Not because of the height thing but because everybody knows you don’t touch the hair. It’s almost as irritating as a friend of a friend greeting me with the same line every time we meet. It’s not a “hello, how are you?” as that would be most pleasant. No, it’s a “God, you’ve shrunk!” Funny the first few times, granted but after the millionth it becomes tedious. To me that “joke” is what the Crazy Frog song is to others; fucking irritating.

A lot of females resent me at some point of knowing me, even if only briefly, for being my height. I often hear the line, “You’re such a bitch, can’t you go for a short guy so us taller girls don’t get stuck with the midgets?!” I don’t set out to snare men that stand at five foot ten inches or taller, it just kind of happens. Actually, none of my boyfriends have been shorter than that. Well, there was one but he refused to acknowledge we were together - one of those “we’re just friends” types. I didn’t do with my other male friends what I did with him. I still don’t - so he doesn’t really count anyway.

I get overlooked. Literally. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been in a bar and two people, whether I’m there with them or not, have conducted a conversation over my head. It’s just plain rude! That has nothing to do with me having issues about my height, more people’s inconsiderate nature.

The most disadvantages were discovered when travelling on public transport. I have an hour long commute to work during which I experience the delights of South West Trains and the London Underground. I get on the same train every morning; the 7.39 from a sleepy West London station to Waterloo. Luckily the suited masses get on at Putney which is a few stops after mine so there are seats available for my thirty-seven minute journey – all good. What isn’t in the slightest bit good is that I am just the right height for a Putneyite to rest his/her book on my head. My noggin seems to be the ideal distance for someone standing next to me to use as a lectern. If I’m really lucky they’ll be reading The Metro – you know, that free paper that has the same news in it as the previous night’s Evening Standard – so the corner of it flaps down in front of my eye and hinders my vision. I know that the book/paper resters wouldn’t be able to do this to someone taller as their reading material would be too close to their faces so they save it for the short folk – privileged, we are!

The other peril of commuting on the tube is the most dangerous of them all; armpits. I don’t have to tell you how this body part perspires and can be smelly. At my height on a packed carriage my face is often subjected to several armpits at close proximity. More often than not, on the journey home, after these armpits have been in suits and kept warm all day, they don’t smell as fresh as they did in the morning. I’ve become expert now at holding my breath, only inhaling when we stop at a station and everyone shuffles about a bit, sparing my visage of Eau d’Aisselle for a few seconds. Talking of breath, my diminutive stature often means that when people exhale or sigh on public transport, as often happens out of frustration at delays, I get breath on me. Yes, it’s as gross as it sounds. Imagine a stranger’s morning stale cigarette and coffee breath on you. Time and time again. And in the lifts at Goodge Street station people shove right up behind me, pushing me in to the person in ahead. I think they figure because the area in front of their face is clear as they’re a good few inches taller, their personal space isn’t being invaded. Mine is (sometimes with an appendage in between my shoulders). And I can feel their breath on my hair and down the back of my neck; the very same stale coffee and cigarette breath from the tube. Tis a delight, I tell you.

However these disadvantages are far outweighed by the pluses. Firstly, protesting innocence is hardly ever necessary. It’s effortless to avoid blame. “She couldn’t have done it, look how little she is!” Ok, this attitude can also be very patronising but it keeps me out of trouble. The cute factor also plays in my favour when in public as everybody wants to help, in supermarkets especially. There was this one time when I was trying to reach a cereal carton on the top shelf but it was a fruitless tasks as even stretched on my tiptoes I was merely stroking the front of the box. As a tall(er) guy walked down the aisle towards me he saw the struggle and came to my aid. We chuckled at the height difference and he then walked around the supermarket with me for about ten minutes, even getting things for me that I could reach. So chivalrous. His wife wasn’t happy when she finally caught up with him but that’s not the point.

Being short endears me to people. I pose no threat as the worst I can do to anyone is jump up and bite their ankles. As I’m very tactile, people don’t feel I’m invading their space when I do stroke their arm or go in for a hug. It’s impossible for me to loom over someone. I guess people figure that as long as they have a clear area in front of their faces and they’re not inhaling my armpit scent, they’re safe.

I don’t know if being little has made me louder and a bigger personality than I would have been if I was taller. Perhaps I subconsciously compensate for lacking inches by raising decibels when laughing or cracking jokes and surrounded by friends? I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is playing the damsel in distress comes naturally because of my height, or rather the lack of it. In fact, I need someone to get a mug down from the top shelf in the kitchen cupboards at work, so now to flutter the lashes and work my petite charm. Who’ll oblige? The usual suspects? x

Don't Look Back In Anger/You Are Your Own Worst Enemy, You'll Never Win The Fight

(Warning! Rant rating: Extremely high)

Those that know me well are probably surprised that I haven't ranted sooner. Or perhaps they see every entry as a rant? Anyway, this is what I'm acknowledging is a rant. Brace yourselves.

I'm bored of being The One After The One That Fucked Him Over. It's like a Friends episode but less funny. I'm not the only girl who feels like this but I am the one who is going to vocalise just how unfair it is on us.

I seem to meet guys, lovely guys not dickheads, whose attitudes towards relationships have been jaded by their previous girlfriends. I come in to their lives just after the One that cheated on him/rinsed him of all his money/swore at his mother in front of the whole family and neighbours at his parents' ruby wedding anniversary celebration. And then it's me that pays for that One's shitty behaviour. The way in which I must pay for Her behaviour seems to be universal; he is non-committal (after a brief period of wooing). Now, this is fine. Well, it's not fine but what I mean to say is that I'm not going to force anyone to get over feeling wronged or hurt sooner than they are ready to. The "grieving" period is so important and I'm respectful of that, goodness knows it's taken me far longer than other people deem it healthy to get over some of my encounters. You can't put a time on feelings and nobody can question them. But Boys, once you're over it please don't assume that I'm going to behave or make you feel as She did. I'm not going to cheat on you/rinse you of your money/swear at your mother or any other family member and here's for why; I'm not Her.

I'm not being unsympathetic, please don't misunderstand me. I'm always understanding when I hear the "I'm not ready for anything serious yet" line. I'm not one to railroad any guy in to something he's not ready for as that wouldn't be a healthy relationship from the off. You don't have to be Columbo to work that one out. I always try to be as poised as possible, remaining composed and not revealing just how much I feel hurt/cross at his actions, not screaming, "You're pissing away the best thing for you right now!". (I don't mean I'm the best thing, I mean the "thing" we had.) And I know after only a few weeks, shouting that at him may sound a little (/a lot) demented but it's not as intense as it seems when written - if everything else is working at the time, if we can talk and laugh and get on wonderfully, it's a shame the things that are breaking it all is Her actions and his hesitation from feelings of past.

I don't go through my relationships thinking that the person I'm with at the time will do to me what the previous occupiers of that role did. If I did think like that then none of my relationships would ever work... Oh, wait, I'm single. Jesting aside, I learn something from all my relationships but the lesson learned is about myself not about the next guy I get involved with and how to punish him for how someone else made me feel and how he fucked me over. You see, If I did, I'd assume that every future partner would do, amongst other things, one of the following; have me as his "other woman" for years (without me knowing I'm his mistress), shag a prostitute in Amsterdam on his best mate's stag do and not tell me until almost a year later when we've broken up or lie to me at ever opportunity, even about his parents who I've met several times. And the worst yet; leave me feeling so rejected, disillusioned and so broken that even breathing hurts (I know this sounds melodramatic but you've all been dumped out of the blue after a long term relationship and are acquainted with that feeling, right?). I would have serious trust issues if I allowed the behaviour of my past boyfriends to influence my future relationships. That would be absurd, almost as absurd as their actions. I know you agree with me, Boys - for this reason you must realise you should let go and stop unintentionally making the next girl feel inadequate for something she has no control over; your insecurity.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I haven't shat on someone in the past (not literally. I'd charge for that request!) so I'm not perfect, not by an stretch of even the most vivid imagination. I hurt someone quite badly. I didn't do anything terrible - prostitutes in Amsterdam aren't my thing - I fell out of love and ended the relationship when he was still very much in love with me. No doubt I handled the break-up situation extremely badly but it was a long time ago and I learned from that too. I don't intend to hurt people, any person in my life, in any capacity. I do everything I can to avoid hurting other people, perhaps hurting myself in the process but at least I spare them the badness, eh? And no doubt the girl after me in the break-up I handled badly paid for my actions to some extent. Poor soul.

I vowed to myself (after The One That Very Deliberately Embarrassed Me Beyond Repair In Front Of Our Mutual Friends) that I would go in to everything with a clean slate. Nobody should have to go through emotional punishment for someone else's, or my, actions and reactions. So I throw myself in to every potential or new relationship and friendship with a renewed sense of optimism and enthusiasm. Everybody gets 100% of my trust and 100% of me. And I refuse to assume they will abuse either of those things. So please don't assume it of me. And don't assume it of yourselves, Boys. If you don't think that you'll want to hurt me in some way then you're forbidden to assume you're going to unless you know for certain you will. It's up to me where I place my trust and what I decide to get myself in to so don't stop it happening. You know what they say about assumption.

I'd be lying if I said this rant hasn't been prompted by some recent events but this isn't actually aimed at anybody in particular. Far from it. Having spoken to a friend this morning who finds herself in a similar situation to the one I'm in, I realise this is a common occurrence. We're both the One that because of the Boy's past experience with girls he's not willing to take the chance on, the One he's scared of hurting and being hurt by, the One whose company he really enjoys, can talk to about everything and feels a "connection" of sorts with but is unwilling to take the risk on. And all those factors are things we cannot control or have any sway over at all as they have nothing to do with us as people. Shit biscuits!

Boys, no actually, Boys and Girls, don't not do something because you're worried about what may be in six months or a year or next week even. You'll never do anything then except mosey through life. We've all been burned and some of us worse than others but that doesn't mean we can't go in to everything with open eyes, open minds and open hearts. (Oh shit, I'm sounding a bit "Lifestyle Coach" here!)

To quote a great lyricist again (the second of the title's is one of hers too), Cheryl Cole sang, "All you can do is make the best of it now, can't be afraid of the dark." Ok, I was being sarcastic when I said she was one of the greatest lyricists for she didn't actually write the song but it makes sense, doesn't it? Live for the now and don't worry about the future for it's coming whether you prepare for it or not.
Feel the fear and do it anyway - your life will be enriched for it, I promise.

Rant over. As you were... x

Bang, Bang! They Shot Me Down...

I'd postponed visiting Dad for long enough successfully but couldn't continue doing so as the day dedicated to him approached - Father's Day. If ever there's a day where self-imposed guilt for being a crap daughter is prevalent, it's that day. Every year. I called him a couple of days before to book in my visit - I'm aware that makes it sound like one of us is doing porridge, not sure which of us though. Once Dad realised it was me on the 'phone he turned in to a comedian. "Who? Oh, you! I'd forgotten your name seeing as you haven't been in touch for ages. What do you look like again?" Apparently, being the child in this relationship means I should call him, not the other way around. But we all knew that anyway.

On the Sunday I was feeling a little fragile of ego having been stood up the day before (that's a story for another time) and fragile of mind having got drunk on copious amounts of lychee martinis with friends the night before so I had to suck it up to the best of my ability and muster up more patience than usual. As I walked through the front door I was bombarded with lectures disguised as questions. "Where's your hair gone?" was the first. As you may be aware, Dad hates that I take care of my appearance and refuse to be a 'plain Jane'. I had my hair cut a couple of weeks ago - it's still long but instead of being half way down my back, it's now just below my shoulders. Dad had issues with the fact that I was wearing it down, that it has a style and that I flick it about like I've just stepped out of a salon. He'd also rather it was hip length with no style and always, always, worn in a plait. Thus not getting in the way when performing good, little Hindu girl duties such as cooking, cleaning and sitting demurely in a corner.

After the hair lecture came the usual ones but a different order to last time; make-up, nail varnish, not visiting enough, inappropriateness of the clothes I was wearing, loyalty to Mum and, of course, marriage. Ah, my old, faithful friend - the marriage sermon. I think it was on its way to pay me a visit anyway but was hurried along on its journey by my mentioning a friend was getting married that week and I was doing hers and her bridesmaids' make-up. This received two tuts; the first was because my friends are getting married and I'm not and the second was for me daring to continue with my exploration of the creativity of make-up artistry. Why can't my hobby be retraining to become a lawyer? Or finding a husband who is a lawyer? Or a doctor? Or a dentist? Or an accountant? You get the gist.

The second lecture on nail varnish came soon after the first. Dad moaned at me now about the shade of my nail apparel, rather than its presence. I hadn't chosen a subtle colour (it's summer, subtle shades are useless!) but a vibrant, pillar-box red. Or 'whore red', as I call it. "It'll get you unwanted male attention!" Erm, who said it's unwanted? I resisted the urge to say that though what very nearly did slip out of my mouth was, "If you think this is bad, Dad, you should see my underwear collection!" but I value every bone in my body being unbroken so I kept schtum.

The next two hours passed pretty quickly as I helped Brat-Child do her homework, got shouted at by Brat-Child for helping her do her homework and got told off by Dad for helping Brat-Child do her homework properly. I then, for one moment, managed to impress Dad with my chapatti making skills. It was only a fleeting praise-inciting incident, no need for concern as I was not in any danger of becoming Golden Child. And then I was home again, back in the sanctuary that is my boudoir.

Whilst at Dad's, I'd given him a card. On the front it read, "Happy Father's Day From A Fabulous Daughter" - the irony was wasted on him as what he acknowledged it with, "(Insert Brat-Child's name) made me a card, look". For years I made him cards, years, and he never appreciated my efforts, instead binning my handmade tokens of love and appreciation the very next day.

A week later, Dad drove past me around the corner from my house. As he tooted his horn I waved, as it was natural instinct to do so but it was only when I caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror I realised Dad was angry. It took me a couple of seconds to register why but then as I looked down I worked out why. Shit biscuits! It was a scorching day, absolutely boiling, and I was wearing a v-neck vest top with a sheer cardigan over it and a skirt with the hem-line a good few inches above my knees - Uh oh, legs and cleavage on show! I expected a lecture via the telephone all evening but the call never came.

The next day was Dad's birthday. I called him in the evening to play the dutiful daughter. Just as he was about to launch in to a sermon on how crap I was for leaving it so late in the day to call (he'd conveniently forgotten he'd left it even later to contact me on my birthday) and, no doubt, address yesterday's outfit-gate, I explained that I'd landed myself in hospital on a drip that morning having passed out a couple of times - a valid reason, I think. Obviously his paternal instinct kicked in and after assuring him I was fine and just needed a couple of days to rest, he had forgiven me for not calling sooner or popping round to visit. Instead he promised he'd visit me at home the next day (much to Mum's delight!).

The following day, whilst taking my umpteenth necessary nap, my mobile alerted me to an incoming call from Dad's house 'phone. It was his wife, enquiring after my health. She then asked if the previous day's events had been due to the early stages of pregnancy. It took all the energy I had (and it was in limited supply) to not tell her to fuck off. Of course, Dad was out of earshot when she asked that question, I'm his good, virginal, little Hindu girl, remember? I don't know why I was surprised she'd asked such a ridiculous question; this was the woman who, less than twelve hours after I was admitted in to hospital with a seeping appendix (that burst on the operating table) at the age of nineteen, told me and Mum it was due to alcoholism. Jeepers! See what I have to deal with?! Needless to say, Dad didn't visit me. Another broken promise to add to the collection. Perhaps next time I venture to his I'll lecture him on his lack of visitation skills. I've heard plenty in my time to be well-versed! x

Confidence Is A Preference For The Habitual Voyeur...

I was filling in a questionnaire of sorts a few weeks ago and one of the questions had me stumped - "If your friends described you in one word, what would it be?". I had no idea. So I asked them, well, those I knew would get back to me. I was pleasantly surprised by the responses I received, not that I anticipated anything horrendous but I didn't expect my ego to be massaged in the way it was. (Thank you, people!) My favourites were "honest" and "perceptive" (although smiley and glittering had me feeling the most fuzzy inside) as they are traits I am proud that people recognise in me. I was floating on my cloud of adoration when my phone beeped, alerting me to another text from a friend who had taken the time to indulge me. "Assertive" was his response. My ego was suddenly undergoing acupuncture. Ouch!

I don't think of assertiveness as a positive characteristic. It is too closely associated with aggression for my liking and I've never thought myself dogmatic. Or perhaps I've never wanted to acknowledge it. Luckily (for him) I met up with this ego-deflating friend that evening and expressed, perhaps with too much conviction, that I didn't like the word he'd chosen. Apparently it wasn't meant negatively at all. It was his definition of someone who knows what they want and does what they can to get it. In a considerate rather than ruthless way, I hope. Then I remembered how one of my 'A'-Level History teachers has signed my school leaver's book - "Assertiveness personified. How can you fail?" - and how thrilled I was he'd written such a thing. Eleven years ago I embraced my assertive nature, now I shudder in horror that a friend used it as the defining word for my personality.

This lead to a conversation that has had me thinking for the past few days. When I was younger, I was a more confident and, I hate to say it, conceited person. I think most of us probably were. Youth is a wonderful thing as we all think we know everything we'll ever need to know, thus possessing a confidence that is unrivalled in later life. A cockiness that is forgiven by those who are more mature in years as it's passed off as naivety and the notion that we'll "soon grow up". And grow up we do. That cockiness then turns in to one of two things.

The first of cockiness' evolutions is insecurity. This isn't to say those that grow into this trait are weak and feeble, more humble. A most attractive quality. I find it so endearing when someone doesn't quite realise the power they possess - to me it makes them more interesting. I'm not suggesting that people who fall in to this category don't have self-belief or a sense of self-worth; You can believe in everything you do and know you'll succeed in whatever you do but be aware you've got to work hard and put in lots of time and effort to make it happen. Hence appreciating the end result more and being grateful things have worked out exactly as you wanted them to.

I've never been the type of person who has had things fall in her lap (metaphorically speaking). I really wish I was, things would have been so much easier up until now. I've worked since I was sixteen (far longer than I care to remember!) and still don't have anything to show for it - by this I mean materialistic possessions that are of any real value - but I fully appreciate everything I have chosen to spend my hard earned cash on. Holidays, handbags, shoes and my fabulous brooch. I don't measure success by possessions though. To me, being someone of standing is not related to what car a person drives or how may bedrooms their dwelling has. I think being good to others and giving something back to the Universe is far more important - perhaps that has been brought about by being brought up a Hindu and karma playing an important (guilt-laden) part of my life.
The second apparent evolution of cockiness in youth baffles me - an inflated ego and self-confidence. I think it crucial that people know they hold value, as humans, but some people's idea of self-esteem is way off any scale that my brain can compute! They think themselves better than others but don't base this opinion of themselves on any sort of fact or anything that matters, just what they reckon.

I deal with one of these arrogant sods almost everyday. Someone who thinks, for no real reason, she is above everyone else she encounters. It drives me crazy! This person should well be over it by now as she's in her mid-twenties, and whilst she's good at her job she's managed to rub a good few people up the wrong way, pissing off the masses with her attitude. The really sad thing is, as she's totally oblivious to it all I doubt she'll ever discover humility and change.
I went to a gig on Monday night and came across both types, well, all three types of people. It was in a function room above a pub in Norf London and as my friend and I walked in to the room we were greeted by a very chatty, young(er than us) guy. Gone were my fears that I'd be out of place in an ocean (well, pond, the room was small.) full of people that were "too cool for skool". Those apprehensions soon returned when we got further in to the room. The audience seemed to be made up of a few people like my friend and me but mostly young, confident and older (than them), arrogant types. I was shot daggers as I walked up to the bar in my long floaty skirt and vest top by girls wearing Grecian dresses over skinny jeans. Oops, had I made an Islington fashion faux pas by not checking out what Alexa Chung was wearing that day and copying it to the nail varnish, not embracing the Trustafarian lifestyle? Anyway, so as we settled down in our seats, rum and ginger beers in hand, I noticed a group that was different to the others around us. They were chatting to each other, laughing and looking really relaxed in each others' company, one of them being the friendly guy who'd greeted us at the door. A few minutes later, four of this group, including our greeter, took to the stage - The first support act. As well as some brilliant music, I enjoyed the humility the act showed. It was a pleasant contrast to the two guys stood just by us who thought they were Brand and Lamb; skinny jean and white dap wearing mockney "lads". The female singer seemed almost uncomfortable on stage when she wasn't singing. It was beautiful.

Half an hour later, we were being entertained by the second support artist - a guy who had enjoyed relative success in a group before going solo. He showed a ridiculous amount of humility too, circulating amongst the audience after he'd played his set. We'll gloss over the fact that my friend offended him, just as he sat down with us to listen to me tell him how one of his songs had moved me to tears. Point being that even someone who had experienced a UK number one single in the charts managed to be less arrogant than some dude in a porkpie hat who I'd never heard of or seen before (but that doesn't mean he isn't successful, just a prick with it).

So, two hours after we'd arrived we were being entertained by the act we'd come to see. Entertained is too soft a word, mesmerised more fitting. The banter between the singer and the drummer was as captivating as the music, as was the bassist's natural, utter coolness. And despite having just returned from playing on Radio 1's Big Weekend Introducing Stage there was a sense of modesty that blew my mind. I think that's part of the appeal of this artist for me; he's going to be huge within a matter of months, I know it, but I think he'll always stay grounded and not let the success go to his head. At the end of the gig, just as I was leaving, I grabbed a quick chat with him, telling him how much I'd enjoyed myself and instead of just humouring the little, awkward and embarrassed non-Alexa type in front of him, he seemed genuinely pleased by the compliment. I reminded him that I'd tweeted at him a few days before and he'd replied. He then promised to be in touch the next day. And true to his word, he was, making the now not-so awkward (I was back in West London) non-Alexa type a very happy bunny. I went home and listened to his EP, being just as moved by the songs as I was the previous night. Those of you that know me well know I don't gush about music that much (because I don't know too much about it) so the fact that I'm going doolally over this dude says something (if you forget I just said I don't know much about music). Now, there's a part of me that just wants to keep this artist's music to myself for a little bit longer as the recent exposure means that he'll be a household name in no time but his music is so beautiful that I think everyone needs it in their lives, and to see his on stage relationship with his band. This awesome dude is Pete Lawrie (his drummer is Elliot and bassist is named Mike). Go and find his music now, if you don't you'll regret it in a matter of months. But remember this, it was me that pointed you in his direction. I know full well a few of my friends (you know who you are!) will approach me in a few weeks with the line, "Oh my, there's this dude whose music I've just discovered...". I discovered him (amongst us lot) and told you about him, you remember that!

Anyway, I digress, point is that these three talented acts (“talented” doesn't seem to do them justice, “gifted” seems more fitting), the very reason that we were all in that room on that night, had more humility than everyone else in the room put together. That's a bit wrong, no? Well, it's not wrong as humbleness is a most admirable quality but it was difficult for me to understand how people who have an excuse to be a little conceited (I said a little) were remarkably less so than a good few of the audience. A scary thought, eh? Perhaps their joint “insecurity” that night was they were exposing their souls to a room full of people, some of them strangers, making them vulnerable?
Anyway, I'm off to listen to Pete's "How Could I Complain?" whilst feeling bad for judging people and having a slice of humble pie in the process, remembering I've made no impact on the world unlike Monday night's performers. x

Futures Made of Virtual Insanity?

The term “networking” has never sat well with me. It smacks of desperation. In my former life as an employee in the TV industry I was always encouraged to network. Whilst my friends and I would attend these gatherings out of duty, we were only too happy to rinse the free bar and eat the posh food they’d laid on for the occasion. You could tell those that were there to network seriously and those who attended for a good old chinwag with their mates with a beer in hand – the formers’ opening line, accompanied by two air kisses, “Darling, so what are you working on next?” whilst the latter would greet me with a massive hug and, “Bar?”. Don’t judge us, getting drunk with friends (rather than colleagues) was the only thing that made some of those shindigs bearable, especially when attended by Execs that had made our lives as Runners hell.

When the term “social networking” started being bandied about some time ago I did everything I could to avoid such sites, panicking that it meant I was a saddo for having online “friends” rather than real-life ones. Many of my friends were on MySpace years ago but I’ve never really thought of that as a social networking site, more somewhere people could showcase their talent, be it music, poetry or photography. I have many talents but none of them, I feel, are suitable for MySpace – scathing tongue, doe eyes and an ample bosom do have a place online, so I’ve been told, but not on MySpace. About four years ago I finally gave in to social networking – Well, I was getting so good at it in real-life I needed to give something else a shot.

My online self was born on Facebook as I’d received umpteen invites from friends. I had the fear, when I first joined, that I wouldn’t know that many people and my friends list would only just hit double figures but I soon discovered loads of people I knew were on it so I threw myself in to it whole-heartedly. I found friends from primary school which was great and loads from my first secondary school; people I’d not seen in years and still thought about in moments when wearing my rose-tinted glasses. I decided a couple of years ago to make Facebook a family-free zone – not because I have anything to hide from them (except my Dad) but because I feel that I am an edited version of myself when with them, as I’m sure most of us are. (Though I’m a less edited version of myself with Mum these days, she’s even taken to not batting an eyelid when I swear and knowing most of the story regarding my recent rejection – it’s a little disconcerting!)

I find I have to embrace something fully when I first start doing it to understand what all the fuss is about and enjoy it myself. So I vowed I would update my status at least once a day. At first the updates were just “normal” stuff; how I was feeling, how my day was going etc. Then they became song lyrics which were received well by my friends – one friend even changes the chosen lyrics to incorporate my name – I love it! Recently, they have become jovial comments on the state of my life, the ones on lectures from my Dad getting the most attention from friends and giving birth to this blog. A few years ago my daily status updates were the only way my housemate at the time knew I was alive – my ass was totally owned by work and I was only home for a few hours at a time, usually when she was asleep. My status updates served a greater purpose!

Due to personal reasons that I won’t go in to, I haven’t been able to write for the last few weeks. I decided to experiment with social networking and give Twitter a good go in the absence of blogging. Initially I joined Twitter a good few months ago to follow (not stalk) a certain long-haired, sexual predator comedian who has disappeared from my radio waves and trotted off to that land of dreams, oversized portions and Katy Perry. Prior to a few weeks ago, I wasn’t a regular Tweep and didn’t follow that many people. My challenge to myself was to become an integral part of some form of Twitter life. The only thing I wasn’t allowed to do was tweet during working hours – lunch breaks and all other times though, I threw myself in head first. I’m not on it under my real identity and only two real-life friends follow me.

The first thing I did, with the help of a good friend, was start to follow some influential people. Yes, Barack Obama is on my list but he’s not the “influential” type I needed. So, a dead royal, gobby football manager and WAG later I was ready to tweet my socks off. A drunken reply (dweet) to aforementioned Football Manager was all it took to gain me (contained) Twitter fame (Twame?). This guy doesn’t follow anyone so his thousands of followers had to look at my profile to see the responses. As they were quite amusing (in context) some of them started following me. This is when I decided I’d be an “honest” me because, let’s face it, even on Facebook we’re slightly edited versions of ourselves for fear of upsetting friends or being judged. So as my conversation with Gobby Football Manager (I can’t name him for legal reasons) continued, a not-so Superhero started flirting and asked me if I wanted to be his sidekick. As the tweets between us persisted my friend text me calling me a “Twitter Hussy” – I embrace this title! I am also able to play up to certain aspects of my personality I have dulled over the years.

What really got people’s attention was Football Manager’s offer to take me on a tour of love in the North of the country on his Vespa. In the space of twenty minutes my following had increased considerably (to be fair, it wasn’t huge to start with). That’s when I stepped up my game and let free the flirt in me, becoming an adventuitter. This then got the attention of a non-celeb. He expressed a little jealousy toward my relationship with Football Manager so I gave him permission to woo (twoo) me too. And a young Royal lothario now has me amongst his twistresses (I’m now realising not all Twitter speak works – that’s “mistresses”). What is great for my Twitter ego is that these people followed me before I followed them – with the exception of a few – so they find my tweets interesting/amusing whereas my friends on Facebook would find them dull or only engage in those types of conversations by text or on the ’phone, a less public platform. The other day I expressed slight distress and frustration as the lodger had stolen my kettle water (uninteresting on Facebook but thrilling on Twitter apparently) and Dead Royal advised me to “piss in his mouth when he’s asleep”. Absolute brilliance! I haven’t come across any other social networking site where that would be a usual response!

I absolutely shat my knickers (Twitter hasn’t made me any more polite) when a cousin from my Dad’s side who lives in India that I’ve never met (breathe) found me on there. I’d stupidly kept the setting that allows people to find me by my email address. But what I love is that I was able to instantly block him. I then made sure I unchecked the box that had got me in to such a hairy situation. Apparently, I’m able to protect my tweets too so only people I give permission to can see them. Though I’m yet to work out if that will hinder my Twitter persona. My real personality and my online identity will remain anonymous to my Dad’s family – my reputation as the good little Hindu girl is safe – tweejoice!

As far as I can tell, there are only a couple of negatives. The first is that the servers are down a lot - A LOT – so sometimes it’s frustrating to not be able to tweet when I have a window to do so. Secondly, I follow a female journalist whose TV and written work I admire. But on Twitter she’s irritating and, well, unremarkable. I’ve changed my mind about her so am now considering unfollowing her and not reading her weekly column anymore. Shame, innit?

So now I’m back to blogging I questioned whether I’d jack in Twitter. I’ve decided I’ll continue because it’s satisfying a side of my personality that doesn’t usually get aired in public but mostly because it’s so much fun! I’ve got the freedom to say things that I wouldn’t say in real-life. Nobody has said anything negative towards me (well, unless I count being told I’d be subjected to the wrath of Football Manager if I sold stories of our affair to the papers). Nobody judges me. And I get the attention-whore side of me satisfied. My real-life, I am fully aware, is incredibly different. Perhaps that’s why I’m embracing my Twitter persona? At the moment I’m being courted by Football Manager, a Prince, a Superhero and a guy from up North and I’m friends with a dead Royal and a WAG. I love it!

Right, I’m off to get twooed as I’m having a romantic evening in with my Prince. x

Yeah, Think (Think, Think). Let Your Mind Go, Let Yourself Be Free.

It was Larkin who said, “They fuck you up, your parents do”. I disagree. My Grandmother gave her children a gift - their own mind.

Apparently, the reason I'm vocal is because I inherited this trait from my Grandmother. It's a trait that most of the females in the family have and its all thanks to my Bibiji. To be outspoken as a good Hindu girl is not seen as a positive thing but what Bibiji's biggest lesson to all the daughters taught us is that we can be dutiful, do the right things by the family but still have an opinion and express it freely. If we do it in this way we are listened to and, surprisingly, sometimes even respected.

Bibiji was born in a small village in the Punjab, North-West India in 1930, the second child of six, to a Brahmin farming family. She wasn't educated although this wasn't because she didn't want to learn to read and write but it wasn't the done thing in those days. She used to sneakily take lessons in Urdu from her Muslim friend who lived in the same alley as her. As they didn't have pen and paper, they used to use the the dirt of the alley as their canvas. This was stopped when Bibiji was caught practising her latest assignment by her father whose attitude was more or less, “You're never going to use what you're learning so why bother?”. Bibiji was married off at the age of sixteen to a man eight years her senior who she'd never even seen – my Papaji. After they were wed, my Grandparents stayed in the Punjab but moved to be close to Papaji's family in Ludhiana.

Papaji was the eldest of five and his three brothers were, erm, lively characters who relished teasing and irritating their sister-in-law. As the eldest son, Papaji had to provide for his family, the duty becoming even heavier when his father passed away. The younger boys saw this as a green light to do as they pleased as they knew their mother (and they) would always be provided for by their faithful, older brother.

It took Bibiji five years to conceive so, in all that time, she was ridiculed and labelled barren by strangers, friends and family – her brothers-in-law included. She managed to shut them up when she gave birth to her first child of six... a boy! When she was pregnant with their fifth child, Papaji decided to come to England to create a better life for his family. So there was Bibiji, pregnant and having to look after four children under the age of fourteen. Not an easy feat, even for a strong-willed woman like Bibiji. But she accepted it, partly out of duty but mostly because she knew that living in England would be the best thing for her family. Within eighteen months, Papaji had saved enough money to fly Bibiji and the children to the UK and have a roof over their heads in Kent.

Here was a woman in her mid-thirties in a new country where she didn't speak the language. After her sixth child was born, Bibiji went out to work in a packing factory where she stayed as one of the most respected members of staff for seventeen years. It was her employment that gave her the right to have more of a say in the house. Contrary to similar families at the time, Bibiji was an equal decision-maker in the relationship – Papaji being the more rash of the two, she would reason with him before a joint decision was made. Papaji's brothers were still asking for handouts (he was still sending money back to his mother in India) and he was willing to give in to them, compromise his quality of life and pander to their every whim. Bibiji was having none of it! She wanted to keep her earnings for her children. Trying to persuade her otherwise was a fruitless task. She wasn't willing to compromise the quality of her children's lives for her disrespectful brothers-in-law. She took one of them on once – Bibiji had smuggled a gun over to India (apparently, it was allowed in those days) for one of Papaji's brothers and because she refused to give him her passport as well, he pointed a loaded gun at her. Anyone else would have handed it over immediately. Not Bibiji. She called his bluff and was soon on a plane back to Blighty.

Another talent Bibiji had was to acknowledge all her children were very different personalities and she treated them all as individuals, even the girls! She was no soft touch, not when her offspring were still children. She was working long shifts at the factory, looking after six children and going through the menopause. She was tough. But had a fantastic relationship with all of them. If you asked each of the siblings who was the favourite of them, they'd all claim they were... what an achievement?!

Bibiji was still incredibly traditional. She'd married off her two eldest children but when it came to Mum's turn, she made her parents promise they'd let her younger sister go to university before fixing her up. My Aunt was the first in the family to go in to further education – a daughter of the family studying at a red brick establishment in London – they were all so proud! And, the best thing was that going on to university bought my Aunt some further independence as she was allowed to move in to halls (granted, she was married off a couple of years later but it gained her a little time!).

Two of Bibiji's daughters approached her saying they were unhappy in their marriages. My Aunt did struggle to make Papaji and her brothers see her side of things as their point of view was that a woman's place was in the home, that she should tolerate her husband's behaviour and should make it work whatever. It was thanks to Bibiji “wearing the trousers” in the house that my Aunt was allowed to divorce, her mother's concern for her happiness won out over the male, traditional attitudes. When it came to Mum leaving Dad it was slightly different as I was involved. Both Bibiji and Papaji begged Mum to stay for my sake as, in their eyes, a child needed both parents. When they realised that the physical and mental abuse had become too much to tolerate, they supported their child to the end acknowledging how unreasonable my Dad was. They upped-sticks and moved from Kent to London so Mum and I had the perfect support system. Every other female who went through what Mum did was told to put up and shut up by her parents as the shame of divorce in the family was to much to bear, girls being disowned for far less. Thanks to Bibiji, my quality of life was improved – Papaji would have preferred for us to stay with Dad (more pride than anything else) but Bibiji, like a stealth fighter, guaranteed her daughter's and granddaughter's independence. All this was accepted of the girls because they'd never let the family down. They'd always done the right thing. They'd earned their parents' support.

My Aunts and Mum have bigger balls than their brothers. The boys hid behind tradition, using whichever cultural custom was the best defence for whatever actions they'd carried out. The girls respected the culture, were dutiful as good Hindu girls and acknowledged there were boundaries they could break as far as the expectations placed on them were concerned.

Two daughters... One who broke the education barriers, entered in to a career in The Arts, divorced and then married a white man (ooh, I say!). She was, still is, a second mother to me. The one who, when I was eleven, influenced me to forge my career in the Media. And she was so fiercely independent, my Dad labelled her a lesbian (that's the only criteria, apparently!). The other daughter who raised a child alone after divorcing her abusive husband despite everyone's protestations, allows her daughter to do exactly as she pleases so she is not restricted in life by her cultural confines but has been taught to respect her heritage. These two women are remarkable and inspiring. My generation of females in the family are pathetic in comparison, we've never had to break any boundaries as it was all made easy for us (although my Aunt once asked me to marry a Chinese boy, just so we'd be a more diverse family as that's the only ethnicity we haven't yet had marry in to our family. That's the only “boundary” left). They ensured we didn't need to face the hardships they did – every generation does that for the next, don't they? However, they didn't just need to protect us from the usual stuff, they also taught us how to play the cultural game and use it to our advantage.

My Bibiji was formidable, well ahead of her time. She passed away almost nineteen years ago and that void has never been filled. They're big shoes to fill and nobody wants to even try, years later. I never saw the angry, tough side of her. By the time I was born she'd softened as she didn't work anymore (and I was her favourite grandchild). I spent weeks with her when I was a child in my summer holidays, visiting her friends with her so she could show me off to them. She taught me about the Hindu Gods, telling me stories of how they came about. Plaited my hair every day I was with her.

“They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.”

It was thanks to her that I'm bilingual, as she didn't speak English I had to learn Punjabi, making learning other languages easier through school. It was thanks to her that my life has been easy and I'm allowed to live the life of a Western girl. It is thanks to her that I'm the person I am, realising that acknowledging the good in people is more important than criticising the bad. It's thanks to her that I have my own mind and am permitted to express my opinions. And I'm grateful for these flaws I've inherited. x

No, It Didn't Work Out. An Arranged Marriage Is Not So Good.

"We've been told about a boy. He's from a good family." Shit! I didn't think I'd get this hassle today of all days. I'm in the sunny Midlands with my Dad's family, attending a religious housewarming ceremony at my cousin's place. The attention was not supposed to be on me. My cousin and his wife have invited the whole family to their new pad and whilst we're waiting for the pandit (priest) to arrive I feel like I'm in front of a firing squad as my Dad, his three brothers and their wives are giving me my latest lecture on getting married. I can feel the blood rising in my cheeks from the frustration of having to listen whilst biting my tongue, luckily the family put it down to embarrassment as it's a "delicate" matter for an equally as “delicate” girl.

Marriage - the way it works is that you meet somebody, fall in love and get wed, right? In my culture, arranged marriages come in to play so the whole falling in love part gets cut out, quite a crucial stage omitted in the process, I feel. It seems to be deemed, by the Western world, as an out-dated and old-fashioned tradition that has a negative effect on the good Hindu children, especially the females.

Back in the day (my Grandparents' day) it's true that the couple may never have seen each other, let alone met. This seems absurd to us modern folk, eh? Imagine turning up on your wedding day to discover that the person you're legally obliged to spend the rest of your life with is a proper munter?! There was no divorce in those days (still isn't in some of the villages in India) and I don't think "he/she is fugly" is enough of a reason to bring proceedings these days. In my Parents' time it had advanced quite a little and they'd met each other, albeit only a handful of times (ooh, how cutting edge?).

Now, the theory behind arranged marriages is not for the controlling Fathers of the family to set their kids up with the people they deem suitable as some, myself included, would have you believe. (Although some of the Fathers do forget this, including mine.) The purpose behind this custom is that its your family that know you best - They love you unconditionally and have your best interests at heart so they want to ensure the person you spend the rest of your life with is completely suitable. Your family is the unit you turn to during the worst times, the perfect support system, so why shouldn't they fix you up with the person they believe ticks all the boxes and should keep you happy forever more (and has a perfect gene pool to provide grandchildren)?

Over the years the process of arranged marriages has evolved massively to become what it is these days. It has several stages and preparation starts at a young age. The grooming of each gender is different as the expectations on and of boys and girls in the marriage are not the same. When I was in my early teens my Dad told me that I needed to learn to cook, not the dishes Mum had been teaching me for when I moved out to university but good, decent Indian dishes - daals, sabjees and chappatis. (As an act of rebellion I didn't become expert in these until later and enjoyed learning the Western cuisine Mum taught.)

A year or so later, when I started to "ripen", the lectures on family honour started. The "a girl's reputation is all she has in life" line is one of my favourites as it suggests that if a daughter is seen with a member of the opposite sex (not necessarily in a compromising position) not known to the family, she is an embarrassment and the family name is ruined. She has brought shame on the family by this one act, her past behaviour, education and, perhaps most essential, establishing who this guy is are not important. She can be spotted by someone of the family or a family friend (some of whom just love to shit-stir) who will promptly call the parents (and a few friends for gossiping purposes) to rat the girl out. I tell you, every good little Hindu girl should be employed by MI5 - we learn to sneak about unnoticed so we can inconspicuously lose our "honour", avoidance techniques being imperative.

So, fully adult and education finished, the real fun begins. The parents and extended family put word out that they have a daughter who is ripe for the picking and needs to be, erm, picked. And, from nowhere, like some secret underground organisation, family friends that I've never even met are involved in the match-making procedure. They've all done it a thousand times before and relish this stage as it makes them feel important. Whichever family friend sets the couple up gets props forever and extra ladoos at the wedding. Once the community is made aware of the need to keep their ears to the ground for a suitor, the feelers are put out and everyone thinks themselves a rival to Cilla Black as the race is on. Any family that has an unmarried child is told about the new addition to the wedding market. This introduction stage is crucial and there are some fine details that need to be established before the two families are even allowed to meet each other. Factors that must be taken in to consideration include the boy and girl not knowing each other - a passing glimpse at a wedding/party is fine but that's about all the previous contact that's permitted. As parents' friends are treated as siblings to our folks (hence the "Uncleji" and "Auntyji" tags we give them out of respect), the suitor's parents cannot have been bestowed these affectionate names - that's seen as incestuous and therefore wrong. Also, the families cannot come from the same village in India. This is also deemed incestuous as the parents may have met and played together as children, thus bringing about the sibling relationship again.

Once established by Auntyji that the two families have no links whatsoever, she'll let both sides know about the existence of the other. This is when the "he's from a good family" line most gets used. This phrase has my cousins and me in hysterics, mainly because we're not quite sure what it means. We don't know what the definition of a "good" family is as none of us have received our Hindu Marriage Dictionary but we think it means that nothing too major has has harmed the family's name. We have now adapted that phrase so that when one of us uses it, the others know that what we're really trying to say is that a person of the opposite sex is a hottie. (My Aunt, cousins and I were watching tv when Russell Brand came on screen. “He's from a good family”, I told my Aunt whilst my cousins laughed and she bought my description of him, not realising that his well documented past is everything that goes against the Elders' definition.) So, after this is verified, the caste issue is raised. A girl can marry up in caste as once she's married she takes on her husband's name and any children borne of her will be the same caste as the daddy. Boys' families are usually accepting of lower caste girls, as long as they're from "good” families. Girls rarely marry down in caste, they're fathers don't allow it as it would ruin the family name.

Should this part of the process fail for any reason, there are several buffers. One of these "Plan B" options is the wedding websites... yes, they exist, shaadi.com (the matrimonial equivalent of match.com) being a favourite. Have a look, its hilarious. One of my cousins still has his profile on there even though he's been married for five years so he can "see the sad cases that still need fixing up".

The families then meet, usually the boy's family come round to the girl's parent's house to "inspect" them and taste the girl's cooking as a feast is laid on, both sides eager to impress. This can happen with several different boys' families as one side may fail the "inspection", usually for valid reasons but sometimes stupid ones - his dad's tie was funny, her mum walks with a limp, her brother was perving on me and her saag paneer was too salty. The girl's side can sometimes entertain a few families a week. Its intense! If the meeting is successful, the girl and boy exchange numbers so they can text and meet up a couple more times (maybe even unchaperoned!) and then decided if they want to get married. The decision has to be made within a few weeks otherwise the gossip-mill starts, "They met up for two months, you know?! Tut tut". If they do want to go ahead, within weeks a pandit is consulted to ensure that the birth charts are compatible, the engagement takes place and a wedding date is set to within a year of the date they met. It all happens rather quickly which is why the good Hindu boys and girls of the world must be completely sure when they respond positively to the "When are you getting married?" probing. The pressure doesn't ease after the wedding as then the "When are you having children?" demands begin. It's tough being a good Hindu girl, you know?
Don't misunderstand me, I have not responded positively to the marriage pressure, in fact I haven't responded at all but Dad's family are convinced that the incessant badgering will wear me down and eventually I'll give in to their demands, stop the family's name being further tainted (“There's a daughter in that family who's 29 and unmarried. The shame!”) and announce I'm ready to be introduced to a good Brahmin boy who works as a lawyer/accountant/doctor/dentist/in IT. More fool them.

Thankfully, the pandit arrives at my cousin's house, the grown ups being alerted to his presence by his phone ringing - his ring tone is the Hindu equivalent of Ave Maria – and my cousins snigger at the relief on my face as the attention is diverted from me, finally. When I get home Mum asks me how my day was as she knows how awkward spending time with Dad's family is for me. "It was ok. I got the usual questions and lectures."
"How did you respond?"
"I just sat there, pretending to listen whilst I had the song I woke up to on a loop in my head."
"That's my girl." x

I'm Always Happy And Free. Oh, Queen Bee, Land By Me.

The common misconception when it comes to a queen bee is that she rules the colony and all the worker bees answer to her whilst pandering to her every need. She doesn't and they don't. A queen bee's primary purpose is to lay eggs so new workers hatch and keep the hive buzzing (boom boom!). As we're aware, the term "Queen Bee" has been adopted for use in social situations to describe the dominant female in a group of people. I am a Queen Bee. Its not an intentional thing, I didn't suddenly decide that I wanted to hold court and be centre of attention, its just something that happened and has been the case ever since I can remember.

Just like in the hymenopteran world, no two Queen Bees can exist in the same social circle. Not in their truest form, anyway. In hives, it leads to death, usually carried out by loyal worker bees when an unwanted new queen bee infiltrates the apiary. In the human world one has to tone down her dominant nature a little. Either that or social suicide is committed. I was in a situation some years ago that required some Queen Bee etiquette. It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. I had a friend who was also a Queen Bee. When as a pair or with our female friends the dynamic worked very well. We both had very different personalities and specific areas of expertise so never clashed. We both had male friends that used to come in and out of our social lives and, depending on who knew the lads better, the other would temporarily relinquish her Queen Bee crown for the evening/weekend and become a lowly princess. A couple of new boys were introduced into a social group that Friend and I were part of. Interesting - fresh blood! At first we all hung out together. The Fresh Blood Boys fitted into our lives perfectly; their humour, outlook and personalities worked with ours. For a while it was really fun. Then it got competitive. Now, I'm not the kind of person that competes with my friends as I don't see the point. There are plenty of other people in the world that its necessary to grapple with through life so I don't go up against my friends (unless its Singstar), its a waste of energy. Not to mention the negativity it brings about. So please bear in mind that it wasn't me that engineered the popularity contest. It started when The Fresh Blood Boys invited me out for a pint but the invite wasn't extended to Friend. This allowed me to, most definitely, wear my shiny crown. Friend got a little narked that I'd been chosen as playmate that night (in a non Hugh Hefner way, I hasten to add!) so she started instigating outings with the boys that excluded me. The boys would invite me out regularly when she was, as well they knew, otherwise engaged. It became a rare occasion that the two Queen Bees and the Fresh Blood Boys were in the same room... until a party a couple of months later. To cut a long story short, Friend decided to display her sting and got off with one of the boys as she thought it would oust me from the throne once and for all. How wrong she was. Instead it had the opposite effect. The Fresh Blood Boys stopped talking to her. I won. Ner-ner-ner-ner-ner. I know this reaction is immature but let that be a lesson to you; do not put yourself up against me. Not because I'm a fierce competitor but because I will quite happily sit back, let you do all the work and allow you to make a fool of yourself, my worker bees protecting my reputation (I work hard on friendships), resulting in your social death. There, I've exposed the sting in my tail - Oops!

My winged kind emit pheromones when in the hive to let the worker bees know she's still around and everything still in place, making them feel safe. I can draw some similarities here too as I have a signature perfume that some boys go crazy for - so much so that it earned me a stalker (the second stalker of my life so far). He smelled me in passing one day. And then followed me around for a year. I didn't enjoy this experience. This was not me in full Queen Bee mode, I was terrified. Well, that's a bit strong as he was never a threat to my life but the constant unwanted attention was unnerving rather than flattering. Along the same vein, one of my ex-boyfriends reckons the first thing that attracted him to me was my smell. I don't find this very complimentary as, in those days, I had many positive attributes that I'd have put above my scent.

Last weekend saw me basking in my typical Queen Bee fashion, surrounded by worker bees. My boys. I was visited by two male friends from Bristol and one from South-West London. Calling them worker bees makes it sound like they're my minions, they're not. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The worker bees in hives are the ones that do the hard graft and keep it all ticking along perfectly. These boys are my support system. They allow me to be me, are accepting of my behaviour (whether good or bad) without judging and are exceptionally loyal. I have a tremendous amount of affection for my boys. I don't always know how to show them though.

Friday night was dedicated to an overdue catch up as us Londoners hadn't seen the West Country boys for some months. It was an almost civilised evening made slightly wonky by the amount of alcohol consumed. The boys were boys but soon listened to the only girl when they were instructed not to burp gratuitously or to pass wind, at all, indoors (they were in my palace!). That's what the balcony was to be used for, that and smoking. So the evening was spent relaxing, drinking and shooting the breeze. It was absolutely wonderful. And it was also great to look on and watch the boys totally at ease in my hive. They were relaxed enough to spread out, put their feet on the furniture and treat the place like home. The only disagreements of the evening happened when it came to music. You see, all three boys are very knowledgeable when it comes to this subject. I'd warned them to bring their iPods as I knew my playlists would not satisfy their aural appetites, though I was surprised when I'd text them earlier in the day, jokingly threatening to play Take That during the evening and one of the boys replied, "I love Take That. Except for The Circus, that's shit..." (I still have the message to use for blackmailing purposes at some point in the future, if necessary). This is where I can draw another comparison between the lives of honey bees and mine - the queen bee has a smaller brain than the worker bees. When it comes to the musical mind, mine is, without doubt, humble next to each one of theirs. The boys didn't argue over the quality of what was being played from each others' pods as they have similar music tastes but they battled over who would play the next song, it was pretty amusing to watch. It wasn't a contest of alpha male egos, goodness no, but rather an "I've discovered the next big thing" type affair. It only endeared them to me even more, if that was possible. Then I fed them cakes I'd baked, made sure they had water next to their beds, clean sheets and towels before verbally tucking them all in and singing them lullabies. (Ok, the last bit's a fib.)

Halfway through the evening, one of the boys remembered he had to take a photo for his 365 project so we all worked our way into the shot. I'm so thrilled a moment from the evening was captured. I want this picture framed. Its beautiful. I'll love it forever. We look like we fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw.

The next evening we were invited to a female friend's birthday in a super trendy London club. I happily allowed her to wear the crown that night (well, it was her party) as I wasn't feeling my best (no, not hangover) and as he sensed this, one of the boys didn't leave my side all night. And another kept me in soft drinks for the whole evening and stroked by ego by using lines such as, "Present company included, all the girls in here are really pretty.". See, I told you, loyal 'til the end. The journey home saw us in hysterics as a wannabe male model fell asleep on the night bus and then, when the bus hit a curb, flew out of his seat and landed face down in the aisle, unable to get up and regain composure without the help of a stranger. This was karma at it's finest as he'd been mean to a homeless lady on the bus around twenty minutes before. And he was wearing black jeans and a blue denim shirt. And this shirt had pockets on both breasts. And it fastened with poppers which he'd undone down to his tummy-button. He deserved his fall from grace. We were right to laugh. A lot.

My true Queen Bee behaviour is only on full display when in the company of males. (Please don't confuse it with the actions of a Cougar, the intention is not to get jiggy with them. And they're older than me.) My boys are honest in a different way to my female friends. There's no over-analysing situations or dissecting what "he" may have said on the last date. They tell it how it is. They physically look after me (again, not sexually) as well as emotionally.

Just like a queen bee, my world would not function as it should without these boys. I can't, and don't want to, imagine my life without them in it. I'm as loyal to them as they are to me and I know they'd follow me if I decided to lead a swarm. I just hope they never hug me so tight that it turns into cuddle death! x