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

Don't Be Mad At Me Because You're Pushing 30/Go, Shorty, It's You're Birthday (remix)

Midnight. Saturday 13th March. I'm sat on the last train from Waterloo to Brentford. This isn't how it was supposed to be but as the train pulls in to Putney the guy sat opposite me strikes up a conversation (prompted by the idiotic comments of a fellow passenger). It turns out this guy grew up in Bristol and supports Arsenal so conversation flows pretty freely for the remainder of my twenty minute journey. As I stand up to make my way off the train, this guy gets up from his seat, kisses me on the cheek and wishes me a very happy birthday. We haven't exchanged names but he is the first to wish me well, in person, on my actual day - it may seem trivial but that gesture will stay with me for a long time.

Friday evening was dedicated to pre-birthday drinks with work folk. It started with birthday cake and wine in the kitchen in the office and then we made our way to a local bar for cocktails. I was supposed to leave at 9pm so I could be home at a reasonable hour and wake fresh-faced on my birthday but the generosity and company of my colleagues made this impossible. One workmate even commented on how the attendance figures for my drinks were higher than some of the previous work socials. After far too many Pineapple Caramel Mojitos, my train journey and a zigzagged walk home from the station, I tucked myself into bed with a smile on my face.

I woke up expecting a lightning bolt on my 29th birthday. I wanted the excitement that birthdays brought when I was a child. My mobile informed me I had received several birthday text messages and a few family members had already tried calling in the annual competition known as "Who Can Talk To The Birthday Girl First?". I opened my bedroom door to find a pile of cards that had arrived in the morning post - this all raised a huge smile and an internal warmth but no lightning bolt.

As I walked into the living room I was greeted by Mum who stood looking proud on her only child's special day. Unconditional love is a wonderful feeling whenever it's experienced but to be the recipient of my Mother's love on my birthday was even more special - but it didn't bring that lightning bolt.

After opening more cards, most of them containing money for my big adventure, I was presented with two bunches of roses (as it was now a month after Valentine's Day and they weren't red, I was exceptionally grateful!). Then followed more calls and messages from family, friends and other loved ones. At midday, family friends arrived, armed with a bunch of beautiful sunflowers and cards with more money inside for my adventure. We had a boozy, bubbly lunch at a cute restaurant on Kew Green. I was born at 13:13 so when the clock struck that time, with charged glasses, the three other people at the table raised a toast to me. I had been on the Earth for twenty-nine whole years. No lightning bolt.

Late afternoon. My Aunt and Uncle arrived with their two daughters. More roses and money for my adventure (I think everyone wants to get rid of me!) as well as being showered with kisses and cuddles by my two favourite girls. And they presented me with homemade birthday cards, both secretly competing for top spot in a tournament they created amongst themselves called "Favourite Birthday Card This Year". They were joint winners. After way too much champagne and cake, I began getting ready for my nighttime celebration feeling extremely grateful that my family and friends were as good me as they were (and always are, in fact).

Whilst prancing about my bedroom to Regina Spektor and attempting to do my make-up (though drinking several glasses of champagne and then applying black eyeliner will never be a process I wish repeat), my phone beeped to let me know I had another facebook wall post , this time from a dear friend. He'd put a link on my wall and as I clicked on it I was excited to see what it lead to. This friend is doing a 365 photography project and that day's capture was dedicated to me. This touching gesture, as well as the day's events thus far, brought a tear of happiness (encouraged by the champagne!) as I felt an overwhelming sense of specialness. But still no lightning bolt.

The call from my Dad came at 7pm. The call I'd expected all day as a parent should definitely want to be one of the first to wish their child well on their birthday, shouldn't they? Not being a parent myself, I don't know this for sure. The two minute conversation that followed whilst I was sat on the Central Line was strained, Dad pissed off because I'd chosen to spend the day with Mum and her family and been made to feel a princess rather than sit in his living room and listen to him lecture me on whatever aspect of my life was stupidly bothering him that day whilst Brat Child was centre of attention. Before he was able to launch into his monologue about how I'd failed him, I pretended the tube was entering a tunnel so I hung up. I wasn't going to let him get to me on my day. It was quite a liberating feeling, really! There was definitely no lightning bolt after that conversation.

So, at 7.30pm, I found myself tottering out of Notting Hill Gate tube station in my three-and-a-half inch Marc Jacobs heels, determined I must get my money's worth out of them having owned them over a year and only worn them once, despite knowing I'd consumed far too much alcohol already to stay upright in them for much longer. I made my way into the secret garden of a charming pub on Portobello Road and was greeted with a warm embrace and huge smile by my good friend. I was also presented with my first unwrappable (yes, a plastic bag counts as wrapping!) gift of the day. After more alcohol we made our way up Portobello Road to the Electric Cinema. Halfway there, after almost falling over, I decided I needed to swap my footwear and had packed a pair of flats in my handbag especially. If my friend was embarrassed by my shoe antics in the middle of the street, he did a very good job of hiding it. Though I can imagine that the thought of having to scoop me up from the ground might have been a more embarrassing prospect for him if I had have landed on my bottom whilst wearing the coveted shoes so he was probably grateful I'd opted to change into sensible foot attire, returning me to my usual not-quite-five-foot height.

The two tickets for the Electric Cinema's 3D screening of Alice In Wonderland were a birthday present from my Aunt, booked weeks before as she knew about my (almost unhealthy) obsession with all films Burton. Neither my friend nor I had been to that cinema before. What a night to lose my Electric virginity, my 29th birthday! Goodness me, did I feel spoiled. And decadent. As I took my seat in a huge leather armchair where my feet didn't reach the ground, with a large glass of pinot noir in hand, I felt incredibly special. The film was excellent, the venue amazing and the company perfect so despite the magical evening there was still no lightning bolt, dammit!

Three minutes to midnight. Saturday 13th March. As I got to the the Westbound Central Line platform at Notting Hill Gate, I put my earphones in and whacked my iPod on to shuffle mode. Even the pod must have known it was a special occasion as the first song it played was my favourite Jeff Buckley number, "Lover You Should Have Come Over". Still no lightning bolt though. At midnight, as the train came down the platform towards me, the driver smiled as he caught my eye. I sat down in an almost empty carriage and that's when it came... no, not the lightning bolt but the realisation. Just as Jeff sang, "...sometimes a man must awake to find, really, he has no one..." it dawned on me that over the past 24 hours I'd had a continual feeling of warm fuzziness. If the lightning bolt had have come at any time during my birthday, that point would have been the climax and everything that followed it would have been anti-climactic as lightning never strikes twice. For 24 hours I'd had a current of electricity flowing through my body, though instead of the negative electrons that make electricity, I'd had positivity coursing through my veins that had surged at various points during the day. Every text message, every facebook wall post, every call, every card, the money towards my adventure, the flowers, the gifts, the 365 project day dedication and a friend setting his Saturday night aside for me - all causing positive charges within me. Even hanging up on my Dad had resulted in an efficacious internal rush!

At no point during the day had I felt neglected or unloved. My friends and family had, without any shadow of a doubt, made me feel special. I realise I'm fortunate to have such incredible people in my life. The Indians say whatever happens on your birthday happens all year round - the next 364 days will see me beaming like the Cheshire Cat I saw on the big screen that night. And the next year will be my Wonderland. x

Baby, Everything Is Alright. Uptight...

Indian female. Long, dark hair. Big, brown eyes. Short. Honey-coloured skin. GSOH. Killer smile. Good cook. (All sound good so far?) Highly-strung. Ah, not sounding so perfect now, am I? There is absolutely no way that trait can ever be seen as a positive quality. And my darling friend, Matt, used to say, "You're not highly-strung or high maintenance. You have class and standards". I fooled myself in the past in thinking it meant I had a different set of standards to other people. These paradigms are expectations I place on myself but sometimes transfer on to others. I'm not quite sure what has made me like this so it mystifies me as much as it does the next person.

I grew up in a Westernised Hindu family in which young, unmarried females are revered; once on a day when Mothers fast for our future good health and also on a day when we are praised and rewarded for being virginal princesses. Both religious days stop being celebrated when a girl reaches her early-twenties and becomes... marriage material. There's also a day every year when the relationship between brothers and sisters is consecrated - sisters tying decorative string around their brothers' wrists, gaining male protection (and presents) for life. Accompanying these celebrations is that I was born a Brahmin, the top-most caste in an archaic, egregious system. Every Hindu and Sikh that exists knows I'm a Brahmin, my surname screams it at you - it actually means "virginal princess" (cut the sniggering at the back, please). So I am a descendant of royalty. And then there's the fact that I grew up as an only child. I was never spoiled materialistically but was, most definitely, the apple of both my parents' eyes. Well, there was nobody to compete with for prime position, was there? Add to all this that I was special on Mum's side of the family as I was the youngest grandchild (for ten years) and on Dad's side as I was the only girl (for thirteen years) and you have yourself a precious madam. So that was my childhood.

I grew up quite quickly. When my parents divorced, my Mum made sure I never felt neglected so took me along whenever she was seeing friends. I went from being a seven year old to being a teenager in the space of a year. By the age of nine, I'd rather have had a conversation with an adult than another child. On first meeting me when I was eight, one of Mum's closest friends stooped down to my height and asked, "What do you want to do when you grow up?". I replied that I wished not to be patronising like her and then continued combing my dolly's hair. It sounds far more precocious than it actually was.

I was brought up believing the world was my oyster. I was never allowed to think that anything I wanted in life was unachievable - my Mum made my motto "When you play, play hard. When you work, don't play at all" (well, it worked for Teddy Roosevelt) and I still live by that now. I give everything 100% whether it be work, love or fucking up - I do all three very spectacularly. Don't misunderstand me, I've never thought myself remarkable though, quite the opposite in fact!

So what are the things that most set me on edge? Firstly, bad timekeeping. I cannot stand when people are late (and it's their fault. I'm forgiving of public transport issues etc). And I find it totally pointless for them to text ten minutes after the meeting time informing me they're running late. I know! I was on time and have been stood in the cold and/or wet waiting for you for those ten minutes! Surely you knew ten minutes before we were supposed to meet that you were running late, why couldn't you let me know then? However, this is a prime example of me transferring my standards on to others. You see, I hate being late. It completely knocks me off kilter and makes me feel like I have to play catch up all day and make up for lost time. So, foolishly, I believe others would feel the same. Apparently they don't. Of which I am envious.

Equally as irritating to me is when people bail on plans with me because something better has come along or when they don't commit 'til the last minute in case something (or someone) better comes along. Though the reason this upsets me is because I'm really looking forward to seeing them and I'd hate to do that to someone else - let them down.

And, I think, here's the real reason I'm highly-strung... I don't want to let anyone down. My friends mean the world to me. The people I choose to spend time with make me feel privileged that they have time to spend with me. I think this comes from being an only child - as the saying goes, "your friends are the family you choose for yourself". As far as friends go, if someone texts me I will reply as soon as I've read it. I always reply - not to have the last word as some may think! - because I'm grateful that someone has taken the time to get in touch as they've thought of me. It's not meant to be an intense gesture although I'm aware it comes across like that sometimes. Also, I get so caught up in things that if I don't respond as soon as I see it then I'll forget. I expect the same back from people. Not necessarily an immediate reply but a response of sorts. Getting in touch with my friends is how I let them know I've thought of them and how I can say I care. It makes me smile inside when I hear from somebody I care about as it means they've thought of me and let me know. Ok, I admit that might be slightly princess behaviour!

According to Mum, I was most definitely more prickly in my late-teens and early-twenties. The pressures of studies and letting my family down resulted in sarcasm and humour becoming my defense mechanisms - classic only-child-from-broken-home symptoms, no?

Over the past few years I've learned some lessons in life, the biggest one being that my strive for perfection - by this, I mean for me to be perfect - is fruitless. There will always be something about myself or my life that displeases me. But I've learned that that's ok. There's a difference between the strive for perfection and ambition.

I've also been taught (the hard way) that some things are out of my control and no matter how much I try, I won't get full control of them. Recently I was in a situation where the other person was more laid back than me. Far more. No matter how hard I pushed for contact or answers, I'd only get them when the other person was ready to give them. And instead of getting het-up by it all, as I once would have, I started to relax a little. I let go. And what I realised was, with letting go comes less anxiety and, sometimes, even composure!

I'm still learning. I still get wound up by silly little things (which infuriates me even more) but that is me and it will most likely always be present in me. A little. And that's ok too.

I'd like to think that most people that know me are accepting of my flaws and love me for my imperfections. I hope the good in me far outweighs my uptight-ness (I really bloody hope it does!). For those reading this who haven't noticed I'm slightly highly-strung (you can't have known me that long!), I hope this is because I'm close to losing that trait. I hope my efforts to be more laid back are paying off and, dare I say it, I'm closer than ever, not to perfection but to contentment. x

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

Over the weekend I had a baffling yet insightful conversation with two male friends that involved the workings of the boy brain. I'm not quite sure how the topic came up (at this point I was more concerned with keeping a promise to myself that involved drowning in gin) but I think it was when a scantily-clad female walked past our table in the bar. Mr X turned to Mr Y and said, "She probably wouldn't, y'know?". After establishing that Mr X didn't mean that she probably wouldn't get "it" (even after eight pints), they both elaborated on his observation. For the next fifty or so minutes, I was sat their dumbstruck (whilst drinking gin), making me realise that men are as complicated as women, despite their protestations.

Both Mr X and Mr Y have more or less the same theory on the fairer sex, albeit one puts it a lot kinder than the other.

Mr Y, the gentler soul, says there are two types of women in the world; those boys wish to marry and those they wish to sleep with (he may be a gentle soul but that wasn't the term he used). Apparently, if a boy meets one of the marrying types in his teens, she ends up being his friend - one of his best friends, in fact. She's the one he'll allow to see him (secretly) cry when he's been shat on from great heights by a girl, the one whose opinion he seeks when he goes shopping and the one he can, for the rest of time, share a bed with in a purely platonic sense. This is the girl he will never marry but wants the future Mrs Y to be like. What he doesn't realise is that the future Mrs Y will be incredibly jealous of this friend and either make her disdain known to all but her fella or try so hard to be best friends with the friend that she'll look desperate and neurotic to all but Mr Y.

This female best friend is also the girl that Mr Y's Mum wants him to marry - she has since the day she first met her. Mummy Y used to strategically question her son - "How's uni? Are you eating properly? Have you got a girlfriend yet? How's (insert my name)?". Had he have met this friend ten or so years later they would be married and live happily ever after but now that attraction ship has well and truly sailed and they've both seen each other in such states that no romance could ever be imagined.

Then, according to Mr Y, there are the girls that are only good to sleep with. "You never want your mum to meet her and only intend for her to fulfill your physical needs. Never your emotional ones". These girls come in and out of their lives (pardon the pun) until they meet a marrying type. That's the long and short of it. The gospel according to Mr Y.

Mr X, the more blunt of the two, says that there are the frigids and the sluts. Now, I don't think I need to explain what those terms mean but these are the sub-divisions in each type of girl Mr Y mentioned. Both types of girl act exactly the same in each category but how the boys react to their "outlook" differs hugely. Let's start with the sluts - always a good place, I think. A slut in the "only good to sleep with" classification gives the boy a good time for a night. One night only. She will never hear from the boy after that night. A frigid in the same division means the boy gets ridiculed by his mates when they ask how his night went - "Yeah, she stayed over but wouldn't put out". Cue much mocking from his mates and such ego-denting comments as, "Lost your touch have you, Romeo?!". Mr X proceeded to tell me how he has no respect for either type of girl. The slut put out too soon and the frigid ruined his street-cred. Even more confusing for me was when Mr X said that although he may do everything he can to persuade a girl to put out on night one, he loses all respect for her when she does. (My response was, "Because boys are the only ones that get carried away and have needs?" That's not justification enough, apparently.) Seemingly, there's no middle ground either. If we fall into this category and put out on the first night, we're sluts. If we don't, we're frigid.

By this point of the conversation my head hurt, a lot, and it wasn't anything to do with the gin. Mr X continued that the marrying type of slut doesn't necessarily put out on the first night, although she wants to, she holds back because she "kinda likes" the guy. The marrying type of frigid holds back because she's a good girl and "kinda likes" the guy. In both cases, the guy is accepting of her bedroom behaviour because he "kinda likes" the girl and plans to see her again. She will get the 'phone call in the next few days (three days if the boy "rules" are adhered to).

This part made a little sense to me. I have another male friend who is one big walking man-slut. The boy emanates testosterone at ridiculous volumes, so much so that women flock to him from miles whether either party is attached or not. (Before you wonder, it wasn't his testosterone that brought us to be friends, more the introduction to each other by several mutual friends. We've only ever been friends and that's fine with us both!) Anyway, Mr Walking Man-Slut recently met a girl on a night out. After two weeks I asked him how his latest adventure was shaping up for him. The reply, "I can categorically state that we have not slept together yet" had me floored! After picking myself up from the ground in shock and me enquiring after his health, he told me it was because he "kinda likes" her. I'm not passing judgement on whether she's a frigid or a slut at all, I haven't met the girl and it would be unfair to retrospectively apply someone else's theory. I think he's finally grown up but he didn't respond too well to this suggestion.

So all this made me wonder whether boys have us labelled from the off. The girl that started the conversation, Mr X informed me, was a sleeping with frigid type. He could just tell. The way she carried herself, the way she dressed etc, all these gave her away. It's this first impression that governs whether the boy will be in touch with the girl after the initial night together. And do us girls have no choice about whether we should or shouldn't put out on that first night, according to which box we tick in the boys' minds? What if, actually, you're a marrying frigid type but you decide it feels right that night so go all the way... If he has you down in the wrong sub-division you'll never hear from him again? Aren't we able to just do as we feel without being compartmentalised and judged and have it shape our future? Do we ever change category or are we born into it like the Hindu caste system? You can see why this conversation had me bemused - it just didn't, still doesn't, make sense! I know plenty of boys that have been with the sleeping with sluts and frigids types for years - some have even married them. And I have female friends that I have down as marrying types that haven't heard from certain guys ever again because they did or didn't put out.

So what are we supposed to do... to put out or not to put out? That is the question. Either way, we risk never hearing from the boy ever again.

See, I told you it was all confusing. And it wasn't just the booze making it baffling. The boys then tried to tell me what category I fitted in to in Mr X's grand theory of the fairer sex. This is where things got hazy and I started listening to Monsieurs G and T as they made more sense. x

And Then I Go And Spoil It All By Saying Something Stupid...

Curiosity killed the cat. Apparently. In my case it killed two relationships; one a few years ago that was definitely established that lasted years and one very recently that was budding (so I thought). Just how did my thirst for knowledge get the better of me? I asked a question - "Is everything ok?". Those that know me know I have a big mouth that can (and does) get me into trouble very occasionally because of my hastiness in opening it so at those times I should, without any doubt, keep it shut. But should I learn to keep schtum when I sense a problem?

Up until a few days ago I was hanging out with a boy who I get on amazingly with. The first time we met was a good while ago but we were reacquainted quite recently and hit it off. We started hanging out more, just the two of us, learning about each other, getting on wonderfully and having fun. There was the physical side too which we both enjoyed (I hope!) but, I think, the main attractions were the connection and how at ease we were in one another's company. Last weekend I invited him over for dinner (yes, my Mum was away) and had butterflies in my tummy before he arrived. I was also anxious that I'd misread all previous signals (and physical contact) and that we were just friends but my concerns were swept aside as soon as he arrived (so I thought). When he left the following afternoon I realised, for the first time in ages, I'd let my guard down and was completely relaxed with him, willingly letting myself become vulnerable - a positive sign. I even told a couple of my closest friends that I had a twinkle in my eye. A few days later I sent him a message making him an offer he couldn't refuse (so I thought). How wrong was I?! I received a rather cold response. This confused me massively as the previous few weeks had seen, erm, warm responses. And the weekend's encounter had left me feeling a little fuzzy inside. That's when I opened my big mouth and asked that fatal question via email as I'd spent way too long agonising over whether I should so it was too late to call, questioning my speedy reaction.

The following evening brought the 'phone call from him and I got the heave-ho. And though it was the softest, most sugar-coated, feather-lined drop I've ever experienced, it was rejection nevertheless. It seems I had misread the situation and the previous weeks' encounters. Rejection is my biggest fear. I've only ever experienced it twice - the first was the most devastating thing I've ever been through, a huge thud as my world crashed down around me and then having what felt like breeze blocks dropped on my heart. This was something that took me years to get over and instilled the fear of the r word in me forever more.

With rejection comes self-doubt (which brings insomnia as a companion). This isn't the greatest experience, it never is when your confidence takes a knock, is it? You see, I've never been rejected for anything apart from those two "relationships". I've never failed any exams, I passed my driving test first time and I've got every job I've ever been for. It's the mixture of rejection and the humiliation of being "dumped" that brings on the self-doubt. And humiliation is felt whether the world knows about the experience or just me and the boy (though I'm doing a splendid job of making that humiliation very public now!).

The "I don't see it working out" line also contributes. It's not a real explanation. Well, it is real because both the boys felt it but it's not enough of a reason for me to feel any justification for the self-doubt. I need to know EXACTLY what won't work out, however hurtful it may be, not so I can change his mind but so I can reconcile things in my mind - validation or eradication of the self-doubt. Otherwise I automatically blame myself - it must be me. Then come the hours of questioning my personality, my actions when we were together, my beliefs and my looks. The stinky thinking. It comes in waves, sometimes lasting only minutes at a time but mostly hours. And I have this ridiculous knack of reassuring the rejector during the call when I, the rejected, need the comfort - idiot girl! But I also need honesty which is what that line does give (a little of).

I'm not very good at making myself vulnerable. Not because I'm a hard-nosed, heartless so-and-so but because I'm conscious of seeming needy in relationships and pride myself on my feisty nature. When I do allow it to happen and then I have to become closed to that person in certain areas again, it winds me. Hello, once more, self-doubt.

So, do I wish I'd just kept my mouth shut and not been so quick in asking that fateful question? No. In both cases, though very different, I'm kind of glad I did and I'd most likely do it again if in exactly the same position. I don't want to be with someone if they don't want to be with me or are reluctantly staying with me. I am me and though I may compromise on a few things here and there when with someone, be they a friend or more, I can't change my core. If he feels there's no future in it because of that then so be it. I know I sound rather philosophical about it all but the self-doubt, lack of confidence and insomnia are still very present. I plan to spend most of the coming days drowning in gin.
I know there will be a few of my friends reading this who will dislike the boy for making me feel like this but there's no need. Stop it. We weren't the modern day equivalent of Romeo and Juliet. We weren't skipping through lush green fields, holding hands whilst The Flower Duet played in the background. It was only a few weeks! And we were still referring to one another as friends. He wasn't to know that him nipping it in the bud would bring forward self-esteem problems and such negative feelings in me. It's my issue, not his. The other thing is I know he'll have read this and will feel incredibly bad for contributing to me feeling the way I do (and rightly so! Joke.) because he's a really decent guy.

We're going to be friends. Remain friends, I should say. It'd be stupid if we didn't because we share so many interests and get on wonderfully. But I need a few days of soul-searching before I can hang out with him next to put the self-doubt to bed and get my barriers back up so I feel secure again. Self-preservation. Getting shit-faced with friends in the coming days will very much help too! And I need to feel less humiliated before seeing him face to face. I'll be fine soon enough, I know I will. Especially when I get the answers I need from him.

If fools rush in where angels fear to tread then I'm the biggest fool of them all, at least where my eagerness with my mouth is concerned. But is that a bad thing? x