A Prayer for a cow, and the perils of driving in the rain

Spurred on by my increasing boredom at work (see? It Does have a purpose apart from paying the bills!), I’ve decided to treat you all to a birds-eye view of one of my rare forays into the magical world of blogs.

I’ve been out of the office the last few days, because I had some work in town. I’d come in at half past eight and leave by ten or so, before returning to office at around 4.30/5.00pm, dead on my feet and in dire need of a beer. Yesterday happened to be a colleague’s birthday, and he asked me to pick up some chocolates on the way back. I stopped at Nilgiri’s, which is on the highway, picked up a few dozen Perks, and stood in the check-out queue. The thing about this shop is, it has HUGE plate glass windows, which afford a wonderful view of the highway, which is actually missing the point. I wish I hadn’t been looking out of them though. It was a little bit like something out of a film, with the wide screen to boot.

As I stood there with my wallet in one, hand, waiting for the girl behind the counter to give me my change, I noticed a cow crossing the highway, ambling across slowly, as they usually do. What happened next was in slow motion.

The road was fairly wet, as it was drizzling. Driving on a highway is difficult at the best of times, but when it’s raining, you have to be extra careful. When you’re driving a really heavy vehicle, like a truck, you have to be extra extra careful. Actually, it doesn’t matter, because if something’s going to happen, it will happen. Even if you take every precaution against it happening, fate usually deals a fairly assured hand, and all your pathetic little precautions are rendered useless.

Back to what happened next. This big truck came barreling down the highway. He must have being doing at least 80 kph, which is fairly dangerous in that sort of weather. The had just crossed the median, and it was almost over to the other side. I’m fairly sure the driver of the truck was blowing his horn, but then I couldn’t hear. I’m also fairly sure he’d hit the brakes, but then that’s what I would have done. The next thing I know, the cow’s flying one way, and the truck’s toppling over on one side. It was a glancing blow, but at that speed, it’s pretty damn dangerous. The cow ended up on its side, on the median, while the truck ended up on its side, off the road, pretty much.

The driver of the truck was out almost immediately, scratching his head and looking pretty dazed (as you would), but the cow wasn’t so lucky. The girl didn’t even give me my change. Everyone was outside. You know, the ghoul factor (is that what it’s called?). I sauntered out, feeling pretty disturbed myself, because it looked nasty. Now, I’m not one to get involved in things like this, especially when there’s over 50 people on the spot within 20 seconds of the event. As I watched from a distance, three people tried to pick the cow up and get it back on all fours. Twits. The sounds it was making were pretty heart-rending. Eventually they gave up, but by then I reckon it was too late. The poor thing. As I turned away to go back into the shop and get my change, I prayed silently for it. Why did that have to happen? Especially considering cows are among the most gentle, harmless creatures on the planet. Along with chickens, fish, lambs, pigs etc. Which is why I wish I were a vegetarian. In fact I am, but I went and made a complete hypocrite of myself by eating meat at my friend’s birthday party. Perhaps by telling you all, I’ll be redeemed, but it’s still something I regret doing.

I feel pretty bad for cows in general - they always seem to get a raw deal. I’m tempted to make a joke about what’s at steak for humanity and our principles here, but I won’t, because that wouldn’t be very nice. (“Well done”, I hear you say). Sorry.

Actually, I have no clue why I wrote that post. Explanations? Anybody?

A shameless plug... forgive me

"Maybe I don't really want to know
How your garden grows
I just want to fly
Lately did you ever feel the pain
In the morning rain
As it soaks it to the bone

Maybe I just want to fly
I want to live I don't want to die
Maybe I just want to breath
Maybe I just don't believe
Maybe you're the same as me
We see things they'll never see
You and I are gonna live forever

Maybe I don't really want to know
How your garden grows
I just want to fly
Lately did you ever feel the pain
In the morning rain
As it soaks it to the bone

Maybe I will never be
All the things that I want to be
But now is not the time to cry
Now's the time to find out why
I think you're the same as me
We see things they'll never see
You and I are gonna live forever
We're gonna live forever
Gonna live forever
Live forever
Forever"

This is a shameless plug. I said it. There.

It took me almost no time at all to figure out why people blog. We need to be heard. We want our views to be read, sometimes analyzed by other people. People who may not share the same opinion as you. People who may agree with everything you say (spineless twits!). People who haven’t got a clue what they’re reading, but do so nonetheless, because they haven’t got anything better to do (that’s my category there).

Anyway, I watched a DVD today. I don’t do this very often, mainly because I don’t have the time (that’s supposed to make you think I’m really busy, by the way). This DVD was a commemorative edition released to coincide with the 10-year anniversary of probably one of the greatest albums of all time. Those of you who know me have probably guessed what I’m on about by now.

Definitely Maybe.

Oasis are a band from Manchester. They make proper music. And they’re my favourite band. Now, my loyal readers (all 10 of you) are aware of this, I’m sure. I go on and on and on about them, because, at the end of the day, the music they make means a lot to me. Many of you may not have favourite bands. Well, if you don’t, pick Oasis, and listen to Definitely Maybe. Even if its just for one song. All the songs are pretty good, which is rare for any album, but there’s one track which stands out. Live Forever.

The first time I heard this song, I didn’t much of it, mainly because someone had told me it was pretty good, and I figured I should give it a casual listen. The guitar solo stood out, of course, but nothing made any sense. And then I figured out the lyrics, and listened to it again. And again. And again. This song compares, quite easily, with the likes of Imagine by John Lennon, in terms of its lyrical content. Noel Gallagher (the songwriter/lead guitarist) said recently that he wanted to write a song that could be mentioned in the same breath as Imagine. What he didn’t realize was, he’s already done it. And probably written something far, far better than Imagine ever was or could be.

Right now I’m thinking, Why am I writing all this? Do I have a pathological need to make people love Oasis as much as I do? Not really, but I figure if you’ve come across something that you think is good, you share it with as many people as possible. Which is what I’m doing.

The 16-bar drum intro to the song is fairly well-orchestrated, but you don’t have an inkling as to what’s next. And then you hear the first lines:

“Maybe, I don’t really want to know,

how your garden grows, cos I just want to fly”.

It just takes off from there. The drums and bass complement the lead guitar perfectly throughout the song, and at the risk of repeating myself, the solo is phenomenal. Short, but brilliant.

Noel says the song is about friendship, and I figure he’d be quite right there. I figure it’s also about ambition, and about wanting to be the best you can possibly be. Although these lyrics shatter that little theory of mine:

“Maybe I will never be, all the things that I want to be

Now is not the time to cry, Now’s the time to find out why”

Philosophical. Especially coming from the fingertips of an 18-year old who’s never been out of the dark half of Manchester, but wants to take on the world. (He did, by the way. Haven’t you heard “Wonderwall”?)

If you haven’t heard the song yet, GET it, for God’s sake. And listen to it.

On an unrelated note, the last few days have been fairly difficult. Work has sucked. The personal stuff has sucked. Liverpool won, though, so that’s a bit of a consolation. And I still have my music.

A few engineers joined my company recently. A couple of them, both girls, have been posted in the Systems Department, and they sit together. I call them the Davinci Twins, because one of them is named Mary, and the other’s Magdalene. Coincidence? I haven’t got a bloody clue.

The End. For now.

Some of you may be wondering what the hell I was on about there… well, the fact is, I’m nursing a massive hangover, and trying to do some work (“On a Sunday?”, you exclaim. “Yep”, I say). When I get home I’ll get online and post this. Listen to the song. Many of you may not like it, but those of you who do will be thanking me for the rest of your lives.

And now for something completely different. You’re not going to read it, though.

I'd like to buy the world a coke...

I know, I’m supposed to be working now. Bollocks. I had to get this out of my system though, for whatever reason. This is one of those posts, you know – kinda… I dunno, really. You probably won’t enjoy it, but for my sake, give it a go.

Yeah, that’s the spirit! Last night, I was sitting at home watching Seinfeld or summat on Star World, and this ad came on. Now, I’ve forgotten which brand it was, but that’s irrelevant. The thing is, Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas (?) was in it, and looking incredibly beautiful. As usual. It would take a brave (and blind, I might add) person (man or woman) to call her anything BUT beautiful. I mean, she’ll be 70 years old, and she’ll look just as lovely as she does now. Before you write this post off as a guy thing, let me say that women might actually enjoy this more than us men.

When I was very young (well, a few years ago), my mum told me that there is no such thing as an ugly woman. Some of you may disagree, but I’d just tell you to shut up. Every woman, no matter what – be it wrinkles, big teeth, bushy eyebrows, or even an Adam’s apple – is beautiful, and you can’t deny it. I may sound like a sentimental sop here, but that’s how I feel. Men just can’t compare (I haven’t spent any TIME comparing the two, but you know what I mean) when it comes to sheer gracefulness, poise, intelligence… I could go on. That’s of course, not to mention the emotional quotient.

Take me, for example. Being a man in the metrosexual age, I like to think I’m in touch with my emotions. Poppycock. Us men are either big sops or incredibly repressed, sometimes both at the same time, if that’s possible. I haven’t got a handle on my emotions – either they all come flowing out with no control whatsoever, or I keep them corked up tighter than a bottle of wine (I want to name one here… erm… 1960 Bordeaux?). But women are just a heck of a lot better at it. They also mature faster than men.

Anyway, back to the point – Catherine Zeta-Jones. She is stunning, isn’t she? For some reason, though, I don’t look at her and size her up or imagine what she would be like in bed. She’s just… beautiful, and you could look at her face for hours on end (well, I could). With most women (and I’m not referring to anyone in particular here), if they look attractive, 99% of the time a guy looking at her pretty face will be undressing her with his eyes. Men do lech, much as I hate to admit it. I’m not one, though. (Did I just shove my foot into my mouth so hard I lost a sock? Oh, no… Come on guys, I’m just illustrating a point).

The sort of beauty I’m talking about is just… there. And it’s very, very rare. You can’t count your immediate family in this list though. You’re mother, sister, daughter, grandmother, aunt etc will always look beautiful to you, no matter what. Or your wife, if you happen to be married. Or your girlfriend. Actually, let’s just stick to celebrities.

The few I can think of off the top of my head are…

Catherine Zeta-Jones (obviously)

Jennifer Connelly

Hm. I’ve been thinking for half an hour now. That WAS a short list.

In any case, I’ll stop before I make a complete fool of myself. Women are wonderful, and us men are really lucky. So if you’re a guy, tell the women in your life how much they matter to you. And if you’re a girl, whack him on the head and tell him to go cook dinner. (Where’s the cereal?)

Homophobic?.... Nah...

Right, let’s get down to this again. After two days of utter, UTTER boredom (except for Orkut, which kept me going), I’ve got to write something here, in an effort to make a habit out of it. What I thought I’d do, with the aid of my lovely sister, is come up with 5 of the funniest, nastiest, most disgusting moments of my life so far. I hope there’ll be more, though, obviously!

You’re gay! No, YOU’RE gay!

“When I was seventeeeen, it was a veeery good yeeeeaaar,

It was a very good year for small town girls and warm summer nights,

We’d hide from the lights… on the village green,

When I was seventeen”

- Frank Sinatra, “It was a Very Good year”

Only there were no small town girls, or village greens. Warm summer nights? Plenty, but I’m digressing. I’m sure those lines have been quoted more times than I can count, but that’s an excellent song, and he’s got a voice that flows like melted chocolate. But when I was seventeen, life was actually pretty cool. I was fresh out of school, getting used to the idea of ‘College’ and the lack of uniforms. I was exposed to a lot more than I’d been used to, and made a lot of fast, but good friends. Didn’t have a girlfriend though. Being 17 and horny is kinda difficult, especially when you can’t express yourself the way you want to. For the first six months of college, the only action I got was, well…. Imagine a conductor waving a stick at an imaginary orchestra. (Too graphic? Too bad.) Actually, my situation now isn't very different.

One of my best buddies was (still is) a chap who I’ll refer to as S. Now, S has always been the cool dude, cracking the funniest jokes and making a fool of himself (ie. He was very popular), and he had a girlfriend. I’m rambling here but bear with me. I had a huge crush on a girl (surprise, surprise) and she actually sorta liked me back. In fact, we nearly kissed each other. I was very excited (obviously), and when S dropped by in the evening, as he was wont to, I told him about it.

We were sitting on the terrace in the dark, with a little illumination from the street lamps, and I was telling him:

“Dude, we nearly kissed each other”

S: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Well, we hugged, and then she sorta leaned in towards me with her face…”

S: “What, like this?” (Leans towards me with his face)

Me: “Yeah, a bit more like this, actually” (Leans towards S till our faces are well, a FOOT apart – which is actually a pretty good distance!)

SLAM!

I look up to see the terrace door bouncing back off its frame, it had been slammed so hard, and my brother’s back, disappearing down the stairs. Heck.

Needless to say, we were out of there, chasing him, shouting “That wasn’t what you thought it was!”… but he was gone. I think he’d locked himself in the bathroom. And to this day, my brother hasn’t brought it up. Bharath, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry mate.

Not very funny, I know, but put yourself in my position. Actually, just laugh at me.

More chillies than you can handle; the toilet bowl

“With a few red lights and a few old beds
We make a place to sweat
No matter what we get out of this
I know well never forget
Smoke on the water, fire in the sky”

- Deep Purple, “Smoke on the Water”

Does that make any sense now? No? Oh, well…

Back in college, I was in a class with 66 boys and NO girls. Zero. Nada. NONE. It was a blast. We didn’t have to worry about that good-looking kid impressing the class babe, which helped build camaraderie, in a way. Anyway, being “engineers”, we were required to go on an “Industrial Visit”. This was mandatory, as per the curriculum. Of course, these I.Vs were just an excuse to hang out with a bunch of friends, away from home, get drunk, and learn very little about industries. Again, I digress.

Our class went on a trip to Bangalore and Hosur (I hated it then, now I’m just numb), and we stayed in this little hotel which was air-conditioned and run down at the same time (go figure). On Saturday night (which has its own type of magic), a bunch of us decided to hit the pubs, because that’s what you’re supposed to do in Bangalore. There’s shopping too, of course. And traffic jams. You don’t ‘do’ traffic jams, they just happen. The majority of guys left the hotel at 5 pm (imagine drinking for 8 hours straight!), while a few of us stayed back to watch the game. Yeah, Everton (blue scum) v Liverpool (my team). Kickoff was at half past five, so we gathered in one of the rooms at five fifteen, breathless (well, I was, at any rate). Let me introduce a couple more buddies – again, no names, because this is Really embarrassing. The first one was this lovely teddy bear of a guy, who I’ll just call HB – stands for ‘Horny Bugger’. The other was one of my intellectual friends – he’s smart enough to be a doctor, so I’ll call Him MD. Easy. So we’re sitting down in front of the telly with about ten minutes to go, when MD decides he needs a crap (is that Heading making a little more sense now?). So he goes to the loo, and we’re all sitting in the hotel room, talking. With a couple of minutes to go, MD was still in there, so HB (who was worried that MD would miss the start of the game) went up to the door and shouted: “Dude, it’s about to start. Get out of there!”

MD: “A couple of minutes da, hang on”

So we did.

There’s 30 seconds to go and MD is still in there, so HB decides enough is enough, and strides up to the door purposefully.

HB: “Come out, you daft sod!” (or words to that effect)

MD: (silence)

So HB hammered on the door, and the bloody thing swung right open. And there’s MD, sitting on the pot, playing his air guitar, going:

“dah dah daaah, dah dah DAH daaah… what the F@$K?!!!”

(the dah dah daaah bit is the famous riff on “Smoke on the Water”)

HB’s just standing there, bewildered, with his jaw on the floor. You can see why I’ve changed the names, yeah?

The thing which still gets me is, Why on earth didn’t he lock the door? Or even, Could HB have done it on purpose? Actually, I haven’t got a clue, but the thought of it still makes me laugh.

The Eye Hospital

I can’t think of a song to fit in here, so I won’t. A year and a half ago, I was in my final year of college. Final semester, to be accurate. It was a breeze, actually, because we only had to go in from Monday to Wednesday; Thursday and Friday were ‘Project Days’, but a lot of the time we’d be sat at home doing something else. (I’d like to say we were studying, but Come on!, for God’s sake).

Before I begin, I feel obliged to tell you that this isn’t a ‘funny’. It was actually rather disturbing. And surreal.

It was a Thursday, I think, and I was sitting at home, studying. At around 10, my grandmum rang to say that she had to go to the Eye Hospital for a check, and would my mum go with her. My mum (bless her), was rather busy that morning, so she said, “Don’t worry, Vishnu’ll go with you”. Well, after she’d said that, I couldn’t really refuse, could I? I’m a very dutiful son, though, so I said “No problem!”, chucked my text book under the bed, picked up a book (I think it was Disclosure, or something) and went on my merry way. My grandmother, by the way, is Brilliant. Generous to a fault, foul-mouthed, and a great cook. I’m sure your gran is too.

At the hospital, my gran had her pupils dilated. You know, they stick these drops in your eyes and make you sit on an uncomfortable chair with your head tilted back, bored to tears (literally!). Every once in a while, they send someone to check on you, but it’s always “No, no, not yet. Try some more of these eyedrops”, and then squeeze three drops into each eye. Again and again. I hate those. Anyway, I didn’t have to go through it, so I’m sitting there with my book open, but talking to my gran about God Know’s What. Philosophy, probably. We usually have really interesting conversations.

She went all quiet for a bit, so I figured she was getting sleepy. I was just getting into the book on my lap when the following exchange took place:

Paati (eyes closed, head back): So how’s your girlfriend?

Vishnu (reading): Hmmm? Yeah, she’s fine… doing good.

P: Please be careful kanna.

V: (still reading, sort of) What do you mean, paati?

P: Don’t do anything stupid… do the two of you get physical?

V (totally alert, trying not to offend): Well, you know… we have kissed and all that…

P: Have you had sex with her?

V (not surprised, but still being careful): No… we haven’t had se…

P: Whatever you do, don’t try anal sex.

V (unsure of what to do): Paati! Don’t be ridiculous…

P: It’s very unhygienic, you know….

V (nodding emphatically, even though she’s got her eyes closed): I know, I know… I’d nev…

P (with yet more potential to shock): You know, your grandfather and I tried it once…

V (looking for a rock to hide under):…

P: It was very painful. We couldn’t do it.

V (stammering): I’m sure it was…

P: If you ever do try it, make sure you use lubrication.

V (Thinking that he has the coolest grandmother in the world): I’ll make sure I do, paati, if it ever comes to…

P (eyes STILL closed): Good.

And she didn’t say another word for fifteen minutes. I eventually managed to find my book (it had fallen under the seat), and found my page. I’m still shaking my head at that conversation though. Bloody hell.

Actually, I’ve had enough. There’s a couple more, so I’ll try and do them tomorrow.

Good Night.

P.S: If you thought that last one was a little strange, well, you’d be bang on. But it happened, and I’m still not quite sure why. Or how.

let's try this again, yeah?

I figured that if I’m going to get this blog rolling again (see what I did there?... no? ok.), then I’m going to have to start writing more regularly. And short of smoking a big fat joint, the only way I’m going to able to get past this strange writer’s (?) block I’ve been having is to record my experiences on a daily basis, starting with today. (where’s that joint?)

Anyway, I went to Bombay today. On business, not pleasure, before any of you jump. I had to get up at 4am (which is actually pretty difficult) and take a cab to the airport. And its 1am the following morning now – I walked in the front door about ten minutes ago. Sigh. Its not easy being a high-flier (read: high-flying-iyer).

The day started fairly well – I went to work to pick up some material (a solitaire diamond, in case any of you are interested), and didn’t know how to open the bloody safe. After struggling in vain for 15 minutes with 4 keys and two locks, I called the security guard, who, of course, opened it in 10 seconds flat. I mean, key 1A goes in first, clockwise, and then 2B anti-clockwise, and then 1B in the second lock anti-clockwise, followed by the aptly named key X in a hole at the back, which I wasn’t told about. Its enough to do your head in!

After collecting my erstwhile boss from his house, we set off on the thrill-a-minute journey to Bangalore. The traffic wasn’t too bad actually, until we reached the outskirts of the city. These days, of course, the outskirts start 20 kilometers before the city, so it was a slow crawl for the last hour or so. We got to the airport with minutes to spare, literally, and were the last two people on board Kingfisher flight IT 104 to Bombay.

Everyone talks about the air-hostesses on these flights, but to be honest with you, they looked like a bunch of ugly Barbies with dark hair, too much make up and skirts which are way too tight. (Pinky and Anamika– if you’re reading this, I MEAN YOU!). Those are their names, God’s honest truth.

Every seat has a little TV which you’re supposed to fiddle with for a while, so I obliged. But we only seemed to be getting Zoom TV (?), Star One, and Ten Sports (which I will forever hate for buying the rights to the UEFA Champions League). So I tried the radio, but that wasn’t working. I was thinking of asking the albino sitting next to me how he got his sound going, but he was immersed in the in-flight magazine. While the plane was taxiing before take-off, each and every passenger was treated to the sight of Vijay Mallya bragging about his brands, while walking through a maze of model airplanes. I tried to turn it off, but I couldn’t… and the sound was being played over the speakers, so I couldn’t even shut him up. Git. After some more posturing, he handed us over to Yana Gupta, who took us through the usual safety instructions. You know, life belt under my seat, oxygen mask will land on your head if the cabin pressure drops suddenly etc. Only, her voice was dubbed in Hindi, so it just seemed surreal (although she IS tasty, you have to give her that!). The English voiceover was done by someone with a strong lis-th-p. “Pleath ensure that all you belongingths are sthowed in the overhead rack, or under the tseat in front of you”. Now, I’m not making fun of people with speech impediments (I used to have a cracking lisp), but come on! A voiceover is supposed to be professional!

Thankfully, the flight passed without further incident. Unless you count the horny guy next to me insisting on asking Pinky for more cream in his coffee. I offered him my packet, because I wasn’t drinking anything, but he went “I want extra cream”. So I said, “This IS extra cream!”, but he wasn’t listening, so I left him to his pathetic attempts to get a smile from the air-hostess. Honestly. The thing which struck me was the fact that 95% of passengers on Kingfisher Airlines are male. Hardly surprising, you’d think. And you’d be right. Ah well, at least I didn’t have to stare at Vijay Mallya’s ugly mug for an hour and a half.

Bombay is huuuuuge. Massive. It took the cabbie two and a half hours to get us to the office. By which time I was so fed up I just wanted to go back to Hosur. But there was work to be done. I had to interview some big-shot vendor for an in-house magazine, and I couldn’t afford to miss it. Off I trudged, up six flights of stairs, to this really plush office. My appointment was for two thirty, and I got in at 2.25. Naturally, if you’re a big shot, you’re supposed to make people wait – so I’m sitting in this dingy waiting room (the reception was the only really plush bit, actually) till 4 30, when he decided that I’d twiddled my thumbs long enough. Tall chap, this fella, but with a massive, massive arse. His son was there too, and his arse was even bigger. I wanted to laugh, but that might not have gone down too well. Actually, it Wouldn’t have gone down too well. My flight was for 8pm, so I shot through the door and caught a cab at 5 on the dot (it was a very quick interview), because I didn’t want to take a risk with the traffic. As Murphy’s Law would have it, the roads were clear all the way to the airport. So a journey which took two and a half hours in the morning only took 45 minutes at rush hour in the evening. An interesting little aside here – On my way into the city, I actually saw a Dhabbawala. After hearing so much about these guys, seeing one was almost a let down. But fair play to them… I don’t think anyone could do their job. Brilliant.

So I’m sitting in the departure lounge at 6pm, boarding pass in one hand, head in the other trying to get some kip. Eventually, I made my way to the security check, where they managed to confiscate all my batteries, and tried to take my pen as well, on the basis that it’s a sharp object. (I made that last bit up, but I’m ticked off about the batteries). More waiting. And then, as you would expect, some lady going “Jet Airways flight etc etc to Bangalore has been delayed due to technical reasons”. Effing brill.

Some more waiting. And then we boarded. Now, I’ve never really noticed them before, but Jet Airways had a couple of absolutely gorgeous air-hostesses. Drop dead, literally. I was smiling all over my face for a while, but then I saw one of them go up to a steward and say something while pointing at me. Well, that did the trick, I guess. I pretended to be lost in my newspaper for a while, waiting for take-off. I’m not making this next bit up, honest.

The captain came on the PA sounding almost breathless, “I’m sorry for the delay folks, but there was a traffic jam, and then someone hit my car, so I had to catch a cab. That’s why I’m late”. Oh. Really. The whole plane fell about laughing, pretty much. Even the gorgeous air-hostesses. I felt a little bad for the skipper, poor sod. After that, we only heard stuff from the “First Officer”, who informed us that we would be landing at 10 30 in Bangalore. I think the Captain was rather embarrassed. The reason for the delay was also clarified by the First Officer – “Crew Malfunction”. Sorry mate, but that sounds just as bad.

To cut a long story short, I’m back at home now. My driver, poor bugger, was half asleep, and I had to keep making conversation with him, so that he wouldn’t drop off and drive into an IT company (Does anyone else think there are too many of these?). Right, well, that’s about it. Feel free to give me your feedback, be it praise or criticism (constructive, preferably!).

Maybe today will be more fun.