Life's like that

Like most modern women, I had dreamed of meeting my prince charming at a swinging party, a relaxing resort or on an adventure vacation in an exotic island. Not in Tihar Jail, the largest maximum security prison in South Asia.

But before you go counting your chickens before they hatch and putting the carriage before the horse and all those fancy sayings which I'd love to spout but will not (for the simple reason that I haven't the foggiest idea of what they are), let me explain to you the extenuating circumstances.

Now then, where was I? Tihar Jail. Right. A bunch of us from office had gone there on a volunteering basis to run a medical camp for the workers of TJ. The NGO we had partnered with gave each of us little tasks to do. So while everyone else was doing icky stuff like noting down height, weight, maintaining orderly queues, yelling out things they were running out of and running around replacing them, I had this cushy, intellectual (and the only seated) job of interviewing the workers to do a pre-checkup profiling.

I was enjoying myself, pretending to be a hot-shot doctor, tut-tutting righteously when someone told me they drank too much or smoked too often, advising them to eat healthy balanced meals and generally making a thorough nuisance of myself while I checked items off my questionnaires and watched my colleagues sweat it out.

The NGO lady sitting next to me kept giving me all sorts of advice which I kept royally ignoring. Soon, it was break time and the workers were cleared off for a bit while we volunteers relaxed over tea and biscuits. The moment I was about to happily sink my teeth into one huge biscuit, this stunning dude walked over and sat down in the chair in front of me.

Like most modern women, I don't like to be caught in an undignified position with my mouth wide open trying to stuff a healthy bite of some high-calorie foodstuff in it with chocolate coated fingers. Not when I have that sort of gorgeous hunk sitting bang opposite, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.

Recovering quickly, I grinned, wiped my fingers clean, cheekily offered him a bite of the luscious biscuit and grabbed one of the questionnaires I had been using for the worker health profiling.

"Now then.......Name?" I began, making a big show of doing my volunteering duties.
"Anthony", he replied without missing a beat.
"Age?" I looked up slyly.
"26" he replied, catching on fast.
"Do you drink? Smoke?"
"No"
"Vegetarian?"
"No"
"Married?" I improvised saucily
"No", he replied with a grin, knowing fully well that there was no such question on my list.
"Lovely, then last question - salary?" I grinned up at him, thoroughly enjoying this charade.
"Not enough. But does seven figures work for you?"
"I don't know about her, but honey, you can marry me any time you want!" gushed the NGO-lady who was sitting (quite forgotten) beside me.

He did.

Ash You Like It

I think its about time I drafted a mathematical equation for my rotten luck. Its strong enough to make the Guinness Records. Move over Murphy, this is no kid stuff.

Rolling highlands, sexy dudes in little skirts and the smoothest single malts - the internet did make Scotland sound so very exciting. Well, I was going to find out for myself soon enough.

Unfortunately, a day before I was to fly to Edinburgh, a volcano erupted in Reykjavik blotting out half the European airspace. Funny how these so-called developed countries keep bragging about technological advances and then sit around twiddling their thumbs just because there's some ash in the clouds.

Now, this were India, we'd find a hundred ways to exploit this opportunity and probably sell more volcanic ash than sliced bread.

Helps you keep things in perspective.

Beauty Sleep

On my best days I am grumpier than the caffeine addict without his normal dose, but when I am ruthlessly woken up from my morning sleep, I am - well - I don't think there are any sufficient words in the English dictionary to describe me. In any dictionary for that matter. God save anyone who tries to wake me up before ten a.m on a weekend.

Summer

When I realised I would be visiting the UK during summer, I started really looking forward to some lovely sunshine, sheep-in-the-meadows lazy landscapes and bare-bodied handsome hunks on beaches.

As most women, I spent 67% of my time plotting my wardrobe, taking care to pack all the halters, noodle-straps and scooped necklines I possessed. After all, the summer season was created to enjoy nature's beauty, wasn't it? The more mundane things like air tickets, forex and other trivialities I finished within 23 minutes flat.

So when my mom shoved a thick sweatshirt into my bag "just-in-case", I was loth to admit that for all the sunshine in the country, I'd still need something to protect me from the air-conditioning of the aeroplane.

And as moms usually are, she was right. The aeroplane temperature gave me an exclusive preview of life in Antartica during the winters. I don't think anyone was happier to land than I - mostly because I'd finally get to burrow out of the piles of blankets and sweatshirt and smile up at the sun than because I was visiting a place I had never been to before.

Imagine my shock when I sashayed out of the aiport into a blast of chilling wind that, if you will pardon the expression, knocked the wind out of me. I squinted up into the swirling black clouds and shook my fist at the sky. I was already beginning to hate London.

Einstein's Theory of Relatively is a very powerful tool. It is perhaps the only excuse that can be used in virtually any situation. So, four layers of clothing and these people had the audacity to call it Summer! Invoke Einstein's Theory.

I spent the rest of my stay bundled up in jackets, dreaming of India.