Window Blogging

Sometimes these vacations start ever too slowly - sometimes even painfully. You’d be in the middle of one and it wouldn’t even feel like it. Going even so far, as to be quite the opposite of what it intended out to be. Sometimes they hiccup, threatening to stall but coming through at the very last moment. Like old yet faithful cars. Or unplanned for Visa issues. It's really the same thing, no? :) Then there are the vanilla vacations. Neither here nor there, but good for the soul. Nothing more. And then, then there are those that start way before. Way before the actual holiday would. As the days narrow to the flight date, the tingling in your spine becomes both, unbearable and a new found love. The scent alone drives you mad. And there's also the constant stupid smile on your face you have to deal with. I have to go to work on Monday and then I leave for the actual holiday on Tuesday. If my boss manages to get any work out of me on Monday, I’ll readily buy him a bottle of the c...

So, in case I haven’t mentioned, I've recently moved to a highly gay concentrated neighbourhood in the city (It does have some great coffee shops but a bit too many gyms, if you know what I mean). And no, I’m not homophobic. Far from it. I mingle and have gay friends. I am what the intelligentsia likes to call “liberal” and my mother “why??”, followed by a “I don’t get you. Befriend all this, but please marry a girl.” So yes, I do befriend all "this". But then, there are days... Friday night. Party 1. Bar near my hood. I think it was a birthday party. And I wear what are my straightest clothes possible. You know, regular fit jeans, black boots, grey polo and a light blue sweater. (Come to think of it, my wardrobe's become very boringly straight off late - I think it’s my subconscious defense mechanism lighting up to the gayness around me). Gay boy singles me out in the party and hits on me. Party 2. Barhopped to another birthday party (don’t too many people get born a...

You know what - writing insightful, soul bearing, prioritised desires in single succinct lines should be all the rage. No one can escape it I say. No one. And if you’re strong enough to, then shame on you. But seriously though, isn't there this charm that a list bears? Cathartic, binding, freeing, screaming, unchanging, constraining but dynamic if you have an eraser. Not entirely explainable but not entirely unexplainable also. It’s like the twilight zone. Or, to bring things more in perspective and ask what is perhaps a much more valid and penetrating question - is it just the wine? Yes, I’ve been drinking and here's my 20 prioritised desires before 35 list. Cause 20’s daunting enough and 35’s a ripe old age. 001 Travel for 6 months, at a stretch. Anywhere remote. 002 Publish a book of poems. 003 Speak French fluently. 004 Buy a roadster. 005 See the grand prix in Monaco, the carnival in Rio and a polo match in Argentina. 006 Learn to cook. The fantastic kind. 007 Spend a week...

There is no denying that homesickness is real. But even though it lurks, it does so, wearing different masks. For when I was in boarding school, it mostly broke loose when my tummy grumbled or on still, bright, weekend afternoons, when you could free your thoughts and imagine what home would be like. But never when the seniors ragged or the teachers scolded. Never when the sports injuries bled all day long. That was just the nature of the beast. Now, in a foreign culture, much like a boarding school, only worse at times but never better, the sickness brandishes an uglier mask. Yes, the tummy's been grumbling for Ma’s food, the thoughts trail on most afternoons, but having lived through that before, what troubles most is the lack of an anchor. The alien sports culture, the strange accents, the school or college stories that office colleagues laugh at, to which I can’t relate. No one to talk to about cricket victories, or break into hinglish every second minute or to laugh at exagger...

Oh my fucking lord. Yes. The whole fucking deal. I need that. I do. The venting. You know what I mean. And if you don't, I need to impress upon you the whole fucking deal. I've lived a whole nine yards in the last 4 days. It's been that harrowing. Why am I ventilating so? Why am I in these throes? Ah well...explanations. Fucking explanations . (The author is currently amid frustrations and might display cranky behaviour. This is not an apology. It's just what it is). So on friday last, chicken little was to fly to Londres. There was some work to be done, but it was mostly pleasure. It was highly anticipated, it was going to be the best holidays ever. I swear, ever. Then the sky fell. Fucking chicken little and her philosophies. I hate the British, people. I love London. But I hate the british. See, no capitals. No respect. None. I hate the british. Bastards. See, capital there. They didn't give me the visa in time! I had to miss my flight, rebook, wait, wait some m...

So financial crisis 101. Things happen in cycles. What must go up must come down. Newton discovered it, with some help from an apple. We’re discovering it with some help from a street named after a wall. This time though, it’s gone a bit more helter skelter. It’s as if the bloody apple’s not happy with just stopping at the ground, it’s barreling it’s way to the core. There. There’s so much of that being written around, I thought I’d comply and put in my two paragraphs. I'll rebel another day. On other fronts, I’m going to Londres next week. Oh yeah, London baby London. And yes, going again. Would you believe me if I told you this time it’s different? My boss tells me I treat London as my backyard. Going there every few months. That I’m so this and so that. That perhaps he pays me too much. This, after the bugger just went to Chile and to Costa Rica before that. Alaska too. I told him, “You go to such exotic places on your vacation days, whereas I land up in ‘normal’ places like Lon...

It's been a while now, hasn't it? This thing, it's been gathering dust. But I've been a victim of time. A lack of it. So since I posted last - I've moved apartments. It's a right pain in the ass to search and move homes in this city, man. There are mostly shitty apartments in shitty areas out here. And when that holy grail of a perfect place at a great price comes along, you're always a day late. But I think I got a decent grail - it's not holy, but it shines. - The markets sighed, screamed, bucked and then tanked. Friends I know lost jobs. The US govt became socialistic, saved the rich people, and helped plunge the economy deeper. Things like this happen in an emotionally charged country like America. And so time got involved in it all too. - India became "smoke free". I don't smoke like smokers do, but this overarching control of the government doesn't go down well with me. Free will is dying. A slow silent death at that too. Governme...

Girl and Boy She’s all alone Says she’s not a watering hole Been trying all possible alleys And love just whistles on He’s within himself Basking in the loneliness But that’s not what he calls it And love just whistles on

If they aren't always good, why call them "goodbyes"? If they aren't always hellish, why call them "hello's"? When will english stop being a funny language? The irony hurts at times.

Alright, she's going to hate this. Maybe I should have asked for permission before. I mean she's threatened me with a libel suit in the past and even though I doubt she'd pull it off (the libel that is), you can only push someone so far. Especially someone with a french disposal to life (and that too, only because I feel they hate the attention obsessed, chihuahua totting americans. And that's a good thing) But this is me falling prey, to the pimping way of the blogging life. So click here for the Indian In Paris blog. It's funnier than it sounds and highly intriguing in places. And honestly, this doesn't come easy. No, not really. This is probably being impulsive and adulatory, but to be fair, if a blog is funny (or silly) enough to make us impulsive it shall be pimped. That's the law. To which I comply only but rarely. And you have to pay the bribe. That's also the law. Corruption and pimping is what this government is about. But please be nice, quiet ...

These are lean days in the blogging world. The economy's not doing too well either. Not that they're related but I thought I'd just put it out there. Actually, come to think of it, companies and bloggers are shutting down alike - so maybe they are related. Does it matter? In the long run, not at all. In the short run, bah who cares. They're all the same. Capitalists and bloggers. Who'd have known, eh? So I had this post created for the longest time. Like 2 months back or something. It's been sitting in the post list and weeping to get out. It was hilarious at the time. A list of a few of the gtalk chats I've had with my insane gtalk friends. I swear they're insane. And it's too late also. They think they have a good thing going. The insane bit that is. But things are getting a bit dry, so why not let it out. It's been weeping after all. And you might not find them funny the way I do, but hey, at least I'm not cribbing about a relati...

I want to write a happysad post. You know the kind... It’ll make you whimper, sniff a little, then slowly (but surely) make you open those ducts and let the tears unwillingly drop out...sob by sob. ...and almost at the same time, your lips will be curling, that smile would be creeping up, your stomach would be doing flip flops, and you’ll burst a happy smile. Oh, it’ll mess you up so much. And if you’re sitting in something public like a subway, you’ll suddenly look up and blind people with those blushing red cheeks. A crazy brilliant smile and tears running constantly. People might even take a step away from you. ...just you wait.

Would I do it again? Ofcourse I would. I don't remember that much of it anyway. Only the good parts. I'm pretty sure the gut is the emotional bank of the body. All, each and every moment of your historical adventures and misadventures, are soaked dry for emotions, spunged out of their society-induced-behaviours, and deposited in a safe vault deep in the gut, sometimes for more than their worth. Which is why, if you feel it from the gut, it probably triggered something. Something with more substance than a heart flutter or a parchness of the throat. I'd listen to it. Pourquoi? Because magic is rare. When it happens, or for that matter happens again, nothing else matters. So go on, bash on regardless...

The origin of the word "Pub" is from the English concept of a "Public House". Every village in Victorian England would have a public house, usually in the village square or centre; where the villagers would gather, mostly in the evenings after work, for a pint of the lager and to talk life out. (There would always, of course, be the hope that it transpires into more than just a pint, and more than just a talk). So why this history lesson then? Just to break into, in a manner of the formal essayist way, of the culmination of a recent search of mine. To find one pub in many. And yes, I think may have found a good one after all. Or changed loyalties at least for the time being. It’s a pub, a bar in the american way, 2 blocks from where I live. It’s small and it’s dark. It’s got a pool table, chatty customers, an irish bartender who gives free shots if he likes you and great, no make that fantastic, music. It’s perfect. It’s the rare kind where you can as easily read a ...

Let's start it off with a question. Maybe that might help. Ease the flow; open the faucet - that kind of thing you know. Or maybe you don't. Or maybe it doesn't matter. Or maybe it does. So yes, the question. How do you...no…How do you realise...No. That's not it either. It's tough, it is. Getting the right words. And even then, there are so many facets that could never be captured in these...these words. On a blog. You'll never know what I'm emphasising, how I raise my eyebrow at the third word and bring my tone down just enough on the penultimate word, only to stress the last word. So why try? Why not? Now who can argue with that? Actually I can. Argue with it that is, but no inclination really. None. And it runs deeper than that. So then...where were we. …How do you know when, how do you know how, things have changed? There. That's what I was looking for. More or less. 42. Perhaps.

9:15 pm The Meadows 9:15 pm Hartford, Connecticut 9:15 pm The USA 9:15 pm The who cares 9:15 pm The as individuals we’re good people, but as a collective something weird happens to us. Evil weird. Never mind the rhetoric, at 9:15 pm in The Meadows, Eddie Vedder said “Good Evening Hartford!”. 9:15 pm I was there, soaking it all in. It had been ages since I’d intentionally played a pearl jam song on my itunes. I’d hear them in the bars that I’d hang out, or sing along to one at a party - but I was exploring other music. In short, I’d moved on. Like the boy who keeps going back to his ex, today, after what was a great time, I intentionally played a pearl jam song on my itunes. I played Wishlist. In short, I’m back in love. Most bands are altogether different when they’re live in concert. Most love it and come into their groove...the attention, the pressure, the voices. Some crumble and fall. Pearl Jam were not great, no, they weren’t mindblowing either, but they sang to the crowd, they t...

Every now and again, when you least expect it, when you’re down with your defenses, when basically, you’re piss bored…the universe throws an interesting person your way. It’s probably all part of a big cruel joke. Probably much like golf - that game suckers you into self-confidence by a few decent shots; and then the next day, you can't hit the fairway if it were the size of Alaska. But it is what it is. So let me tell you of the time the universe threw the manager of The Clash my way. well, if you don't know who they are, wiki fucking pedia it. ... ... if you did indeed wikipedia The Clash, chances are that you're most likely a spawn of satan. And yes, you should just go back to daddy. Let’s start from the beginning. So, I work in the boring ass field that is the corporate world. Nothing remotely related to the music industry. Nada. But last week, while on a conference trip to somewhere in suburban America, I met a colleague. It was at a bar after our conference. He said h...

Ladies and Gentlemen, Two thousand words... Artist: Banksy. (Banksy for president, Hell yeah!)

It should all really be simple... so why then does it have to be more like rocket science? "I guess what I just want to know when, at what point, you see, does all this begin, or really start, to make sense?"

This is not a review things blog. Not even close. Except existential angst, we don't review any thing. And even then that is mentioned in a can't-do-fuckall-about-it way. It's the difference between cookbook authors and fiction writers. This blog doesn't cook. But then again, they say, the best reviews are written by someone with an outside eye. We've been known to agree with "they" every now and again... and since it's already a habit... Delhi is the topic at hand. South Delhi to be exact. It's not the Delhi of my youth for much has changed. It's also the Delhi of my youth for much is still the same. Turquoise Cottage has closed down. That's a pity. It's obviously not irreplaceable, for even now, Opus in Vasant Vihar claims to be a TC from the past. I beg to differ though. But at least they're trying. They're also currently debating the question - is it better to have tried and lost or not to have tried at all? Of the new lot ...

It's been a while and I itch. No, not in the wrong places. It's the metaphor I'm looking for. I itch intellectually. I itch for answers. I itch for good company. I also itch on my nose. It could be related. Like the butterfly effect? I don't like the word "itch" now. In Delhi at the mo. Vacationing I am. Liking it? - maybe. Actually, in 2 years, I am going to be based and working out of Delhi. I have thought this through and through. It's happening. Decided? - definitely But 2 years is an infinity. oh Murphy, why did you have to have a law. I know you said what you had said, in jest most likely. I know you meant well. I know it. But it's messing with me at the present. Treating me as a guinea pig. Empirical evidence I understand. Why would she ignore me now? Is it because now, I like her? Same rant, you say. I would have an answer for you, but I need to scratch my nose.

Yes, I have one going on and like the song "I don't need one more war". Vegas tomorrow; again; company award this time - the suckers are paying for it. "Highest individual bullshit blah blah want-to-work-you-to-the-bone but-still-have-to-entice-you award". Despite the cynicism, I'm taking it. It's Vegas and I fucking deserve it. Corporate America is finally conquered. So anyway, Vegas tomorrow. Having one of those brilliant weekends - feels strange that it's been that long that I had one this nice. Despite the apprehension, I'm enjoying it. So kiss me and smile for me.

She told me to look at London with goodbye eyes. I did. And then I realised I was her London as well. Manhattan has a big green mass, Central Park, that cuts right through its middle. It also has the East Side and the West Side. If you’re on the east of Central Park, you’re on the East Side and if you’re on the west of it, you’re on the West Side. No, the American’s aren’t very creative with these sort of things. It’s funny how now, we both live on the same street, but the exact opposite sides of the island. Exactly different directions. A sign? Of how it was never meant to be? Bah! I don’t venture to the east side much. It’s a planet all on its own to me. Not a friendly one. No. Everyone looks like her. Every corner I turn I almost bump into her. Every boy there is going to flirt with her. Every coffee shop has her caffe latte order placed, the one with soy milk. My pace is always quickened and my gaze furtive when I’m there. It’s plain bizarre. All based on a green swathe some people...

“Simply press the button, wait for the beep, blow into the unit, and within seconds the LCD displays a precise digital percentile readout of your Blood Alcohol Content (BAC). An entire test takes less than 10 seconds.” Saturday night. 2 guys. 1 bar. Copious amounts of alcohol. 1 Breath analyser to bring it all together. Guy1: “It says here level 0.02 means you’re beyond the drinking & driving limit and I know level 0.12 is when you get into coma.” Guy2: “ Well then, I think 0.08 is a good limit to aim for” Guy1: “Perfect. Bartender, we’ll start with 2 Irish Carbombs, followed by 2 large Glenn on the rocks and then we’ll think of something.” Guy2: “You know, I think I read a book once where this guy had a wicked experience with a breath analyser once.” Guy1: “Man, you read way too much. People who write about breath analyser’s are obviously retarded...ah here come the irish.” 1 hour later. After attempting many BAC counts and sharing breath analyser with anyone who would talk to us ...

Write dammit...write it in as many words and as little sentences it takes...whatever needs to be done, don’t shy away. No more lies. It’s only words and words are all you have...ha!... So much these words can do...create, destroy, humiliate, infatuate, betray...every verb at their control. Humans are the most vocal of all the animals. That is both boon and bane...which is higher in the hierarchy is anyone’s blame game. Kill the dj, the blessed fucking dj...oh that Morrissey meant well. Stay sharp man. It’s the drugs...I can’t control my fingers. They type like there’s no tomorrow...but you know what I can do, I can put these dots. Notice the dots...always three in a row...they’re mine. I did them. There is no point really, just like life. No point, no real point that is. The preachers preach fiction. You have to watch the details. You have to have somewhere to hang your heart on at the end of the day. Don’t wear it on a sleeve. It’s way too risky that way. Start or follow a band which ...

Its a me, myself, Irene post. Its a gin in the gin soaked boy post. -- I am still having a love affair with Ice Cream. -- I hate pastries. I’ll eat them if you get them and I’ll buy them for you too. But inside, I’m squirming when I’m eating. -- If you dress grunge or have short hair, my look will linger when it falls on you. In that linger, I will even have imagined a life with you, complete with smiles, cries, Parisian cafes, Tuscan vineyards and long conversations (I think I fall in love easily...which is also to say that I flit...unless I cling). -- If you dress pretty, I’ll give you only the customary look. -- I think you can make out a lot about a person by the music they listen to. I am undecided about making anything out on a first meeting though. -- I am also undecided about photographs. -- I open up 60% of myself very fast, 20% after a little prodding, alcohol and trust, the other 15% if I love you. The remaining 5% nobody has known. I wish that were not so (Those numbers are...

Plus 1. Another day and they told me it added a whole year. Cause sometimes, you need a reason to party.

You’ve been walking to the same beat so many times, the monotony comforts more than it hurts. Like a cocaine addiction, it charmed you in first, then made you want to fight it and now you’re too afraid to move away. For you know for a fact that if you move out into the light, it’ll turn you into flesh and bones. Reality will pierce you through the retina. You enter the bar where you get your daily drink. There's a girl sitting alone, short black dress and red, very red, lipstick on. She looks at you. Her look lingers. She catches a glimpse of the guy she’s waiting for in you. She waits for you to get your hand stamped from the doorman and turn, realises you’re not him, sighs and turns to her Caipirinha. You walk straight to the loo. Look at yourself in the mirror. Your look lingers. You catch a glimpse of the guy you’ve been waiting for, in you. Then you sigh and turn. *fiction of the mad science genre*

Promise me one thing. What? Promise me that you won’t ever try and show me your poems. (Laughs). Yes I won’t. So are you flirting with me? Hmmm...I’m flirting with the idea of flirting with you. *from two different movies*

Fiction is not me. I gave being Ellis/Gaiman a chance, tried to steal a look at Borge's words and even wrote under influence. The best case conclusion would be that I'm still raw, but just between you and me, I'm not really in the being-patient market for me to "mature". And also, writer's are a dime a dozen and bloggers wanting to be writers cheaper than that. But you know what, till there’s money in the game, I will stay. And anyway, like those HSBC ads all over Heathrow, its all perspective (innit?). Which is not to say that perspective doesn't change. For like loyalty, it is very much for sale. Like a microwaved bag of popping popcorn, very much unstable. And with enough butter, easy to swallow but hard to digest. Ah perspective. Pop me one. Although, at the moment, the popcorn bag is a tad bit empty. Cause I can't talk about existential woes and relationship problems and having fun on dates or fights in clubs. About music, drugs and wine. About ho...

Now, I'm a dog lover. The worst kind, cause I have nothing but contempt for the enemy. The cat that is. There's a cat lover in my office. She's a girl. They usually are. The worst kind as well. We try and trip each other in the hallway, throw darts at the others thumbnail pic, snarl and float rumours in office about each other. Anything that can pass HR's radar really. As you can see, somewhere down the line it moved away from the dog cat argument. Today though, she sent this. I think she's trying to get back to the old ways. But that means I need to have a wittier response ready. Fuck. Just when I was getting really good at tripping her. ----------- DOG DIARY 8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing! 9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing! 9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing! 10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing! 12:00 PM - Lunch! My favorite thing! 1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing! 3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing...

He: All these years, I’ve lived in the shadows, stalking you under the persona of a friend, harmless and partner in crime to smiles and cries. The guise suited me fine and I could like you the way you wanted to be liked. But today, when for the thousandth time you asked me for the thousandth drink, another chance to be partner in crime, something finally gave in. Life is a series of moments, that weigh dense in the mind, until one of them, gets ready to burst like a fabulous yellow roman candle. And when that happens, helpless, you can only pray that it was the right one that burst. This time, under the influence of the thousandth drink, the harmless persona burst. Her: Deep. Pretty deep. I’ve known all along, you know. I’ve even waited, with patient breath, for the shadows to part. And now, this, this is your coming out, proposing love from the shadows speech. Sigh. Why doesn’t anyone ever give it to me straight? Can we please stick to “ I love you’s and keep you happy forever's” ...

She: “The music’s sad here.” He: “Yeah. There’s no dearth of sad songs about rainy days and lovers who don’t bring flowers. Here though, they play songs that truly pain - songs so despairing they can make you wonder why you even bother.” She: “I like it.” He: “I had a feeling you would.” She: “No, I like what you said. I don’t care two hoots for the music. Champagne?” He: “ummm..No, Champagne’s for celebrating. I’ll have a martini. Stirred like crazy” She laughed. She liked beginnings.

I love cities. I like the countryside too, and visit it often enough and say “aah”, “wah”, “sigh” and other versions of the same. But I like the countryside in the same sense as my mum is ok with gay people - ”I am fine with it as long as you’re not gay”. And so to translate “ I am fine with the burbs as long as I’m not living in one”. But lately, most weekend trips out of NYC have been to the countryside or some version thereof. Things were getting very close to one becoming soft, nice or vegan. Imagine that (*shivers unrestraint*).This weekend though, Boston beckons. Its going to be really cold, so I’m checking out places where I can stay warm, namely bars, morning hangover brunch places and the like. Today I took a sick day from office. Damn tonsilitis again. Had hot milk, lots of cereal and after that, for the last 7 hours, its been a bottle of Spanish merlot and once that finished, a bottle of Australian port (always thought port was something that came only from Portugal). The me...

I want biting wit. The sharp kind. Not like the one they’d sell at an IKEA for $10 and under $5 in a sale. More like the kind that you’d find being auctioned in a Sotheby’s (or Christie’s, they both price fix equally well), filled with mysterious, unknown, mostly overseas buyers. I want fleeting time. Not the kind that is the Roadrunner cartoon, which is always tearing across. More like Sonic the Hedgehog, walking, enjoying one moment and then zipping by another, all at the press of a button (or for the need of a better time). I want dreams. Not the sit at home kinds. But the ones with balls, big enough, to cross the border and become plans. I want love. Not of the Romeo and Juliet variety, oh so fickle, so sudden, naive and so short.

Writers block could perhaps attempt to capture it. After all there’s the writer’s strike going on and the hamster-on-a-treadmill in my brain thinks its entitled to one too. Him and me are still negotiating. So justifiably, I was afraid to venture forth alone. Also, Jon Stewart’s disastrous attempt is not helping one’s confidence. One needs hamsters, one does. But, maybe just this once. Just this one post without the bloody hamster. We’re in uncharted territory here people. I can feel the hamster shiver. Also, carrying on with the elaborate excuses (to whom I am not sure), my erstwhile mucho free time seems to have disappeared. Poof!…just walked away and was gone. And, I need sleep. Even if it comes in little installments, I’ll take it. But its disappeared too. Poof!..like in those Archie comics, leaving a white cloud behind. I read somewhere that instead of sleeping 8 hours at a stretch, some scientists reckon, the optimal sleeping habit would be to sleep 30 seconds and then be awake t...

Well well well. With all the anti social-ness that I try portray and further... one jumped the virtual barrier and the cocoon it offered...and met a fellow blogger. In the flesh. Yup. It turns out its not that scary a proposition really. She came for a visit to NYC (from a place she won’t mention for the last 5 years) and she made a promise that she wasn’t an axe yielding psycho before we met. But then again, bigger promises have been made and I had to tag along a friend (to be fair, he just happened to be there really and not for my safety...just clarifying...I took along a bottle of mace for my safety :)... I mean it could be a 60 year old fat fart looking for “fun” you know...its been known to happen. So having survived all that, Aurora , we’re a fan. That girl is a bundle of fun, all spunk, wit and laughter rolled into one. She really is. We met only for a few and had a couple of drinks, and wished it was more. The fun part was connecting all the dots that each others blogs have be...

Sent that to the girl...she laughed.

Not a britney fan, no no no...even though I learnt the lyrics of “hit me baby” with a couple of friends and sang it out loud in a party in high school once...no no no.. but that song title is so fitting. What to do. So new years day...its a strange one no? In look and appearance its like any other day, and yet it demands a celebration of sorts, stock taking of the previous 365 and irrational exuberance in the next 365. Irrational maybe not, but nonetheless...cause the problem with the future is that it turns into the present. Hmmm...average year really. Saves me the trouble of trying to recollect most of what went by. And anyway, I tried and realised these new year end thingies are not my cuppa, so refraining we are. No piece of me to shine a spotlight on. Very shy still. Horribly so. No resolutions, except perhaps to have washboard abs. I was laughed on at that one even before the new year began, so I start with daunting odds already. Sigh, non believers everywhere. Also, to travel. ...