Friday, December 21, 2007

A Heartfelt Epistle to Everyone on Foot

Dear Pedestrian,

How are you? In good health? Excellent. Because every driver wishes that a fat, juicy, , undisciplined pedestrian should be royally squelched under anyone’s car, but his own. (Why would you think I want anybody to die under my car and ruin the beautifully shining wheel plates? Geez…!)

Anyhoo, I’m taking the trouble to write you this letter, so that you may perhaps see sense and try not to ruin someone’s drive, although goodness knows you don’t deserve it. So dear undisciplined Peddy (can I call you that?), here’s how you need to behave when you’re walking in public.

1. You could try and not think of a main road as the personal space your father gifted you on your 18th birthday. You’re supposed to use a road (ANY road) as a thoroughfare to get to places, so don’t you think you need to EFFIN’ WALK FASTER THAN -0.345 kph/hr?]

2. Us taxpayers are paying taxes out of which the government finances footpaths. Foot path, get it? No? It’s a path you’re supposed to use when you’re making use of your feet to move. Does that ring any bells? Ah, I see the light of recognition in your eyes. So yes, when there’s a footpath, use it unless getting run over isn’t in your to-do list for the day.

3. When you walk, keep all parts of your body to yourself. If your arms and legs are walking in a straight line, why would you keep your butt dangling out? Don’t step out of the house unless all your body parts are properly aligned.

4. Peddy, my dah-ling…Do you hear a buzzing somewhere? No? Perhaps if you’d put that blasted cell phone away, you’d hear me honking my car’s boot out for you to GET OUT OF MY WAY!

5. Ah yes! When you’re walking in a straight line and you suddenly decide to cross the road to meet your neighbour’s pet dog at the other side of the street, you’re supposed to look carefully at cars that are whizzing at you. Since we drivers aren’t known to be mind-readers, kindly don’t expect us to sense what your next move is going to be, unless it involves being mashed up in my car.

6. For those of you happily married, and with kids, I’m sure you want to see them grown up (at least old enough to be able to shave by themselves). Umm yeah, so when you’re out for those beautiful long evening walks with the kids, don’t make them walk towards the side of the road. Of course if you want me to take your kid for a drive screaming and stuck to the bonnet.

And if you still don’t want to heed my kind words, I most sincerely hope that you get a leg or two broken, with treatment at the smelliest government hospital you can find. But do NOT ruin the drive of a good, talented and safe driver. Amen.

Loads of love (or not!),

Thursday, December 13, 2007


So ever since the cruel gym has lured me into it’s snare trap, I’ve been given a diet. Now to be fair on the dietician (who’s quite sweet, although hairy and fat. I mean, you wouldn’t expect a dietician to be fat, right? So much for motivation! And I should probably end the narrative in the bracket now, because so far, it’s longer than the actual post. Here goes.) the diet’s pretty alright. Normal breakfast, lunch and dinner routines, minus too many carbohydrates and lots and lots of fruits.

Now when I first got the diet, I was very happy, since it allowed me to eat chicken and fish (in proportionate quantities, hmph), and was pretty much the veggies, etc I normally eat at home. What could be better? So I had to give up on mutton, lamb and pork. Pah! Who needs those anyway? I’m all set to be a fitter, healthier person. I’m above all the worldly temptations like meat and food.

And chocolates.

And cakes.

And Tang.

And butter chicken. *gulp*

And mutton kheema from Koolar. *wipes eyes*

And masala papads.

And veg hakka noodles with chicken cooked in red meat. *help!*

And chewing gum.

And Parle G biscuits.

And beef (cooked by Chris’ mum).

And butter nan, lachha paratha, butter rotis.

And milk with sugar.

And coconut chutney.

And a gazillion other things that I took for granted in my entire lifetime. So if you have any sense, stay fat, let those love handles poke out of your t-shirt, your butt crack ooze out of your jeans and eat all you want. At most you’ll die 30 years earlier, but who wants to live those extra years moping about the food you could have eaten? Plus, there are a lot of stores that sell clothes ranging from size XXXL to XXXXXL and other Roman numbers.

And yeah, kindly don’t let my mum read this post. I bet she won’t see the wisdom nor the humour behind it.

*checks watch and rushes because she’s late for gym*