His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI - Cofton Park, Birmingham, 19th September, 2010

Waiting in the freezing cold, but quite happy with our vantage point location.

Cold and wet is no fun, but I am trying to smile.

As day breaks, they change the lights in the background of the altar to match. I am obviously not impressed and Dot's unusually cheery.

I'm awake at last, but Dot's beginning to give up the ghost.

Dot waving at the helicopter bringing the Pope from London to Cofton Park.

Miraculously, the sun came out and it didn't rain a drop from the time the Pope stepped off the helicopter. Spooky! We are obviously well chuffed at finally seeing the sun. Story of our lives.

The Pontiff is in the house. The crowd was going ballistic like at a rock concert.

The screen shows the Pope in his Merc Mobile kissing children handed to him from the crowd. The choir in the foreground was made up from children from schools in the area.

On the premises, making his way to the altar as seen on the fantastic high-definition screens.

That's the closest we got. He looked very tired and quite frail.

The sea of people.

Beginning to celebrate High Mass. The lady in the circle at the bottom right corner of the screen was translating the proceedings in sign language.

The beatification of Cardinal John Henry Newman, whose image they put up on the background after the ceremony was over. He was declared Blessed John Henry Newman. Beatification is the step prior to being conferred sainthood (canonisation).

Posing with the altar. Looking sleepy again.

The Papal blessing.

He left soon after the Mass and, as if on cue, it began raining! It was an incredible experience. He didn't engage with the people as much as I thought he would and all his speeches were scripted, but he is an 83-year-old man facing huge opposition on this visit particularly because the child abuse (by Catholic clergy) scandals being unearthed. It is a very onerous job and he bears the expectations of a changing Church. We did count ourselves as blessed and lucky to be able to be a part of his historic visit.

Cowardice v/s Self-Preservation v/s Apathy

Something happened on the bus last evening that took me back 10 or so years. 

Last evening, I was sitting with my earphones plugged in, listening to some music (okay, okay, it was corny 80s stuff on my playlist - do not judge!) watching the world go by in my window, getting into town on the bus after work. People around me were either chatting to friends, reading or listening to music and generally minding their business. The bus got quite crowded towards the end of the journey, and I was generally self-absorbed and oblivious to the people standing in the aisles. My reverie was rudely broken by some really loud thumping music I could hear over and above what was coming through my earphones. I pulled out my earphones to check and realised two teenage girls had got on and one of them was playing music out loud on her phone and generally chatting loudly and making a right racket.  I tried the glare approach and surprise, surprise, it didn't work. An American girl sitting in front of me was reading before all this noise started and she turned around and said to the girls "could you please turn the volume down, I am trying to read". Her tone was neither rude nor patronising. The girls sneered at her and giggled and proceeded to look away. She asked again and again was laughed at. I decided to step in because it also annoyed me. I said, "could you please turn the volume down? I can hear it over the music from my earphones." They said to each other " Don't know what these bitches' problem is? It's my phone, I want to listen to my music." I said, "it is your phone, but they are my ears, and I don't really want to listen to your music - could you please turn it down?" The girls retorted "you are the only two who seem to have a problem, no one else is complaining," at which point another lady who was reading said, "actually I do have a problem, it is also disturbing me". American girl then said she'd ask the driver to get them off the bus. They said again, "I don't see anyone else complaining". The American girl said, "that's because you look and behave like a bully, and people are afraid of being bullied by the likes of you." It made absolutely no difference. They swore and ranted, and giggled and mocked, and continued doing exactly what they were doing, smug in the knowledge that they had actually elicited a reaction from people.

Now, from experience I know, the people who either play music on their phones loudly in a closed space or put their feet on bus seats and are generally antisocial, are people who will do it irrespective of what you say to them. In fact, they'll do it even more if you somehow let on that it annoys you or bothers you. My problem with it is, what they are doing is not acceptable and unmindful of others in a public space, and there seems to be no way to stop them without getting verbally abused or, in extreme cases, physically hurt because you dared to stand up to someone who was antisocial.

When I say this took me back, I am referring to the problem of women (I travelled in the Ladies' Compartment on the trains in Mumbai)  chucking rubbish (chocolate and sandwich wrappers, water bottles, tissues, garlands, etc.) out of the window of a moving train right onto the tracks. Back in the day, I was a little crusader. I got into huge arguments with these people and it would all start with me saying "can you please hold onto that rubbish and throw it in a bin when you get off the train?". I'd then proceed to get told to "mind my business" or get sworn at and then the rubbish thrown anyway, just to spite me. This and the problem of people spitting, especially in a crowded place like a bus stop. I've also ended up being spat at and my family being called names I cannot repeat here.

I've now toned it down because it has never, ever made a difference. Yes, I suppose some might say, it will make the people who do it, think before they do it again, but I really doubt it. In fact, if anything, I think it might actually bruise their egos and make them continue doing it to prove a point.

The point of this ramble is, it was my business 10 years ago and it continues to be. It was my city and the space I lived in that the people chucking litter were ruining. I did and still do have a right to enjoy public space in its original state (even if that state is an unclean one anyway). Similarly, I do have a right to listen to what I want to listen to, and whilst not being unreasonable and kicking up a fuss about people talking, surely listening to someone else's music over my earphones is not something I need to put up with. 

But how do you register discontent or do you at all? Does it make a difference? Do the bleeding hearts all fall away into the chasm of apathy? Is it fair that someone who can physically or verbally abuse you, can most often get away with it and continue to offend? Am I being a coward and too caught up in my little perfect world to bother about something that's happening to someone else? If it obviously isn't going to make a difference, is it worth my peace of mind and time protesting? Can I afford to just not be bothered?  Is this just the way life goes? These are questions I have grappled with often and long, and I cannot seem to find answers to. 

So, to preserve my sanity, sometimes I protest and sometimes I don't. It still bothers my soul, that I sometimes choose to look the other way. I don't think I will ever make my peace with it.

Thank You, Internet

So, this post was conceived at 10pm tonight, when I was faced a washer/dryer whose drum didn't empty, there was a less than pleasant smell emanating from the rolling drum and the fabric softener refused to leave the dispenser. I was faced with the prospect of calling out a Hoover engineer at 110 quid a pop and sacrificing a day's holiday waiting for him/her, or I could, in true British spirit, do it myself. And whom did I turn to in my moment of despair? You guessed it, the Internet. A few mouseclicks later I discovered horrible reviews for my make/model of washer/dryer (where were they when I was making my purchse two years ago?) and, wonder of wonders, someone very kindly explaining that one of the reasons for my problem could be a clogged drain pump filter, which was fixable. Wet, smelly and messy, but easily fixable. So there, on the kitchen floor, on all fours, with my face close to the floor peering into the filter, while trying not to gag on the smell and trying to keep my knees dry, I thought, "whatever would I do without/did I do before the Internet"?

Dear Internet, 

Thank you for everything. 

I've turned to you to look up universities to do a postgraduate degree, read reviews about washer/dryers, find a recipe for Kerala naadan* meen** curry, find love, keep love, buy car insurance, buy shoes, find a home to rent, find a home to buy, buy air tickets, book holidays, do my weekly groceries, look for a car, talk to friends and family across continents, look up exam results, book my driving test, book visa appointments, buy postage, change my reading habit, for Kazaa and Napster, to start and keep a journal, buy clothes, donate to charity, send birthday cards and flowers, decorate my home, find out what that beautiful plant growing by the side of the road is called, get my fix of the news, share mine and learn from the thoughts/experiences of others on forums, aid my clock-watching on a slow Friday afternoon at work, and find step-by-step instructions on how to clean the filter of a washer/dryer, among millions of other things I simply cannot remember. 

You took my life and turned it on its head, and things have never been any more complicated than getting on Google, since.

Thank you for it all. 

P.S. The washer/dryer has been fixed and will be tested tomorrow morning (because I really don't want to walk downstairs to a flooded/smelly kitchen, first thing in the morning) - watch this space. 

*naadan - from the country or traditional (so I am told)

**meen - fish (so I know)

It is turning out to be quite a summer!

I have my fingers crossed so as not to jinx it.

Man, Woman or Person Who Swallowed a Box?

I was faced with this at the Thornhill Park and Ride, outside Oxford, while dying for a wee, and so I did not at all appreciate being subjected to an extra two seconds' wait to work out whether I was going into the correct toilet.

Yes, you will now say to me that I really should have just focussed on the tiny skirt (?) or tilted my head sideways to read the very arty-farty metal lettering that, in case you are wondering, says FEMALE. Let's face it, wouldn't it have been easier to have it just read 'Women' or 'Ladies' with the usual bog-standard stick figure image? 

As an aside, I find it intriguing and mildly amusing that Baby Nappy Changing Units are always located in the Ladies' toilet if there isn't enough space to give them a separate room. Are there never any men who may a) travel alone with babies and/or b) would like to change their babies' nappies?

Happy Husband's Birthday To Me

Dot turned a mighty 33 last week and unfortunately was travelling for work on the day and was going to spend most of it in another country all by himself (cue: "Awww!"). His not being in the country, however, did not mean he missed out on presents and/or a celebration (cue: "Lucky, lucky chap!"). 

Here he is at the stroke of midnight with a few of his presents. 

The sheet of paper he is holding up is my present to him - a tour of the BMW MINI Car Factory which is in Oxford. It is the only place in the whole world that builds Minis, and no matter where in the world you drive one, it has come off the production line at their plant in Cowley. Now there's something about Oxford you didn't know! We're not called "the city of dreaming spires and screeching tyres" for nothing.    

For MINI virgins like myself, it was an eye-opener to learn that no two MINIs are identical (well about 2 in 200,000 may be) as you can kit out your MINI from a multitude of options ranging from colour of alloys to decal on the wing mirrors. If you don't believe me, try their Car Configurator. It makes choices like colour, transmission and number of doors seem so last century!

The experience of being on the production floor is something I will never forget! We worked our way backwards from completed car to naked metal framework, first visiting the assembly line, where the painted frame comes in from the Paint Shop, and things like the windscreen, the cockpit the doors, the wheels, the exhaust system, the electrical wiring harness, bumpers, lights, etc. get fitted on, one by one, either by their associates (term used for every person who works in the factory irrespective of role) or by robots (Oh My God!). How boring would it be if every car being made had identical features - yawn! The task of finishing a car is made immensely complicated by each MINI having its every detail customised, as you can imagine. It was a marvel to watch how everything was coded and lined up and checked to make sure every piece was just so. We learnt and watched how all relevant information about a particular MINI is coded into its key. From what date/time a certain component was installed to service information and everything else you could possibly imagine about the car statistics, all there - in one key (well they do give you a duplicate, but lose those and you may as well scrap your car). 

And then there were the robots!! We visited the Body Shop (where the frame of the car is built)  and watched in open-mouthed fascination as in a warhouse-type building (as large as 14 football pitches, it might have been) there were less than 30 human beings and it was full of giant robots. Orange in colour with scores of wires sticking out of and into them, six to ten times as tall as me, flailing their arms about wildly and doing a lot of buzzing and welding and all sorts. There was method to their madness, we were told, as they were resistance welding little pieces of metal together with tremendous precision and consummate ease. Walking through the maze of robots in cages with sparks flying felt like being in the Matrix! At some point, we even began to fear that the machine revolt the sci-fi movies keep talking about may not just be a cinematic 

For obvious reasons, photography was not permitted on the production floor, but here is the video from the MINI website that will hopefully give you some idea of the scale and sheer magnificence of it all:

MINI Manufacturing Video

The Paint Shop was off bounds because of health and safety reasons with paint fumes, which was a shame, but we did get to visit the museum which was small but a real treat. Here we are with our overalls and me with my Body Shop protective yellow goggles. 

Here I am with the Austin Powers MINI (Dot said it matched what I was wearing) and here is Dot with Le Corbusier LC4 Cowhide Chaise Longue inspired MINI. It is absolutely stunning.

And then there was this Austin MINI Wildgoose campervan straight from the 1960s...

...the Italian Job special MINI customised with bullion decal, autographed by Michael Caine and his daughter  Natasha Caine ...

and Dot with a sample robot that seemed much friendlier than the ones in the body shop, considering he was stationary (could be a she - I couldn't say for sure).

Please forgive the extra exclamation points and gushing - I still am overwhelmed (in a good way) and cannot get over it all. If you are visiting Oxford and would like to do this tour, drop me a line and I'll be happy to help you arrange it.

I hope Dot remembers that it's my birthday in November. 

Pieces of Home

The pictures are painted on tile and are (from left to right):

1. A typical Portuguese-built home's window. (Spardha tells me the art form is called azulejo - thank you!) 

2. The Basilica of Bom Jesu where the body of St. Francis Xavier is kept.

3. A typical village cross.

4. The church of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, a Panaji landmark.

These tiles were bought at the GTDC (Goa Tourism Development Corporation) shop in Mapusa, manned by a very unfriendly and strange man who didn't seem to get a word of what we said in either Konkanni nor English nor Hindi, but kept talking at us and about us to someone else who was in the shop! The tiles were a steal at Rs.200 each! They came with a pre-attached hook at the back, making hanging them up very easy. Their new home is on the beam that runs halfway down our kitchen ceiling and they look very pretty there, if I may say so myself!

Cross-posted here by the lovely M.

Belated Happy Birthday My Darling Papa

Please don't be mad at me. I didn't forget your birthday - only skipped wishing you publicly. Don't get me started about my connectivity woes!

We went home this year, but it wasn't the same without you. Your side of the bed. Your shelf in the cupboard. The place you kept your 'prayers'* and glasses. Empty. 

We did celebrate your birthday, though! It was a lovely day when the family got together in Savio's new home and had a fabulously fishy lunch in celebration. You'd have been very pleased. It was a lovely day spent chilling out and reminiscing, but, above all, being happy together.

One more year without you has flown right by. It hasn't been without its share of drama, and yet, I am grateful for all the good things that have come out of it. I am slowly, and sometimes painfully, learning your admirable quality of serenity. You always said, what will be, will be. I miss you and wonder where you are and what you're up to. I talk about us often - you and me, what you would've said, what you would've done. I still have a good cry every once in a while, but, on the bright side, Dot has taken on the role of official tea-maker in our home and is filling your shoes admirably - you would be very proud of him! 

I know I don't need to tell you, but please continue to keep an eye on us. And when life is not going the way I want it to, remind me to look at the bigger picture and to focus on what matters.

Stay cool, my old man. I love you.

*My dad had a little wodge of religious paraphernalia held together by a rubber band which he called his 'prayers' and never went anywhere without it.

The Bag Lady

So, I've been on this mission. To try and make local friends of the 'desi' variety. It's a mission born out of much thought and deliberation - a whole four years' worth. The background is too tedious to recount, so I'll cut to the chase. 

This morning, I got into the bus at my usual stop, and I spotted the only empty seat, next to this girl I've seen on the bus before. She is most definitely from the subcontinent, and, most likely, Indian. I went over and thought, "this is good - finding a seat and seizing an opportunity to make a new friend - well done me!". I smiled warmly and she did smile back - great start. She began to look away, outside the window. I was killing myself trying to think of something to say to break the ice and then I spotted the perfect pretext to chat. She was carrying a beautiful dark red leather bag - the one I've known to be available in handicraft shops or the likes of Delhi and Calcutta; the ones printed with flowers or a pattern of some sort, with contrasting colours. It did look absolutely lovely.

The conversation went something like this:

Me (Saying): That's a beautiful bag you have there

Girl (Saying): Thank you, it is from Australia".

Me (Thinking): Score! We have Australia in common! This is going remarkably well! 

Me (Saying): Wow - it really is lovely!

Girl (Half-smiling, turning to look outside the window, and probably thinking):  I love my bag. I am so cool.

Me (Thinking): Uh oh! She's probably a woman of few words. She didn't say anything further so there go my chances of Australia bonding.

Me (Saying): Erm....did you buy it here or online, or in Australia?

Girl (Not smiling and saying): No. It was a gift from Australia.

She then proceeded to clutch her bag really tight and physically turn to the window to reinforce the message. I was left feeling like a right numpty! 

Girl (Probably thinking): That'll teach me to smile at strangers!

Dinner at the Lonely Hearts Club

It's almost a ritual. 

When I know Dot is going to be away, I make fanciful plans for what food experiments I am going to conduct. These experiments are much easier to conduct when you're not thinking about the central reason why all food should be eaten - to satisfy hunger; as is the case every evening when we get home from work. Also, he does lab-test all my endeavours for me, but it just seems unfair to keep subjecting him to it. So when I learn of Dot's impending  travel, my chef brain goes into overdrive. Elaborate lists are made in preparation for evenings filled with mixing, baking, tasting, etc. 

I also make very grand plans for how much housework I am going to achieve when I get home from work. Indexing bills, restoring civilsation to the wardrobe, bleach-scrubbing bathroom grout, ....you know, things that you would like to do (or wish they got done by themselves somehow) to validate your domestic goddess status. I like to have it all, thank you very much.

And yet, it happens every single time. 

I spend every evening he is away, horizontal on the couch, watching reality TV dross, eating....wait for it........instant noodles. I fall asleep dressed in the same clothes I went to work in, wake up at 1am or thereabouts with a crick in my neck, drag myself upstairs, change (sometimes) and get into bed to continue the sleeping. 

Rinse, repeat. 

I really must miss him.