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.

Where's my sharp tongue when I need it most?

Background: Dot gets his hair cut on the parade of shops just round the corner from where we live. The main-man barber is a genial gent called Gary. In Gary's absence, his Algerian Muslim sidekick fills in. Also on the parade is the traditional local chippy (slang for fish-and-chips shop) which is not-so-traditionally run by a Punjabi family from Birmingham, who are probably way more British than I am. More on that/them later sometime.

Dot went to get his hair cut on Saturday morning and Mr. Haircutting Sidekick is the one cutting his hair. He asks Dot, while going through the motions of cutting his hair, are you related to the chap who runs the chippy?

Dot narrated this episode to me back at home, half annoyed, half amused. I said "you should've replied: I'm related to him in about the same way as you are related to Osama bin Laden. That would've shut him right up."

The "where are you from" or "does the caste system still exist in India" line of questioning does get my goat. Nevertheless, I am happy to put it down to mostly curiosity and sometimes ignorance, and I am even happier to help piece together the puzzle of my brown skin, Western name and surname, and my being a baptised Roman Catholic. I assure you, this has made for many an enlightened dinner conversation.

Yet, it happens very rarely that someone will say something so  racially ignorant it makes me cringe, and in even rarer cases, it will be offensive and make me hopping mad. Trouble is, in those very rare instances, instead of telling them exactly what I think, I am reduced to a quivering angry mess and blurt out something lame in response or, worse still, say nothing at all and smile. 

Ah well. I suppose I'll get them next time.

P.S. I have to shamefacedly admit that this incident happened close to six months ago and so did the post. Please do not bite.