I have a true confession to make. I am ashamed to admit that I have not heard a single song by Taylor Swift. At least, not till I decided to write this column. I blush to disclose that the lady’s name passes by me as the idle wind. Her records have broken all manner of records, the number of ‘hits’ she generates on Spotify, Amazon Music and other similar portals have hit the roof and gone to stratospheric heights. The Beatles and Ed Sheeran can step aside, else Taylor Swift’s boots will walk all over you. Money, money, money / Must be funny / In the rich man’s world, sang Swedish moneybags ABBA, all those years ago, but even they must be gagging on their Köttbullar (Swedish meatballs), when they get to cast their eyes on Taylor Swift’s bank balance. I say this as a person who voraciously consumes all genres of music from both western and Indian sources. Pop, Rock, R&B, Jazz, Musicals, Classical from the western hemisphere, and from my motherland, Carnatic and Hindustani classical to Hindi and Tamil film songs, particularly those released during the 60s and 70s. That is a pretty full plate and difficult to do adequate justice to, but one does one’s best within the 24-hour time cycle.

Essentially, it all boils down to a generational thing. Taylor Swift represents a generation and a brand of music that I have had neither the time nor the inclination to sit and listen to. Or perhaps, dance to. I also realise that it is not fair to make a virtue out of a lack, and felt, that I ought to listen to the young lady at some length before I pass judgement, one way or the other, on the quality of her music. I should also quickly add that Taylor Swift, for the purposes of this essay, is a symbolic representation of other contemporary musicians like her, most of whom I have not had the pleasure (dubious or otherwise) of listening to, and cannot readily affix names to.

After all, when I was going through my adolescent years, playing The Beatles’ I wanna hold your hand and She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah, 45 rpms on our Grundig radiogram, my parents were, to say the least, not best pleased. My mother went so far as to say that these were sounds emanating directly from hell and that her sons were doomed and headed for purgatory. In order to steer me back to the straight and narrow, she would make me sit down and take Carnatic music lessons – first from her, and then from a qualified music teacher. Though to be fair to her, she looked more charitably upon Dancing Shoes and Bachelor Boy by Cliff Richard. He was more melodic and pumped less adrenaline and testosterone.

And so it came to pass that it was time to get an earful of Taylor Swift. I simply had to know what magic she imparts that makes her the most sought-after, or perhaps bought-after musician today. Fortunately, one does not have to spend money these days to access her music. It is all there on YouTube or Spotify, not entirely free, but reasonable annual subscriptions do not make that much of a dent in one’s meagre cash reserves, giving one the illusion of getting it all on the never-never. Incidentally, if you are new to Spotify, please dole out a little extra cash and take the ‘no ads’ option. Otherwise, your listening pleasure will be ruined by periodic punctuations of silly ad messages right between your favourite tracks. Take it from me, it is no fun being rudely interrupted by a high-pitched male or female voice urging you to buy this or that brand of insurance, right between the 1^st and 2^nd movements of Bach’s 3^rd Brandenburg Concerto. Sacré bleu!

What is it about Taylor Swift that every time I attempt to start writing something about her, I get side-tracked onto something else? Part of the reason can be ascribed to my lack of adequate knowledge of her evidently impressive body of work, the other part being a deep-seated reluctance to make the effort to get to know exactly what makes her tick. Somewhere in the dark and biased recesses of my mind, I am sub-consciously worrying that I might actually get to like her passionate outpourings, which could very well be the thin end of the wedge. That may not be an entirely undesirable thing, particularly if I run into a group of adolescent teenagers who are sold on Ms. Swift. I could keep the conversation going for a while, if not actually impress the hell out of them (‘Uncle, you are so cool’). That being the case, a crash course on the music of Taylor Swift was in order. ‘Greatest Hits of Taylor Swift,’ I googled. As ever, Google obliged with 30 of her smash hits for me to savour.

At which point I discovered that Taylor Swift was not just about songs and music. It was about short films, lavishly and expensively made, over which her songs were played and she acted, sang and danced with gay abandon assisted by a ‘cast of thousands.’ Songs like Love Story, Shake it Off, Blank Space, You Belong with Me, Anti-Hero and All Too Well: The Short Film. The last named goes on for a full 15 minutes, where our protagonist shows off her acting and singing skills. In other words, you do not merely listen to Taylor Swift (you can if you close your eyes), but you must necessarily watch her as well in order to derive the full benefit and impact of her talent.

 After a while of ‘watching’ this I felt like closing my eyes. None of those songs meant anything to me. They do not easily roll off the tongue like Imagine, Mrs. Robinson, Yesterday or My Way. If anything, Taylor Swift reminds me a lot of a souped-up version of Madonna from the 80s. Not that I had much time for Madonna either. The problem is, I am searching hard for the music, based on which these ladies have been raking in the shekels like you wouldn’t believe, and I am not finding it. If there is a smidgen of melody in any of these songs, it is being kept a closely guarded secret. Rhythm, there is plenty of I admit, but too much of an insistent, driving beat can only result in a splitting headache. I could be inviting howls of protest from the hordes who are yet to obtain their driving licences, but that is a chance I am going to have to take.

It is easy for me, long in the tooth as I am, to sit back and be hyper-critical of a present-day superstar who, with hardly any effort, can sing her way to the top of the charts even if she merely mouthed Baa-baa, black sheep. When I came across Swift’s Love Story music video I thought, ‘Ah, at last she is doing a modern-day cover of that lovely Andy Williams classic, Where do I begin? from the 1970 Hollywood tear-jerker, Love Story. Such, however, was not the case. A false dawn. This was Taylor Swift’s original version which bore no resemblance to the 1970 hit release. More’s the pity.

There is a school of thought that with some songs, a single listening won’t do justice. You need to play it a few times before the song sinks into your consciousness and grows on you. Other songs click instantly mainly because of a catchy hook or tune. Thus, I went back and watched / listened to Taylor Swift’s hit songs three or four times. I put them to the litmus test of going to sleep on them, waking up the next morning to determine if I could still recall the tunes. No dice. Complete blank. Which led me to the ultimate conclusion that Taylor Swift and her ilk have a massive fan following but clearly, I am not of their number. As I said before, it could be a generational thing, but I wouldn’t be holding my breath on the assumption that these songs will still be remembered and sung 50 years from now. Like Strangers in the Night or Autumn Leaves, for example. Something like Swift’s Blank Space is in the now, for the moment, purely ephemeral with no thought of the morrow. Her bank balance, however, could last several generations. Provided she does not spend it all on her wardrobe and make-up. Not to mention fancy cars and plush mansions.

In sum, I have to say that my not being able to appreciate Taylor Swift’s music has nothing to do with her performing skills. She is strutting her stuff and is adored by her millions of fans who are singing her praises. More power to her shapely shoulders. I have to look inwards and psychoanalyze why I am unable to rise to the level of musical sophistication being demanded of me by Swift’s oeuvre. As Shakespeare, who couldn’t help commenting on anything and everything under the sun, succinctly put it, ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves.’

Postscript: Taylor Swift’s recent performance at a Seattle stadium generated seismic activity equivalent to a 2.3-magnitude earthquake by the dancing fans. As Carole King sang all those years ago, I Feel the Earth Move Under my Feet.

Of late, I have been receiving a few friendly comments from a handful of readers who have my best interests at heart, to the effect that my columns tend to be a tad too long. Happily they are in the minority, but I tend to take any feedback seriously. I reflect. If not exactly riddled with self-doubt, I contemplate and cogitate. Rather like Macbeth, I am not even sure if it is a dagger that I see before me or something less lethal. Do many of the others in my circle feel the same way, and are only keeping their counsel out of a sense of propriety? The very fact that someone has bothered to write in and comment at all, is generally a welcome sign. In order to be even handed, I should also mention that there are many who write extremely nice things about my blogs, and thank you very much indeed. You know who you are. You buck me up no end.

Getting back to the vexed issue of the length of my blogs, I responded to one of my good friends’ comments about the piece being too long with a snappy, philosophical, almost Kierkegaardian ‘how long is a piece of string?’ To his credit, he responded with a terse ‘long enough to become a noose.’ On my part, this was not taken amiss. This is good-natured banter, but he had given me food for thought. Not that I had entirely agreed with him, but still, something over which to chew the cud.

Now here is the thing. On average my columns tend to weigh in at around 1500 to 1600 words. I go in for what is fashionably called ‘the long form essay.’ I could add here that, as long-form essays go, mine will come under the shorter version of the category. There are many distinguished, and some not so, writers who think nothing of spitting on their hands and dashing off four to five thousand words! Without batting an eyelid. Almost the length of a not-so-short story. So, I repeat my cardinal question, ‘how long is a piece of string?’

In the past, when I used to contribute regularly to a few newspapers, I had to cut my coat according to my cloth and restrict the verbiage to around 1000 words or less. Which is not something to be sneezed at, but one was constantly worried about having to curtail one’s natural instincts to spread oneself high, wide and handsome, in a manner of speaking. On the odd occasion that I erred in length, to employ a cricketing terminology, I darkly visualised some junior sub sweating under a naked light bulb in front of his desktop till late at night, burning the midnight oil and resenting the fact, sadistically wading into my piece with a hatchet. Apostrophes going haywire, semi-colons where none should exist, transferred epithets being re-transferred ruinously, sentences and paragraphs getting mixed up. It was a nightmare. Next morning, I would scan the broadsheet with trepidation. Furthermore, it did nothing to enhance my reputation when folks opened their newspapers of a morning with their hot cuppa. At least, now if a hawk-eyed reader swoops down on a clumsy mixed metaphor or a grammatical solecism, I can gallantly put my hand up and say, ‘mea culpa.’

Back to the topic on hand. You see, that is another thing. One aims to stay on the straight and narrow path sticking to the essentials of one’s subject, but every now and then, the main path leads us on to some interesting side roads, turn-offs and alleyways that require a bit of explaining. That is how, without even being conscious of it, the words tend to multiply. I could, of course, suggest to some of my readers that if ploughing through 1600 words feels like a steep climb, perhaps they ought to read my burnt offerings in two easy instalments. 800 words a day should be a leisurely stroll in the park. The downside, however, is that the suspense involved in the wait to get at the second instalment might be too stressful. Was it the butler who put the strychnine in the soup or was it the housemaid? So much simpler to read the whole, damn thing in one go and get a good night’s sleep. Incidentally, it was the squint-eyed gardener!

I am not sure how many of you have heard of the late Miles Kington. He was on the editorial staff of Punch and contributed prolifically to many of Britain’s leading newspapers and magazines. His stock-in-trade, as one would expect of a Punch staffer, was humour. I discovered him during my early days in a reputed advertising agency in Calcutta, where the librarian had the good sense to subscribe to Punch. More for the glossy adverts than anything else. I devoured the magazine and Miles Kington was my favourite columnist. In more recent times, I have been fortunate enough to access his books online and not a day passes when I don’t read and re-read his delightful musings.

The reason I brought his name up was that he apparently wrote a column a day, anything from 1000 to 2000 words. Yes, you read that right. For nearly forty years, almost till the day he breathed his last, this indefatigable humourist wrote a piece every single day! It would greatly surprise me if he is not featured in the Guinness Book of World Records. What is more, his editors swear Miles’ quality never wavered, and his choice of subjects could be just about anything under the sun or nothing at all. So here I am, wondering how to manage to write one column every week, huffing and puffing, without being gently rapped on the knuckles for contaminating my mailing list’s inboxes with tiresomely long pieces, when good, old Miles Kington could do it on a dime.

There is a personal postscript to the Miles Kington story. A story I might have told before, not that anyone will recall, and at my age, repeating myself is an occupational hazard. In my callow, ad agency days, people like Miles inspired me to write little snippets purely for my own pleasure. On one occasion, I decided to write a longer snippet, if that is not a contradiction in terms, and in a rash moment of bravado, dispatched it par avion, by registered post to Miles Kington ‘for favour of publication in your esteemed magazine.’ Which, of course, was Punch. We are talking mid-70s here. The post office charged me a pretty penny for the stamps to London. Rather ambitious, you might say, but what the hell. Young blood. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Or, if you prefer, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Nothing was precisely what I heard for quite a few weeks. Just when I had all but given up the ghost, a light blue envelope with a postage stamp bearing the Queen’s silhouetted bust arrived. Next to that was franked the Punch logo in black. My heart leapt upstream like a young sockeye salmon in season. I opened the envelope with great care, lest I should inadvertently damage part of the precious contents, took the letter out with trembling fingers and opened it. There it was, a Punch letterhead with a brief, handwritten note from none other than MK himself, which I reproduce from memory. ‘Dear Suresh,’ it read. ‘I found your contribution most interesting, but the format needs some working and as such we will, regrettably, be unable to carry it. Keep writing. Best wishes, Miles.’ A bit of a blow of course, but I do not believe I have received a regret letter that made me happier than this one. It is preserved in aspic. If only I could find it. For what it is worth, that article which Punch declined to publish carried approximately 1600 words. As you can see, I am wearing Miles’ polite nolle prosequi like a badge.

Eliza Doolittle, the charming, Cockney flower girl from the hit musical My Fair Lady (born out of G.B. Shaw’s Pygmalion) tells off her language guru, the irascible Prof. Henry Higgins with these opening lines of a memorable song, ‘Words, words, words / I am so sick of words / I get words all day through / First from him, now from you / Is that all you blighters can do?’ She makes a powerful point. Today, you switch on your television set to any news channel and what do you get? The Tower of Babel. Perhaps the Tower of Babble would be more appropriate, given how all the participants shout in complete disharmony and we grope to make any sense out of the proceedings. We are on far more civilized ground when it comes to words in the written form.

So, there you are. I had very pious intentions of making this a short and sweet piece, in order to please my friend who first pointed out the lengthy error of my ways. Once, however, I started putting pen to paper, speaking metaphorically, the urge to let myself go was too great. The blog took on a life of its own. You might say it is a kind of affliction, this craving to be long-winded but, as Novak Djokovic said recently, it is what it is. My English teacher in school during the swinging 60s would have approved, but in this day and age of short attention spans, the same teacher would probably have given me detention, six of the best and ordered me to write 500 times, ‘From now on, I shall not write an essay consisting of more than 500 words.’

There you have it. I have crossed the finishing line. Breasted the tape. The verdict is in. 1640 words. Au revoir.

Tennis: the most perfect combination of athleticism, artistry, power, style, and wit. A beautiful game, but one so remorselessly travestied by the passage of time. Martin Amis, celebrated novelist and essayist.

‘Anyone for tennis?’ Why those three words became a cliché for books published and stage plays enacted during the turn of the twentieth century and beyond, is a bit of a mystery wrapped in a conundrum and couched in an enigma. Typically, if you could visualise a light-hearted comedy of the sort Oscar Wilde was so partial to writing, the curtains will part to reveal the main characters going about their lines with all the sophistication and espièglerie you would have come to expect from a Wildean drama. All of a sudden, without any notice, without so much as a by-your-leave, a character will come bounding on to the stage, dressed all in whites, long flannels as prescribed by the sporting wardrobe of the times, wielding a wooden Dunlop tennis racket still encased in its wooden frame, exclaiming ‘Anyone for tennis?’ This unexpected and, let’s face it, asinine entry line leaves the rest of the cast somewhat bemused and befuddled.

The best response one can imagine is for a Lady Bracknell (The Importance of Being Earnest) or some such grande dame drawing herself up to her full height, her lorgnette flashing on all cylinders, ‘Don’t be silly, Algernon, we are discussing your forthcoming nuptials and you are clearly surplus to requirements. So be off with you.’ Thus chastised, poor Algernon does a quick about turn and disappears off stage, muttering something on the lines of, ‘Well in that case, righty ho, pip pip, toodle-oo and all that sort of rot.’ Which of course, is more Wodehouse than Wilde but I shan’t quibble.

That needlessly elaborate opening paragraph was only to impress upon you the fact that I have been completely engrossed in tennis this past fortnight. And if you still have not cottoned on to why that is so, you are more to be pitied than censured. If you are feeling a bit foxed or indeed, befuddled or bemused like the cast of that fictional play I referred to at the top of this piece, the answer is ‘Wimbledon, silly.’ The crème de la crème of tennis tourneys is the one that takes place in this leafy suburb, after which the tennis fortnight is eponymously named. In England’s green and pleasant land, Wimbledon, adorned by its pristine grass courts, is widely regarded as the one all tennis buffs want to watch or follow, and all players want to win above everything else. Not that the Grand Slams held in Melbourne, Paris and New York are any the less in stature but it is all a matter of perception. For us in India, the exploits of the Krishnans, the Amritrajs, Bhupathi, Paes and Mirza will always be inextricably intertwined with and benchmarked against the green, green, grass courts at London SW19.

However, I am not about to embark on a detailed analysis of how the tournament panned out this year. By the time you get to read this, Wimbledon will be on the verge of bidding a tearful goodbye to fans, players and royalty – not the money, but the sceptre and crown folk from the House of Windsor. The results will be in and we will know whether the human machine, Djokovic added yet another feather to his cap or if the precocious Alcaraz, the inscrutable Medvedev or the wafer-thin Sinner held aloft the Gentlemen’s Singles Trophy for the flashbulbs. On the distaff side, I include the likes of Jabeur, Sabalenka, Svitolina and Vondrousova*. (This is being typed up while the semi-finals are in progress). The influx of new East European and Russian stars every year, particularly on the women’s side of things, has led to our tongues being twisted like nobody’s business. In short, you can get all the results and how they were achieved without my having to weigh in with my two-bit.

In lieu of which, I felt it would be a good idea to concentrate on a different aspect of Wimbledon tennis to share my thoughts with you. Namely, watching the game on television and enjoying the running commentary that goes with it. For the most part, the commentary on TV consists of former tennis champions, mostly British and American, as well as a handful from other nationalities. Our own Vijay Amritraj has been reduced to an insignificant, walk-on part this year. If only the wretched, reverberating advertising commercials in between games were not so intrusive, denying us the pleasure of experiencing the contrasting emotions of the players. And what good do they do for the brands, when our thoughts turn so hostile towards them? If I were in the market for a new car, Renault will be the last on my list of preferences. Ironically, I say this as a former advertising professional!

At this juncture, I would request the readers of this column to indulge me in a small sidebar. Around the time that players in skirts and shorts have been whacking the ball cross court and down the line, not to mention the odd double fault, the Ashes cricket series has been gripping the British nation like never before. If you are a cricket buff, you will know exactly what I mean. The stadiums have been packed to the rafters, while England and their arch enemy, Australia have been going hammer and tongs at each other. No holds barred. Test cricket is alive and well. Even to disinterested watchers, this is not India playing Pakistan after all, the cricket has been riveting and we have been glued to our sets, switching frantically at times between Centre Court and Headingley.

So, what has all this got to do with the tennis commentary, or for that matter, cricket commentary? Tarry awhile. All shall be revealed. Imagine, if you will, American tennis superstar and super-brat of yesteryear John McEnroe in the commentary box at Wimbledon Centre Court, alongside former British tennis ace Tim Henman, describing play. Bear in mind that while Henman, being English, is fully familiar with the niceties and nuances of cricket and tennis, McEnroe knows next to nothing about the game ‘played by flannelled fools,’ but has a few aces of his own up his sleeve. This provides for some interesting exchanges. What follows does not purport to be a word-for-word accurate description of the proceedings. Rather, treat it more as an impressionistic word picture.

Henman – ‘Alcaraz goes for a monstrous forehand, mistimes it, ball flies off the edge of his racket, and is pouched safely at deep third man in the stands. And now a brilliant, deep return from Djokovic. Almost at yorker-length to Alcaraz.’

McEnroe – ‘What the hell was that, Tim? Deep third man? Yorker? You got me there, buddy.’

Henman – ‘Those are cricketing terms, John. Deep third man is a fielding position. A yorker is…well I’ll explain later.’

McEnroe – ‘What the %$#@? Are we watching tennis or cricket? Anyhow, Alcaraz lobs, Djokovic rises to smash for a clean winner. Slam dunk!’

Henman – ‘Well done, John. Touché.’

McEnroe – ‘I say, Tim. I hope I was off camera when I used the %$#@ word? I will get the sack otherwise.’

Henman – ‘Not to worry, John. They know you and know what an incorrigible crosspatch you are. They will be disappointed if you did not throw the odd unprintable expletive. Meanwhile, Alcaraz plays an exquisite forehand pass. Smooth as silk. Like a Joe Root straight drive.’

McEnroe – ‘Who or what is Joe Root? And what is a straight drive? Come to that, what is a crosspatch? I am going nuts here, Tim.’

Henman – ‘Tell you what, John, stay on in England for a few more days after Wimbledon. I will take you to watch the 4^th Ashes Test in Manchester. Just for a day, mind you, and I will give you a full cricket education.’

McEnroe – ‘How do you mean, just for a day? How many days does the match go on for?’

Henman – ‘Why, five of course!’

McEnroe – ‘Christ almighty! Five days? You cannot be serious!’

Henman – ‘Now you are starting to quote yourself, John. I can sense the italics. Yes, Test matches are played over five days, and guess what John? Even after that, sometimes we may not get a result. We could have an exciting draw or some very unexciting rains.’

McEnroe – ‘I am not sure I am coming to Manchester. I’ve had all the rain I can take right here in Wimbledon. I think I’ll take a rain check. Ha ha! While we have been faffing around on cricket, Alcaraz is clearly behind the eight ball in this set.’

Henman – ‘Hmmm. Behind the eight ball. I know that one. Baseball?’

McEnroe – ‘You’ve lost it, Tim. You are behind the eight ball. Billiards, buddy. A game you guys in England play so well.’

Henman – ‘My bad, John. Bowled, lock, stock and barrel. Let’s grab a beer at the Wimbledon pub. Oh, and look who is here! Ben Stokes, as I live and breathe. Taking a break from the cricket? Ben, let me introduce you to John McEnroe. John, Ben. Ben, John.’

Stokes – ‘An absolute honour meeting the great, all-swearing McEnroe. May I take a selfie with you and Tim?’

McEnroe – ‘No problem. Any friend of Tim’s. And what do you do for a living, Ben?’

There can be no snappy answer to that amazing question. Stunned, England’s celebrated cricket captain and Tim Henman hurriedly disappear into the milling crowds while McEnroe is left bemused and wondering if Tim has vanished with this stranger, Ben Woakes or Stokes or Foakes or whoever, without paying for the beer.

Cheapskates.

*Unseeded Vondrousova of the Czech Republic shocked Tunisian crowd favourite Ons Jabeur to win the women’s singles title.

 Why are you on Facebook? Why do you care who is trending? Did you miss your 15 minutes of fame? Van Morrison.

My participation in social media is negligible. I post my weekly blog on Facebook and Twitter and on occasion, I might make the odd comment, odd being the operative word, if some of my ‘friends’ happened to post something that I found particularly relevant or interesting. Other than that, zilch would be an apposite word to describe my contribution to these vehicles that so intensely involve and engage millions of people all over the world. At this point, I can faintly detect in the offing, a few of my readers bristling at what they might wrongly assume is a condemnation of social media and their active role in it. Or should that have been ’in them’? I have never quite come to grips with whether the word media should be treated as singular or plural. The singular medium or the plural media, if you get my drift. In such dodgy circumstances, I just go with the flow.

Leaving that grammatical conundrum to one side, in re: my imagined condemnation of the social media multitudes, perish the thought. I admire the amount of trouble people take to tell us all about their daily rounds of duties and concerns, their food habits and eateries visited, the music they lean towards, oftentimes breaking into song themselves, their travel plans, their pet hobbies as well as their pets and so much more. The downside is that a ghastly road accident becomes a target for instant clicking and posting, never mind extending a helping hand. Above all, politics. That is when biases, bile and invective combine in an incendiary way to give us agnostic, disinterested readers, some well-earned, if dubious, entertainment. Twitter is usually the vehicle of choice for verbal abuse. Therefore, I may not be an active participant, but I do commend the assiduous participation of people of all ages and denominations in social media, per se. Free speech and all that guff. More power to your shoulders.

As I spend on average, about 30 minutes or so browsing through Facebook, Instagram or Twitter every day, I have been able to arrive at some kind of categorisation of the posts that most engage social media freaks. I had already mentioned some of these heads, but I felt it would be an interesting exercise to elaborate on them, such that we get a more rounded feel for what confronts us on a daily basis. By no means a comprehensive list, I have merely cherry-picked a few that interest me. Now that Mark Zuckerberg has announced the launch of Meta’s Twitter clone, Threads, taking Twitter head-on, there is much frisson in the air. Elon Musk is having kittens and is threatening legal action claiming infringement of copyright or similar. Let battle commence. Seconds out of the ring, first round, go for it chaps and hit below the belt.

The Travellers.

Indians are now arguably the most peripatetic race in the world. They are everywhere. Or in the words of that memorable Beatles hit song, Here, There and Everywhere. Europe, the Americas, Australasia, the Far East, the Silk Route, the Middle East and, come to that, even the North Pole. The Indian footprint spreads far and wide and is as firmly etched on diverse soils as the mythical Yeti’s. Which, of course, means photo ops galore. In earlier times, we would lug our Canons, Pentaxes, Yashicas or Leicas and take careful aim at the Leaning Tower, the Pyramids, Sydney Opera House, the Niagara Falls, the Eiffel Tower, the Tower Bridge, Machu Picchu, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and so on and so forth. Yank out the completed roll of film and hand it over to the nearest developer and in two shakes of a duck’s tail, you will be poring over the glossy or matt prints with your near and dear ones. Plenty of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs.’

All that has changed now. We live in an instant world. Your mobile phone is your camera. Correction. Your camera is your mobile phone. Click away till you are blue in the face and keep posting for instant consumption by your publics, on Facebook and Instagram. That’s you standing next to the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen. That’s me sitting on a log somewhere in the dense Black Forest waving my trusty alpenstock. That’s you again standing next to the lovable 400-year-old Mannekin Pis (the Pissing Boy) bronze statue in Brussels, and that’s all of us biting into a juicy sirloin steak at Angus Steak House in Piccadilly Circus. The waiter took the picture. And hang on, is that Jeremy Irons walking past in Leicester Square? Shall I run and get a selfie? It’s not Jeremy Irons? Aw shucks! 257 responses in less than 3 hours. Mostly emojis, hearts, smileys and kisses. If you are a foreigner (as opposed to an Indian), you will be doing the same thing in front of the Taj Mahal, the silvery beaches in Goa or the Madurai Meenakshi temple.

The posts I really marvel at are the ones where the traveller takes a picture of himself or herself in the plane, making sure the backdrop clearly establishes he or she (or both) are swanning it in Business Class. Or even First Class. Raise a flute of Dom Perignon. Cheers! Then there’s the airline route map. Or flight path. Oh, the flight path! That is an absolute must. Just taking off from Mumbai. In nine hours, we will be landing at Heathrow. Will click and post the London skyline. After eight plus hours, London approaching, gradual descent. No skyline. No Houses of Parliament. No Thames snaking through the city. Only clouds. See the clouds! These are London clouds that rain on Wimbledon’s parade! Bye for now, rushing off to Customs and Baggage Claims. Will post pictures from the black cab. Bye for the next forty minutes. That is so cruel. His family and friends having to wait for an agonising forty minutes.

Eating out.

 Why so many social media devotees should be dying to know what you are eating on a daily basis is a matter for deep contemplation. Philosophers have said that you are what you eat, but still. Must we be subjected day after day, to photographs of restaurants visited and mouth-watering snaps of every dish ordered from soup to nuts, the wine list, and naturally, a close-up of the label of the exotic wine of choice, rounding it all off with the dessert? Othello’s envious green-eyed monster roils my innards. Many even helpfully post a picture of the invoice so we know the damage incurred. On balance, if one were contemplating a culinary binge abroad, this is useful. Less ambitious folk in India are also happy to share with us the refined art of making curd rice at home and how not to screw up the delicate business of cooking up a storm with tomato rasam and the Kerala special, the mixed veg avial. Yum, yum. A short film of the entire procedure is de rigueur. Bon appetit!

Let’s have a sing-song.

 Never mind what your choice of music might be, it’s all there on Facebook, Instagram or even WhatsApp. From precocious three-year old toddlers to spavined octogenarians, and every age group in-between, we are all closet warblers. And now, we are all coming out of the closet, in a manner of speaking, technology helping out with the pre-recorded background soundtrack. From Hindi and Tamil film songs of yesteryear, western pop hits of The Carpenters or Engelbert Humperdinck, Carnatic ‘hits’ like Vatapi Ganapatim or for that matter the infantile Geetham, Vara veena mrudu paani, a ghazal or thumri thrown in, if that is your bag – there is no end to it. Even your pet dog is encouraged to howl a few canine notes! All of it captured on your mobile for posterity, at times a pain in the posterior! I often wince with regret that we did not have mobile cameras fifty years ago, else many of our musical exploits would have been preserved for us to admire nostalgically, but after ‘giving me excess of it’ (to slightly paraphrase the Bard), I am not so sure. It might have been too much of a good thing.

The Twitterati.

 Look, there is quite a bit of sensible and sensitive chat that takes place on Twitter, but you will have to search very hard to find it. Needle in a haystack. Mostly, it is dominated by trolls and bots, political mud-slinging, engineered by the rival parties themselves. Even observations on sports personalities can get pretty ugly. This freedom granted to us to punch in pretty much what we want without let or hindrance, and repent at leisure, is a curse that has come upon us, as Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott might have put it. Those who would have found writing a 300-word essay with a fountain pen on a foolscap sheet of paper a gargantuan struggle, now fancy themselves as a latter-day Charles Dickens or Jane Austen. With due apologies to those two literary titans. For the most part, the posts are so full of bile and borderline toilet banter that it barely merits a second glance. So much so that the bitterness is spilling over into our drawing and dining rooms. Friends become foes overnight, and the idea of what is ‘politically correct’ to talk about or not has undergone a sea change. Better to simply sit back and sing a song, out of key.

Twitter? Speaking for myself, it is strictly for the birds. As former American basketball pro Charles Barkley put it pithily, ‘Social media is where losers go to feel important.’ He might have had an axe to grind and is probably guilty of making a sweeping generalisation, but one can see where he is coming from.

The law is an ass – Old English proverb.

I am at odds with the Karnataka High Court, which recently ruled that the act of a 38-year-old man opting to squeeze another man’s testicles during the course of a heated argument cannot be regarded as an attempt to murder. Now, in the normal course of sitting down to write my weekly blog, the subject of testicles would be the very last thing on my mind to expound upon. I leave that kind of stuff to urologists and others in the medical profession to mull over. Apart from which, strait-laced members of my family are apt to look askance at this sudden, unsavoury departure in my choice of topic. Which is probably the way it should have stayed, were it not for this morning’s esteemed daily newspaper. There it was: the headline, bold as brass, plumb, spang in the middle of the front page, Squeezing testicles in fight not ‘attempt to murder’: Karnataka High Court. Well, I mean to say! What are our newspapers, or our judiciary for that matter, coming to, I ask rhetorically. Stopped me dead in my tracks. After that, I had to read the whole, sordid bulletin.

This is what their lordships of the High Court had to say on the matter. The prose is untidy but the point gets across. ‘There was a quarrel between the accused and the complainant. During that, the accused chose to squeeze the testicles. Therefore, it cannot be said that the accused came with an intention or with preparation to commit murder. If at all he had prepared or attempted to commit murder, he would have brought some deadly weapons to commit the murder.’ One presumes the good judge said all that with a straight face. Sounds logical enough, if a tad naïve. After all, bare hands can also be used to strangle a person to death. Overturning an order of a trial court, the High Court, in their wisdom, reduced the punishment earlier meted out, from seven to three years imprisonment. Did not the prosecuting lawyer try to convince the court that if a man’s genitals are squeezed long and hard enough, it might well lead to death? Who can say? At the very least, his self-worth could get hit for six, and he will become a spent force, in every sense of the word for the rest of his miserable life.

So why am I not joyously strewing flowers and doing my version of the Naatu Naatu at this remarkable judgement? Why has my local High Court, by virtue of this verdict, given me pause? There is this great concept called precedent, much loved by legal eagles. They pass a judgement on some subject or the other, in this case that of testicle squeezing, and next thing you know, a precedent has been set. One is now free to go about picking up a fight and without so much as a by-your-leave, aim straight for your opponent’s family jewels. No questions asked. The poor victim runs to the courts, if he is able to run at all, seeking justice for the indignity caused. Not to mention the pain suffered, and is fobbed off with an ‘All right, we can feel your pain, but he was not trying to kill you, was he? Now be reasonable. Where was the gun? Where was the murderous machete? We will put him in the cooler for three years, with two years remission for good behaviour. That should straighten the blighter out.’ ‘But judge, where does that leave me?’ bleats the victim. ‘Next case,’ bellows the judge, bringing his gavel down hard on the much-abused high table.

My point, quite simply, is this. Why is a reduced jail sentence going to act as a deterrent to this habitual squeezer of the unmentionables? Which incidentally, the courts have mentioned in excruciating detail. He sits in jail for the minimum period accorded to him, his palms itching to get at some poor sod’s nether regions, because that is what gives him the jollies. He is a pervert. The whole insidious habit builds up into an uncontrollable desire, and the moment he steps out of prison, a free man, no one is safe. The warders lolling around at the prison compound better watch out. That’s all I can say. Why could he not have behaved like a normal idiot involved in a street brawl? Some violent fisticuffs and kicking one can understand, but squeezing testicles? That’s a no ball in any language. A sensible referee would have stopped the fight instantly.

Now here is the problem we need to bend our brains to. There could be any number of thugs in the country who would have read the fine print of the Karnataka High Court judgement with glee. And, presumably, with a fine-tooth comb. I know most of them are illiterate but word gets around. Then there’s always television for those that cannot read beyond ‘the cat sat on the mat,’ or its Indian equivalent. The television set is called idiot box for a reason. The upshot of it all is that these sons of Belial go around seeking whom they may devour, screaming ‘Your money or your balls,’ in the full knowledge that their heinous act will not attract anything more than a light sentence, or better still a caution, if at all they are apprehended.

Street crime will now acquire a new avatar. It is being suggested, at least I am suggesting it, that innocent and unwary male strollers protect their private parts with those abdominal guards we employed while playing cricket. In school they were colloquially referred to as ‘ball guards.’ In case you don’t have one or the old one has seen better days, you can always order it on Amazon. I know I have one somewhere up in the loft. I will need to fish it out and give it a Dettol wash and leave it out to dry. Never know when it might come in handy. As an interesting aside, here is a question for the ages. Why do people always laugh hysterically when a batsman suffers a painful blow in his crotch? It is no laughing matter.

This judgement has left me quite distraught. Or do I mean distrait? Never mind. Suffice it to say that you would not be far wrong in describing my current mental state as being discombobulated. One reason for that is that if ordinary men like you and I are in ever-present danger of being assaulted in unusual anatomical areas of our body, I dread to think what will happen to our good women. There are, I admit, some fundamental differences in our bodily make up, men and women that is. However, it is the principle of this ghastly affair that bothers me no end.

 It seems to me that these no-good yobbos who roam our streets looking for cheap thrills, need never fear the law anymore. If they are caught in the act by a cop and challenged as to what on earth do they think they are doing, grabbing someone’s breadbasket (as I have heard it described by English cricket commentators) in broad daylight, and that they had better come to the police station handcuffed, the criminal will have a ready response. ‘Look Mr. Plod, the judge has already spoken on the matter. Am I carrying a sharp knife? No. A pistol? No. Then what is all the fuss about? I was merely having a friendly chat with this gentleman who was reluctant to part with his bulging wallet. As a means of gentle persuasion, I proceeded to apply the squeeze to those parts which will elicit a positive response. You can escort me to the station by all means, but you will get no joy out of it. Probably a suspension for your troubles.’

The befuddled cop goes cross-eyed with confusion. He decides not to get crotchety about someone’s crotch. ‘I could not follow a word of what you just said. Now you just run along and we shall say no more about it. So saying, they all part company, leaving the poor victim of physical abuse abandoned, his wallet gone and facing the gargantuan task of initiating an infructuous court case. As a final nail in the coffin, so to speak, his baritone voice has shockingly turned into a shrill soprano. How was he going to explain that to his wife?

Honestly, those eminent judges at the Karnataka High Court have a lot to answer for. Perhaps we need to knock on the doors of the overburdened Supreme Court for a second opinion. A real testing affair, this issue of the manhandled testicles. A right, royal balls-up, if ever there was one!

Footnote: As if all this was not enough, a court in Gujarat recently sentenced a man, with heavy heart, for raping a minor. Just to be clear, it was the court that bore a heavy heart, not the rapist. I understand there were extenuating and mitigating circumstances, but still, with heavy heart? Clearly, there are many bleeding hearts in our judiciary!

As I am about to post this comes news from Bihar that a woman sliced her rapist’s goolies in the dead of night with a sharp knife. A surgeon’s knife and complete castration, without an anaesthetic, would seem to be the order of the day. If one might paraphrase the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland, ‘Off with his nuts.’

Let me get one thing straight off my chest. I do not understand the art or science of predicting the future. Do I believe in it? Do I repose blind faith in its mysterious and arcane ways? I do, when the predictions go in my favour. Else, I am dismissive. This is not to suggest that I am scornful of it, it simply means I haven’t quite got my head round how someone could possibly predict that a particular horse would gallop home in a canter, at handsome odds of 20 to 1 and make me a very rich man. Provided, of course, on a reckless dare I decide to plonk my hard-earned money on said horse.

I am aware that there are experts who study form, past results on the turf and all that kind of equine sporting stuff. There is science and reasoning involved. That being the case, I can understand plumping for the favourite at pretty low odds. That is how the form book is meant to operate and how racing experts provide odds. However, when some oily geezer sidles up to you and hoarsely whispers, ‘Put everything you’ve got on Break a Leg. You will clean up,’ it gives a man pause. ‘But that horse has a broken leg,’ you expostulate, ‘how do you figure?’ The geezer smiles enigmatically and vanishes. So, you do exactly what he said, assuming there are factors at play that are beyond your ken, and promptly lose all your money. A sucker is born every minute.

Betting on the horses is just one of many illogical things we human beings indulge in, in the fond hope that we can get something for nothing. In many countries, not in India of course, you can legally bet on just about anything your heart takes a fancy to. Just walk into a betting shop in London, and they will give you odds on sporting events of every description, election results, a political leader being assassinated within a week, an impending divorce in the royal family (at very low odds) – you name it, they have the odds. Why, you can even open your own book at the shop and provide odds on the next chap entering the shop being bald, of Oriental origin, walking with a limp and wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit. If, however, it is discovered that the said bald, Oriental chap and you had conspired to arrange that extraordinary coincidence, you may find you are literally minus an arm and a leg and rushed to Emergency, if you are lucky.

Let me move away from horse racing or come to that, dog racing, another lucrative pastime in the western hemisphere. Here in India, we set much store by predictions of a different kind altogether. Indians are big on such predictive hobbies as astrology, astronomy, the spirit world, Extra Sensory Perception (ESP), palmistry and other related mumbo-jumbo activities. Did I say hobbies? It is for some, but for many others it is a highly profitable business. From the richest to the poorest in the land, pretty much everyone wants to know what the stars foretell this coming week, month, year. The newspapers unfailingly carry a column every Sunday, where all the signs of the Zodiac are given the full treatment. American astrologer Linda Goodman became a worldwide celebrity with her books on astrology rivalling J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels on the sales charts.

We in India have had our own Bejan Daruwalla, now residing among the stars, and his ilk filling our heads regularly with things to ‘watch out for’ in the near future. Even the cynics among us (‘I don’t believe in all this nonsense’) take a sly peek at what the experts and charlatans have to say about our Zodiacal sign when nobody is looking. It is a kind of addiction, perhaps an innocent pastime. Let me quickly check on Gemini, my sign of the Zodiac. ‘Your dual personality could get you into trouble this week with a lady you will meet for the first time.’ Ominous, but tantalising. I spend the entire week looking at any strange lady who may or may not have smiled at me, wondering if there is more to this than meets the eye. However, nothing happens, the week passes, and next Sunday, it is a man from my dim past who is set to haunt me. I will say this for astrology. It keeps you involved and curious, but since you are a non-believer, you keep mum and anticipate silently.

I touched briefly on election results earlier. No general election in India is ever complete without some pundit or the other displaying his punditry with incisive predictions on which party is likely to win how many seats, cross his heart and hope to die, or whatever that expression’s Indian equivalent is. All this in mainline dailies and national television, watched avidly by politicians, psephologists and voters alike.

When I lived with my parents in Calcutta during my university days, every once in a while, a spooky looking man from deep down south in Tamil Nadu, would show up at our doorstep, his forehead liberally caked with sacred ash and some prominent scarlet powder. Unannounced. If memory serves, his name was Tirumalai (or Tirupathi) or some such. Why and how he should turn up in Calcutta with a list of addresses of many prominent Tamilians working in the city, was an unfathomable mystery. Nevertheless, when the doorbell rang, and the formidable Tirupathi (or Tirumalai) stood there, grinning from ear to ear, I was surprised to see him being warmly welcomed by my pater and mater.

When I came to learn that his visit was by appointment, I became fidgety. He was treated with great respect (filter coffee at the ready) and was asked to consult his moth-eaten books, strange-looking shells and some dried leaves bearing barely legible inscriptions in Tamil, along with horoscopes, to predict what was going to happen to each one of our family members. He could also read palms. He was versatile. My mother was dead keen that my future, including marital prospects (particularly that), should be laid bare. That is when I made my excuses and bolted for the great open spaces. My mother could have been yelling after a deaf mute. Damned if that put the brakes on this Tirumalai (or Tirupathi) character from providing chapter and verse of my future career prospects and my life partner in sickness and in health. To say nothing of evil omens I should watch out for. A black cat did cross my path as I scarpered from the scene, but I merely stopped to scratch its chin and move on. The cat purred in satisfaction.

There are also a couple of fortune tellers who live in some remote village or the other, possibly in a mud hut, who are regularly visited by all kinds of people from far and near, some of them extremely well-heeled. Apparently, this soothsayer asks precisely one question. ‘What time of the day or night were you born?’ No date, place or any other detail asked for. Most of us haven’t a clue what time we were born, unless the clock struck midnight as you emerged mewling and puking, in which case you are very special. Was it 2.17 am, 3.24 pm or perhaps, 8.31 pm? When I asked my mother the time of my birth she replied, with sturdy common sense, that she was in too much pain to recall. And yet, thousands of people approach these magic men with ‘My daughter was born at precisely 6.18 am. Please tell me, oh all-knowing savant, when will she get married?’ The savant casually pulls out a leaf from a crevice in his hut and declares, ‘In precisely 11 months your wish will be granted, and she will bear two sons and a daughter.’ Elated, the parents stuff some undisclosed currency notes into an earthen pot, and go away beaming with joy.

I can go on. In our country we have our own version of tarot cards that can divine the past, present or future. If tarot cards won’t do it for you, there’s always parrot cards. Haven’t you seen an old Indian pot-boiler film lately? The local astrologer sits under a peepul tree armed with a stack of portentous cards, unlocks his cage, and Polly the parrot goes hop, hop, hop and pulls out a card that has, metaphorically or perhaps even literally, your name on it. In any event, the parrot’s red beak ensures your goose is cooked, in a nice way, if you will excuse the avian mixed metaphor. Invariably, the parrot unfailingly predicts good things in the offing, that keeps the revenues flowing for its master and everyone happy.

Ah well, the westerners and the Chinese have their fortune cookies, we have our parrots and palmists. To each his own. As someone whose name escapes me once said, ‘The future can be changed. The psychic reads the map, but free will decides the path we take.’ Hear, hear!

Bore, noun. A person who talks when you wish him to listen. Ambrose Bierce, short story writer.

One of the most common words we come across in our daily conversation is the noun bore. It can also double-up as a verb. The word has several meanings, but in the sense in which I am referring to it, a bore is a person who is constantly nattering away about something nobody is particularly interested in, refuses to take a broad hint to cease and desist, and when someone else attempts to change the subject, bashes on regardless. Ironically, this kind of bore actually thinks he is holding his audience spellbound and must, on no account, stop short of expending all his energies on his endless droning. A regular windbag. A chap who would rather talk than listen.

A boring person is such a regular feature in our lives that I never saw fit to check how our famed digital dictionaries defined a bore. And you know what, the dictionaries provided me with all kinds of bores – a hole made with the help of tools, tidal bores that cause death and devastation, a hollow part inside a gun barrel – and so on. Any reference to a chap who sits back after a hearty meal, lights up a cigarette and sets the conversational ball rolling with a ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I went whale hunting in Iceland? I did? Well, you can’t have remembered all the riveting details, so let me refresh you,’ was not immediately discernible during my online searches. One had to plough through several more heads under ‘bore’ before hitting pay dirt.

All of which I found rather strange, as I am more apt to come across human bores on a daily basis, than the subject of borewells. Mind you, with the water situation being what it is in the world these days, mindless digging of borewells frequently finds a mention in our daily newspapers. For the purposes of this particular essay, the subject pertaining to all kinds of other bores will necessarily have to take a back seat to our friend, the human bore, who can put us to sleep within two minutes into his long-winded soliloquy. I have attempted to classify bores into various categories and see where it takes us. I have employed the male pronoun while discussing our boring protagonist. This is as much to preclude the need to tediously add an ‘or she’ in parenthesis as it is to make a point that somehow, the male of the species appears to be deadlier at the fine art of boring our pants off than the female. This is not to suggest that the distaff side cannot make you go cross-eyed with their conversation, given half a chance. It’s just that I don’t come across that many bores among the gentler sex.

With those few words, nearly 450 of them, I should dive headlong into the main subject lest I run the risk of becoming soporific myself. My classification of bores does not bear any specific logical sequence to it. It is more a top-of-the-mind exercise. Spontaneity is the watchword. You, dear reader, will be in a position to add many more types of bores based on your own personal experience. That said, here goes nothing.

The Oldest Member. If you are a fan of P.G. Wodehouse’s collected works, I applaud your good taste. If you are not, you are more to be pitied than censured. In a memorable series of golfing stories, where romance and skulduggery on the greens co-exist harmoniously, there is this delightful character, The Oldest Member. The capital letters denote his nomenclature as his actual name is never revealed. The Oldest Member of the club, sipping his brandy and soda, is long retired from his active playing days. Now in his dotage, he buttonholes any young golfer who happens to be passing, sits him down, and proceeds to torture him with long-winded golfing tales (involving young love) from way back when. Shades of The Ancient Mariner. Till his young victim, unable to escape, goes blue in the face. His fate is sealed. In this case, the master craftsman Wodehouse, paints the boring senior citizen in such a way as to have the reader in splits. To convey boredom without creating it. Therein lies the art.

The Retired Veteran. In India, we are not without a surfeit of our own version of The Oldest Member. You should particularly look sharp to avoid people ambling in the park with a walking stick who might have retired from the Railways or some public sector behemoth. Even private sector veterans can be a handful. My father-in-law was a railway veteran, lived to a 102 before punching in his ticket, and never tired of ‘regaling’ us with stories of how he would give the short shrift to anyone who even smelt of being corrupt and how senior government ministers would shiftily creep by whenever they passed his ‘chamber.’ The fact that these tales were being told for the umpteenth time had no bearing on his eagerness to unburden his soul. A sense of overweening self-importance is virtually a sine qua non if you wish to be a reputed bore. ‘In the good, old days’ was the storm warning!

 My old man, also now sleeping with the fishes, was a much-respected banker. Not an evening passed when, on returning home, he would not impale my long-suffering mother with heroic and harrowing (for her) tales of how he told his boss off for speaking to him in a somewhat peremptory manner, and how his boss slunk off, tail between his legs. And he would do this every other day. We kids found it amusing. We even saw him as some kind of knight in shining armour. My mother had given up the ghost.

The Dreamer. Celebrated English essayist and parodist, Sir Max Beerbohm hit the nail on the head when he said, ‘People who insist on telling their dreams are among the terrors of the breakfast table.’ We all have dreams; good dreams, bad dreams, but there is this insatiable urge to narrate it to the first person you meet after you wake up, in case you forget the salient details later, which is often the way with dreams. Which means the first target could be your wife. Then again, the good wife, having been a victim of your Freudian recollections many times, may have been a bit shirty with your crack-of-dawn drawl. Worse still, she may have also had dreams of her own, requiring instant regurgitation. It’s a stand-off. You are stumped. Which then means some office colleague or long-lost friend could be the unfortunate recipient. ‘I was trapped in a dank cave in a remote forest, the grizzly bear was bearing down on me, and as he leaped, I woke up screaming, in a cold sweat. What can it possibly mean?’ That you are going to lose a lot of money on the bourses? It would have been preferable to have dreamt of a raging bull, about to gore you in a China shop. Figure that one out.

The Cricket Bore. In India, one can hardly hurl a stone without beaning a cricket bore. I do not exclude myself from this dubious tribe. Everyone is an expert on the game. ‘Why did the chump choose to field after winning the toss? You know what Boycott used to say? Win the toss and bat first. If you are unsure, think about it and bat first.’ That is the critical cricket bore. How about the boring cricket raconteur? Again, like The Oldest Member of golfing fame, he is in a class by himself. My bureaucrat uncle’s veteran cook in Delhi tortured me on a weekly basis with his, ‘You should have seen Vinoo Mankad. He would entice the batsman out of his crease, ever so slowly, ball by ball, inch by inch. Next thing you know, the bails are off and it’s bye-bye, blackbird! Yes, yes, Bedi was good, but not like Vinoo. What, Vinoo cheated? What rubbish! Ah, you mean whipping off the bails when the non-striker backed up too far? That is perfectly fair. In fact, Vinoo has been immortalised by Wisden as the term “Mankading” a batsman testifies.’ All in chaste Tamil! And so, the long, dreary, boring night wore on with more such tales.

The Retd. Army Major Type. Head for the hills, if you run into him. He will kill you with his heroic tales of valour in the trenches and how he once strangled a Chinese soldier with his bare hands on the Galwan LAC. After the third large whisky, it will be four Chinese and two Pakis demolished with his last remaining bullet. Avoid this man like the plague, at all costs.

The Public Speaker. I have to end this diatribe on bores with this old favourite. There is a handful of public speakers who can enthral, entertain and hold our interest. I exclude politicians for the obvious reason that nobody actually listens to what they are saying. However, in more cloistered circles, we can come across some amazing bores. Beware of the fellow who starts off by saying, ‘I do not wish to detain you. You must have more pressing engagements.’ A red herring, if ever there was one. Fasten your seatbelts and stay for the long haul. In India, I have often had to face the torture of some sponsor-VIP being asked to ‘say a few words,’ plumb, spang in the middle of a Classical music concert. ‘I don’t know what to say as I do not understand Classical music, but I am humbled by being asked to address you all on the performance. What a wonderful concert this was. The Kalyani elaboration was brilliant. Pardon? Oh, it was Bhairavi! Dear me, sorry about that.’ Beg your pardon, Sir? Concertus interruptus and even the artist is not best pleased.

Celebrated author John Updike once said, ‘A healthy male adult bore consumes each year one-and-a-half times his own weight in other people’s patience.’ For myself, I can tolerate, with much reluctance and up to a point, someone who is offensive, rude and unpleasant in his public utterances. However, to bore your audience to distraction should find him a place in a sub-category among the Seven Deadly Sins.

When it comes to Hollywood stars, Al Pacino and Robert De Niro would rank among the all-time greats that ever bestrode the silver screen. Not that one can actually stride on a screen, silver or otherwise, but I think you get my drift. That was merely to take care of some literal-minded types who might pose the question. The two stars under discussion are both, literally and metaphorically, the thespian Godfathers of their generation. Products of the late 60s and early 70s, you can add Jack Nicholson and Dustin Hoffman to that Hollywood roll of honour. More to the point, Pacino and De Niro, at the age of 83 and 79 respectively, have just announced that they are shortly to become fathers. Did I say ‘shortly to become fathers?’ A small correction is in order as matters have moved swiftly. De Niro’s partner, Tiffany Chen has just delivered a baby girl, while Pacino restlessly paces the hospital corridors, a cigar stuck in his coat pocket, awaiting the stork’s arrival with the bundle of joy at his partner, Noor Alfallah’s bedside.

Once more with feeling. It goes without saying that their biological partners, of child bearing age could, at a pinch, pass off as the erstwhile heroes’ granddaughters! The mind boggles even more to think that one or two of these veterans’ first born could be old enough to be the new arrivals’ grandparents! On a more sombre note, human frailty being what it is, one wonders if these two magnificent actors will see out, during their lifetimes, the newborns’ teenage years. Of course, one wishes them a long and healthy life. Or do I mean a longer and healthier life? That said, there is much joy surrounding this news at the homesteads of the two megastars.

Given the immense celebrity status that these two actors enjoy all over the world, the approach of their impending fatherhood has caused much comment. The hyphenated Al and Bob (I feel close enough to address them with typical American informality), for several decades now, have been perceived as twin stars. Their movies could rake in the shekels just by announcing their names on the cast list. Such adulation provides much spice to speculate on this simultaneous announcement of the arrival of the patter of little feet. I can picture them in my mind’s eye, the two of them meeting up at their favourite Italian (Sicilian) bar in downtown Manhattan, lighting up the traditional cigars and ordering their favourite brand of Irish whiskey; the all-seeing Mafiosi keeping a protective watch over them.

It was not a particularly busy day at the bar. Even otherwise, security toughs had been hired to keep out any would-be priers. More to the point, the bar was declared closed to the general public till such time as the two celluloid Dons drained their last drop of Bushmills. Naturally, the conversation flowed. As did the golden spirit. If you are familiar with the impressive oeuvre of both these aging thespians, you will be better equipped to enjoy this private banter. We take no responsibility for the accuracy of the conversation, as we only have the bartender Fredo’s word for it. Robert De Niro breaks the ice.

‘Hi Al, thanks for coming down. I can’t believe what I just heard. You becoming a daddy again? At age 83? I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

‘Hey Bob. Stealing Brando’s line, eh? I’ll forgive you. After all, you reprised that role as the young Vito Corleone. And brilliantly, I might add.’

‘Yeah, yeah, but we are going off script here Al. Don’t change the subject. A baby at the age of 83? Well, I’ll be damned! Good on you, buddy.’

‘Look who’s talking? Bob, you’ll be 80 yourself in a few months, so what’s the big deal? You are not a brash, young Taxi Driver anymore. Let’s raise a toast. To our health.’

‘Cheers. Good point Al. There are more years behind us now than ahead of us. Gotta face facts. Not much time for those lazy Dog Day Afternoon(s). But that hasn’t stopped us from making babies, has it? Nor movies, come to that. No sirree bob! That’s my seventh just out of the oven. Or is it the eighth? Jeez, can’t keep count. Talking babies, by the way, not drinks.’

‘Hoo haa! Good going Bob. I stopped at three. Babies, not drinks. Or, at least, thought I had. Fourth on its way, any day now.’

Al turns to the bartender. ‘Hey Fredo, wake up man. Can’t you see our glasses need a refill. Don’t get me mad. You know what happens then. Don’t make me turn the Heat on you.’

Fredo, sweating, rushes to their table with the fixings. ‘Sorry Al, Bob. Won’t happen again. Here’s some nuts.’ The offer of ‘some nuts’ by Fredo, has the two stars in splits.

‘You know Al, you were always one for the ladies, weren’t you? I didn’t do too badly myself on that score. Scored frequently, truth to tell. But you? The Scent of a Woman was always on you.’

‘You are in fine fettle this evening, Bob. Your false modesty, however, does you no credit. Your reputation with the dolls used to be the talk of the town. “There goes Raging Bull,” they’d scream, “Better run for cover.”’

‘That was back in the day, Al. Those days are gone, gone, as bluesman John Lee Hooker used to sing.’

‘Speaking of hookers,’ Al interjected.

‘No, no, please Al. Let’s not go there. We have to keep things clean here. I have just become a father again. Like you, I’d much rather just be Cruising. It is being suggested that once your girl has delivered, we host a joint party. That is what our friends are very keen on. I am not sure how keen they are to take a peek at the babies, but they sure as hell wish to Meet the Parents.’

‘Sounds fine and dandy, Bob, but who are we to invite to act as the newborns’ godfathers?’

‘That should not be very hard to find, Al. Tell you what, you being the elder can act as Godfather for my kid, and then I will return the favour and play Godfather Part II for your little one. Favour for favour. What say you?’

‘Terrific Bob, sounds familiar, and should the need arise in the near future, one of us can also take on the role of Godfather Part III.’

‘You think of everything, Al. You always were the smart one. That is what Goodfellas are meant to be. A friend in need and all that.’

‘Too right Bob, but there is one thing about this special conversation of ours, which is being recorded for one of the TV channels. One thing that bothers the heck out me.’

‘And what is that, Al?’

‘Come on, Bob, don’t you get it? We have been drinking the night away and talking our heads off, and we cannot use any of the four letter or five letter abuses that so characterise our interactions. Look at Scarface, could you even detect a single word I said that was not an F-word?’

‘And with a Cuban accent too,’ chipped in Bob. ‘I agree Al. De Niro and Pacino gassing away and no swear words? That can’t be right.’

‘Just changing the subject for a minute, Scorsese finally billed me with you in The Irishman, and you had to put a bullet through my head. That was terrible, Bob.’

‘Yeah Al, I felt bad about it too, sneaking up from behind, but it is what it is. Well, we are running out of time. Drink up. One for the road, Fredo.’

So saying, they went bottoms up with a ‘mud in your eye’ and trudged out of the bar, a tad unsteadily. We can now say with some certainty that the Pacino and De Niro clans will live through much of the 21^st century and, who knows, maybe even the 22^nd century. Meanwhile, let us wallow in such famous throwaway lines from these two brilliant stars like, ‘I always tell the truth. Even when I lie,’ and ‘I grew up in a tough neighbourhood, and we used to say, you can get further with a kind word and a gun than you can with just a kind word.’ It does not matter who said which line. With these two stars, all their lines are freely interchangeable.

May they continue to make movies. And babies.

PS: Renowned actor Johnny Depp and Al Pacino are involved in a film Depp will direct about the Italian artist, Amedeo Modigliani. And guess what the film is being called? Modi, of course. That should set the cat among the pigeons here in India!

It is given to only a select few to sit in on meetings involving the most powerful personages of the land, those that guide our destinies and chalk out our futures. We, the hoi polloi, come to learn of these earth-shattering proceedings much later in a carefully orchestrated form. However, the common-or-garden house fly suffers from no such deprivation. It sits inconspicuously on a wall and absorbs everything that is being deliberated upon. The fly’s discretion is legendary. It speaks to no one and disturbs no one, barring the occasional foray over a sugared bun or jalebi, only to be harmlessly swatted away, whereupon it settles back at its appointed place on the wall. All ears, in a manner of speaking. We were extremely fortunate that one such fly, let us call him Lalloo, agreed to write up the Minutes of this high-powered meeting for our delectation.

The Prime Minister was at his wit’s end. He summoned his Lieutenant and, if you will pardon the coinage, Rightenant, for an emergency meeting. It had just gone past midnight and the PM’s two startled henchmen scrambled out of their beds, as did their chauffeurs, and they were at their boss’ residence before you could say Naya Sansad Bhavan. The sudden call from the big man had unforeseen and unfortunate grooming consequences. Hurried and harried as they were at the unexpected call at an unearthly hour, though they should have been accustomed to it by now, the Rightenant’s hair was in complete disarray as he had absent-mindedly failed to run a comb though it prior to rushing out. The Lieutenant, on the other hand, being follicularly challenged, was less conspicuous in this respect, but his understandably crumpled clothes left him in a state of déshabillé.

They were ushered in to the PM’s private chamber, where he entertained only his closest confidantes. One is happy to report that the PM, as is his unfailing wont, was perfectly groomed and looked as fresh as a daisy. However, his brow was furrowed with worry lines as he motioned to his Lieutenant and Rightenant to be seated. The PM was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he paid scant attention to his visitors’ slovenly appearance. Refreshing cups of hot, masala chai materialised out of nowhere as a Jeeves-like khansama, who appeared to float on thin air, placed the steaming cups in front of them.

The PM kicked off the proceedings. ‘Gentlemen, I apologise for dragging you out of bed at this late hour. That said, if I can be staying awake this late with weighty issues to disturb my beauty sleep, I do not see why you two should be snoring peacefully.’

The Lieutenant was the first to give utterance with a few hesitant words. ‘What is it Sir, that is bothering you? You appear distrait. And distraught. Please tell us. We are here to help with anything you need.’

At which point, not to be left out of the proceedings, the Rightenant weighed in with, ‘Oh, absolutely Sir, anything at all. Just say the word, Sir. Your wish is our command.’

The Supreme Leader sat back and absorbed these usual obsequies with an accustomed air and spoke. ‘There is too much talk going on all over the country, particularly through the media channels, that I am beginning to lose my magic touch. And if things continue like this, we might be looking at the wrong end of the result when the General Elections come round in less than a year. Any thoughts?’

The two helpmeets spoke as one. ‘No, no, Sir. That is untrue, Sir. Vicious lies. Perish the thought. Please do not pay any heed to these media wallahs.’

‘Why should I not? After all, I am told they are all supposed to be under our thumb. Or should that be thumbs? Even one or two television news channels which were sitting on the fence have now hopped on to our side. And yet, and yet, there is talk of research on the mood of the nation revealing some disturbing trends. Of course, it goes without saying that I am still cock of the walk as far as popularity goes, but that is not nearly enough. That other upstart of a fellow seems to be catching up merely by walking all over the country and growing an unkempt beard! And how did we allow Karnataka to fall? I burned the candle at both ends there and look what transpired? Very dispiriting. Then there are elections coming up in Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh and Rajasthan, and I ask myself, “what will the harvest be?”’

The Rightenant was on his feet. ‘Sir, I take full responsibility for what happened in that state, but our vote share did not fall. The JDS sank without a trace and the Congress benefitted. We will correct that in 2024. Not sure what you meant by the harvest question, but all indicators point to a normal monsoon. So, we should expect a bountiful harvest all over the country.’

The PM looked exasperated and turned to his Lieutenant. ‘Please explain to our Rightenant in words of not more than two syllables, what the import of my harvest comment was.’

‘Do not worry Sir. I shall do that later. For now, I would like to assure you that all those three states you mentioned, where assembly elections are due, we shall win hands down. As for 2024, the result is a foregone conclusion. All our plans and strategies are in place.’

‘You always say that we shall win hands down. It is the hands-up, palm symbol that I am currently concerned about. They will do anything to win. Freebies being distributed like every day is Christmas, Holi and Ramzan combined. Their young leader always chooses to bad mouth me outside the country, this time in California. First, he claimed God can take tips from me on how the universe works. Then he called me a specimen. What exactly is a specimen?’

The Rightenant was up in a flash. His had taken English as an elective at university. ‘I can answer that, Sir. A specimen is an individual animal, plant, piece of a mineral and so on, used as an example of its species or type for scientific study or display. The term is also used humorously and pejoratively to describe a person.’

The PM was not impressed. ‘Sounds like a great description of the young erstwhile MP! However, I can clearly see that the specimen reference was meant to be an insult. Humorous? I am not laughing. I can choose to ignore all this, but with elections coming up, we need to develop a counter strategy. I am still waiting for you people to come up with something, and believe you me, my patience is running wafer thin.’

The Lieutenant attempted to strike a soothing note. ‘PM Sir, I understand your concern. Rest assured we are wrestling with these challenges and are fully confident we will come up trumps.’

The PM angrily thumped the table, spilling some of the masala chai and staining the polished mahogany. ‘Never, I repeat, never ever use that word again in my presence. I mean it, or there will be consequences.’

‘What word, Sir?’

‘Wrestling. I do not wish to hear that word. All I have been hearing these past few weeks is about these wrestlers who even threatened to steal the thunder from my New Parliament House inauguration. I understand the proper expression is raining on my parade. Right Sirji?’

‘Understood Sir,’ said both the deputies. We shall look for some synonyms to replace the word “wrestling.” Sorry, I had to use the word just now only to demonstrate that we shall not be using that offensive term again.’

The Rightenant made a quick interjection with, ‘That was excellent Sir, “raining on my parade.” I could not have put it better myself.’

‘Thank you. I am flattered. I can take cold comfort from being able to impress my two confidantes at one in the morning. Adding insult to injury, someone likened our beautiful new parliament building to a coffin! The sheer audacity. Yet you wonder why I am worried? And before I forget, what a palaver over this Sengol business. Frankly, until a few months ago, I did not know what a Sengol and its significance was. Then this wonderful Bharatanatyam exponent from Chennai wrote me, explaining all about it. At least, now I know it is not a walking stick, as claimed by some famous people. If it was good enough for Rajaji Ji, Nehru Ji and his buddy Mountbatten, it is good enough for me. End of.’

The PM’s Rightenant was so moved his eyes had misted over. ‘Such a perfect summation, Sir. And again, “palaver.” How many people use beautiful words like that.’ He reached out for a tissue and emotionally blew his nose accompanied by a massive honk.

The PM winced and rose, as did the other two. ‘Gentlemen, I must get some sleep. I take it we can call it a night and reconvene tomorrow, if you have no big-ticket idea to share. Go to bed. You both look like train wrecks.’

The Rightenant nearly jumped out of his skin and urgently stage-whispered into his boss’ ears, ‘Sir please, do not talk about train wrecks either. Like wrestling, very sensitive subject right now.’

‘Oh sorry, how remiss of me. Mea culpa.’

The Lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘PM Sir, we think we have an idea that will change the entire mood of the nation in one master stroke. Your ratings will zoom stratospherically, and you could end up with more than 400 seats in the Lok Sabha come May 2024.’

‘Yes, yes, but what is this big idea of yours. Cat got your tongue? Spell it out, man.’

‘Sir, immediately announce that you are awarding the Bharat Ratna to one of India’s greatest cricketers, and right now, the undisputed darling of the entire nation. I am referring to the one and only Mahendra Singh Dhoni. Strike while the iron is hot. You will be the toast of the nation. Your ratings will go through the roof.’

The PM sat down again and his furrowed brow uncreased itself. He beamed for the first time. He stuck both his hands out to his senior functionaries. ‘What a brilliant idea! Toast of the nation, eh? Lightly buttered, as well. At least, I won’t be toast. And so simple, like all great ideas. They had their Sachin, we will have our Mahi. Of course, we shall make M.S. Dhoni a Bharat Ratna. Why did I not think of it? Please get my staff to prepare all the necessary ground work. We shall announce it on Independence Day. As per time-honoured custom, our President will give away the award, in case anyone starts wondering. Thank you and good night.’

The PM left with a satisfied smile.

Postscript from Lalloo the fly: Meanwhile, the young scion traipses the globe seeking new ways to put down our PM, but ends up only adding more grist to the PM’s mill. His stabs at irony and sarcasm lack punch and fall flat, but he bashes on regardless. Perhaps I need to shift my location to his family HQ to pick up some juicy tidbits. They speak highly of the walls there. Love, Lalloo.

The much-acclaimed movie, My Left Foot (1989), is based on the true story of Christy Brown as revealed in his autobiography and brilliantly portrayed by Daniel Day Lewis in his Oscar-winning role of the handicapped protagonist. Afflicted with cerebral palsy, the only functional part of his body was his left foot. He could paint, write, and do extraordinary things with it. I was reflecting on this heart-rending, wonderful film after many years for a reason. A week or so ago, I discovered that my nails needed clipping, and the nails on my big toes had grown conspicuously. So much so that people had begun to take notice; not in a nice way. Would you look at those toes. Ugh! Until that fateful moment, it never occurred to me that people looked at other people’s toes. It was the work of a moment for me to fish out my nail-clippers and get to work on the big toes. 

Now here’s what impelled me to start writing about my right foot, and let me state right away, the concerned trotter is not really deserving of being billed in capitals as My Right Foot. Just a normal foot that happens to be at the end of my right leg. As I got to work in right earnest with the clipper, I had to struggle a fair bit with the nails of my big toes, particularly the one attached to my right foot. Those of you who visit fancy salons for an outrageously expensive pedicure may not realise it, but cutting the nail of one’s big toe, left or right, is no mean task. For unfathomable reasons, these nails are much harder and more inflexible than the nails on the smaller toes or your finger nails.

Finger nails, on the other hand, can be easily bitten off without any mechanical aid. Just observe some youngsters watching the end of a tense cricket match and you will know what I mean. Bite it and spit it out. Nails scattered all over the floor. Why only youngsters, just watch former Australian cricket captain and coach Ricky Ponting, a notorious nail biter, sitting in the dugout. He could be playing a mouth organ the way his fingers are clamped to his mouth. It’s a wonder he has any finger left to chew. A nervous habit, and a filthy one, if the frequent admonition of our elders is anything to go by. Incidentally, did you know that nails and hair keep growing even after you are gathered up and buried. In the poet John Donne’s words, A bracelet of bright hair about the bone. Just as well much of the world cremates its dead.

Let me get back to my right big toe. There I was straining my back muscles to reach my big toe with the clipper. As you enter your 70s, or even 60s for that matter, these apparently routine tasks take on a different degree of difficulty. Once you have finished managing to clumsily cut your toe nails, a visit to your physiotherapist is in order to take care of your knotted back muscles. Perhaps those who deem it worthwhile to spend a small fortune at the tender mercies of their fashionable pedicurist, have a point after all. However, in my case a visit to a footsie (my nom de guerre for a pedicurist) would have been infinitely preferable to what, in fact, happened to me.

My inexpert handling of my right big toe led to some serious medical issues. As explained, because of the toughness of the nails, I literally cut off more than I could chew. Is that how the expression ‘tough as nails’ came about? Or does that aphorism refer to the other ‘nails’ that you hammer into wooden planks and joints? I wonder. Be that as it may, to my shock and horror, I discovered that I had been ignoring my toe nails, at least the one on the right foot, to a point where it had started growing inwards; an ingrowing toe nail. While I sat staring at the royal mess I had created for myself, a trickle of blood started oozing. Without wishing to alert and alarm my better half, I locked myself up in the bathroom, and did whatever I could with wads of cotton wool, Dettol, and some clean strips of cloth. A stop-gap measure. While the bleeding was momentarily staunched, the pain got worse and the best way I can describe what was achingly happening to my right big toe, onomatopoeically, is ‘boing, boing’ indicating a repeated throbbing sensation.

At this point, my wife had to come into the picture and I made a clean breast of it. She would have found out anyway. You can never keep a messed-up, painful toe under wraps for long. ‘My foot got caught in the door jamb’ would come across as a limp lie, to tie in with my limp gait. Next thing I knew, I was being driven off to our nearby friendly GP. By now, the fleshy part of the toe had developed a conspicuous, white tinge, possibly an incipient sign of pus formation. I feared I might be going under the knife, but made no mention of it to the better half. Little did I know that she was thinking on similar lines. Septicemia briefly flashed across my fevered brain. Anyway, off we went to the man who had taken the Hippocratic oath. He took one, disgusted look at the toe, let out a volley of oaths and pointed firmly to the surgical room, called his nurse to prep me for surgery, pronto. I wanted to tell him that the pain was subsiding in the hope that some medication might be prescribed instead of the ‘chop chop’ option.

‘But Doc….’ he did not let me finish.

‘No buts, no ifs, I have seen it and that’s that. Off you go to the surgery.’ Evidently, the errant nail had macheted its way through the nerves and any further burrowing would have led to serious consequences. He might have been condemning me to the gallows. (If you want a good laugh over this, watch the Fawlty Towers episode on YouTube featuring Sybil Fawlty’s in-growing toenail.) I swallowed and slunk off to the surgery and waited with trepidation, the good, old ticker pounding away like nobody’s business. Sting’s timely song, Be Still my Beating Heart played around in my head, but provided little comfort. After an uneasy half hour or so, the doctor breezed in, and announced that he will be injecting my toe with an anaesthetic (‘this won’t hurt’) to numb the digit while he waded into my toe with surgical knives and other implements of torture. The local anaesthetic was a blessing, as I felt nothing during this minor surgery but as my hearing was not impaired, I could take in all manner of sounds aided by a few ‘oohs,’ ‘aahs’ and ‘ayyos’ from the nurse. Clear as a bell. Which did nothing to help restore my equanimity. It was all over in about 5 minutes at the end of which, the doctor’s parting words to the nurse, ‘clean and dress it up,’ came like a soothing balm. End of ordeal.

 I still felt absolutely nothing and had no idea what had transpired. In a quaking voice, I mock-ironically asked the doctor, ‘have you lopped off my entire toe Doc, or is it still there?’ He just gave me an enigmatic smile and whooshed off the room, leaving me still uneasy. The nurse, who appeared to possess a macabre sense of humour, comforted me by saying, ‘you will be able to walk after a few days, even without the toe, Sir.’ I craned my neck and nervously peered at my right leg, and was greatly relieved to see a clean, white bandage round my right toe, while the nurse giggled, enigmatically. After the mandatory rest and recovery for about ten minutes I walked out, rather, hobbled out, my toe intact and the operation successful. The nurse asked me if I would like to take the severed toenail with me. I did not detect any irony in her voice, so I guess she meant it. I fleetingly considered having it mounted and displayed as a trophy, but wiser counsels prevailed.

So, there you have it. The story of My Right Foot, the capitals now fully earned. My point, quite simply, is this. If Daniel Day Lewis can be awarded an Oscar for going on and on about his character’s left foot, or rather His Left Foot, I don’t see why I should not go to town somewhat on the travails of My Right Foot. Granted My Right Foot is incapable of writing or painting, or doing anything at all other than mindlessly (in)growing itself a useless nail that is impossible to cut at home. A total nuisance in fact, but one can draw some salutary lessons from my trivial episode. The gentler sex, at least many of them, love to grow their nails and daub all manner of paints and polishes on them. We males are not called upon to similarly indulge ourselves, unless we are real odd balls. So, if you spot a nail growing more than it should, particularly on your toes, get thee to a pedicurist or chiropodist as fast as your feet can take you. Take care of your toes because your toes will not take care of themselves.

Leonardo da Vinci once said, ‘the human foot is a masterpiece of engineering and a work of art.’ That’s all very well for Leonardo. He was fully limbed from hand to foot enabling him to paint that famously enigmatic smile of you-know-who. Spare a thought for the palsied Christy Browns of the world, not to speak of amateur toenail cutters.

 It was a big day for enigmatic smiles (and giggles).