To The Idiot Who Said You Have Made Your Bed, Now Lie In It

This confuses me.  It’s one of those smarmy metaphors on life decisions that looks like butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. You swallow and there’s a big fat pin in it. Lying in the bed you made is the final idiotic act after a series of actions and stupid, stupid decisions. Been there, done that, idiot who thought up this idiom.

So let’s do the metaphor. The making of a bed, good or bad is not easy. Decisions come into play here. First tough decision is should it be a bed for one or two? That’s a lifestyle choice. If it is a bed for one and there are no plans to double its size, that opens a whole other set of issues. If it is a bed for two, you are going to be lying in it with someone else. So the designing and ordering of the bed comes from this decision – single or double.

How much can you budget for it? Jungle wood, jackfruit wood, teak, rosewood, mahogany? These are life choices. You want it to last for two years or three generations? Then there are the bed boards. Ply? Block board, Marine Ply, teak planks, rosewood or mahogany. Buy it readymade? Or hire a carpenter?

You have to decide on the mattress – soft? Hard, firm, thin, thick? Cotton, coir, foam?

The pillows are another big decision. Thick, thin, hard soft, many or one per head?

Sheets, rough unbleached, cotton, fine cotton, rayon, silk, satin? Bedpread or coverlet? Brocade, knit, candlewick, embroidered? Duvet or eiderdown? It’s all about actions and effects. It could freak you out properly. How do you get that mahogany bed?

You have to make life decisions that won’t give you a crick in the neck or a back ache. And then you lie on it. So Idiot Who Thought Up This Idiom, it’s not as easy as you seem to think it is. There’s a lot of bad decision-making that goes into the making of a bed. You could sleep happily in it or it could give you curvature of the spine.

I remember one of the best sleeps I had on a mud road off a field in a Goan village. I was 10 and tired after a hard day of non-stop playing. There was a folk theatre playing on a makeshift stage in the field. The adults settled down to watch and my cousin and I wandered off for some unrelated entertainment. But we were both tired. It was dark and there was a bullock cart parked on the mud road. No bulls. The yoke was resting on the ground. The village drunk was sleeping in the body of the cart, so us two ten-year-olds sat on the yoke, we chatted drowsily and slowly lay down with our heads on the hard wooden yoke as pillow. The stars twinkled above, the theatre was in full voice and we slept, a deep, wonderful sleep. Hours later the adults woke us up, dusted us off and we trudged back home.  

There is an answer for you Idiot Who Thought Up This Idiom. Rural India has an answer for you. We don’t need beds or mattresses, or eiderdown quilts. We just roll out a rattan mat. We eat on it, we work on it, we dust it off at night and sleep on it. It is our dining table, our dining chairs, our work table, our bed. We wake up early morning roll it up, prop it against the wall, so snakes don’t crawl in for a quick snooze and go about our merry way. It’s cheaper, no huge decisions to be made, no laundering, no lumpy mattresses after a year.  Less is more. We won’t have to lie on our bed, if we don’t have one, suckerrrrrrrr!

SIMPLE, INEXPENSIVE AND SO BLOODY HEALTHY

Dear Government Servant who prefers being called government official

At the outset let me apologize for getting mad at you Government Servant. I now realize that it is impossible for you to understand why we, non-government servants, get mad at you.

We happen to belong in the private sector, some of us used to belong in the private sector. We are now sitting at home in a post-retrenchment haze wondering what’s going to happen if we don’t get a paycheck this month.

Now you, will never have this problem. When we, the Indian Private Sector, hereinafter known in this epissle as (ips) in lower case, because, let’s face it, in your eyes we are. Not like the IPS, in upper case. That’s the one which struts it stuff on our streets with absolutely no idea of what a police force is actually supposed to do. As I said, I cannot blame you for behaving in the constipated fashion you do. I will explain at the end of this missive why I use the word ‘constipated’*.

I cannot blame you; neither should any of the ipses in the country – because you have been born into this workaday world with bureaucratic red tape in your mouth. You earn a salary way beyond the level of your productivity. Your department is overstaffed, yet no work is done.  You have paid a huge bribe to get the job, so when you do have to move a file from Point A to Point B you sit on it laboriously until the ips pays you to get off your butt and move it. You have to recover your bribe money with more of the same.

Meanwhile your paycheck comes in with great regularity. If it does not, you run gibbering to the local media and sob about hungry mouths at home. And your paycheck comes in.

Now for us in the ips, we have no way of knowing whether that envelope we get at the end of the month will hold a paycheck or a pink slip. A large amount of that paycheck goes to paying your salary, so the ipses are actually feeding not just their families, but yours too. Because it is ips money that puts food in the mouths of your ugly looking family. That’s another thing I will never understand. Why are government servants so damned ugly?

WHERE'S THE BUZZ? Yes this pic is stolen, so sue me.

I gave the matter some pretty deep thought. Because to me, this is a serious problem.  Not only are the government offices, dusty, dirty and ugly, but the occupants exactly match the interiors. 

Look at private banks. Their surroundings are exquisite, their staff very attractive, dressed beautifully, always courteous and they screw you out of your money much more efficiently than the government servant does. But it’s such a pleasure getting screwed by a professional.

But you, Government Servant, you have it easy. You can never be sacked. You don’t have to account for your actions. Even if you are so wicked that even your seniors decide to bung you in jail, your family continues getting your paycheck. Truncated a bit by 25 percent, but your meals and stay is taken care of in prison, so it’s even-stevens for your ugly family at home. They continue laughing all the way to the bank.  That's right. I cannot blame you. But I can still hate you. And I do.

*I used the word ‘constipated’ because you’re so full of crap, Government Servant. All you can think of is how to cover your ass, grabbing as much grease as you can without it showing on your uniform.

Dear Tourist in Goa

A little common sense and courtesy is all we ask for. Oh yes, our tiny state is blessed with all that is fine and good, hills, dales, forests, rivers, fields, beautiful beaches, lovely people, PCOs and broadband. Okay, if you insist, it’s a gift from God. Kerala claims to be God’s own abode, but everyone knows when God needs a holiday He comes to Goa.

We understand that there are other beautiful places with similar features all over the Konkan coast; all over the country; all over the world. We understand that Goa is cheap, gives you great value for money and that you can get your eyes, teeth and several other body parts fixed for a fraction of the amount it would cost you in your place of origin. We understand that you have looked forward to this holiday for a long time, that you have planned it down to the last detail. That you will be talking about this perfect holiday till the cows come home. We understand all that, but we need you to remember certain things.

We need you first to respect this beauty that you come to revel in, so when you buy overpriced bottles of mineral water, canned juices, wafers, ice creams and snacks, remember to carry a bag to stow away all your empty containers. The beach, roads, gutters are not the place for it. Put it all in a bag and deposit it in the bin at your hotel.

When you buy paan from any of the vendors, remember our money has gone into the painting of our lovely heritage buildings all over the state and spitting red paan saliva on them does not merely distress us, it makes us mad as hell. If you must chew paan, then carry a small tin or container or portable spittoon, spit into that and empty it out in your hotel bathroom.

When you come here all shiny-eyed and bushy tailed ready for the holiday of your life, it’s okay to let your hair hang down, but don’t let all your body parts hang out also. It does not only embarrass us, it puts our girls in danger when the creepy crawlies who cannot lay their hands on you decide to get their jollies by molesting our girls.

Again, bras and badly fitting shorts crawling into every crevice and fold of fat, exhibiting angry red, wrinkled, freckled skin is enough to put a normal person off their feed for a week. Do yourself a favour; look at yourself in a full length mirror before setting off for the city, wearing beachwear. When you visit our churches and temples, a little decorum to clothing and behaviour is of the essence.

And to our country cousins… When you come to Goa from other parts of India, especially the landlocked areas, remember the sea is deceptive. It contains all sorts of threats that can snuff out your life in the most implacable way possible. The rip tide slides in from anywhere in any depth of water and will drag you far out to sea and drown you. When the lifeguards tell you not to swim in certain areas, listen to them. They are curt with you when they come out with their second and third warnings because they know that when you are being sucked down into a watery grave, they will have to risk their lives and limbs to come out to save you. And their lives are not worthless as you may think. They have families depending on them returning home whole after their day’s work is done.

There’s so much booze available in Goa and you sip and stagger like there’s no tomorrow. Do that by all means, but don’t harm others, or put yourself in harm’s way. If you cannot hold your liquor, cease and desist, have a mocktail instead. It costs a little less and looks more impressive. And for heaven’s sake, do not drink alcohol and swim, it’s as dangerous as drinking and driving.

We know our people are naïve, warm and welcoming. That our girls have a serene Polynesian kind of beauty, but like you they are just trying to get on with their lives. They are not prostitutes either professional or free-lance. Don’t ogle them; don’t fondle them; they don’t like it. Neither do the common folk.

Also leave our little children alone. When Goans get angry they will punish you.

Enjoy your holiday and return to your home state or country. Don’t visit real estate agents and try to buy land here. We have very little of it and we need it for ourselves. Also, there’s no guarantee that you won’t lose your life’s savings. Come back again and again. Goa will welcome you in her warm embrace every time. Just don’t abuse that welcome. We have a way of life here, we are desperately trying to save. It is this way of life that makes Goa so special. Help us to protect it. And Goa.

Dear Bladder,

There is a time and place for everything. Everyone has a job to do and your job is vital. You sit there right inside my insides and think no one can see what you do, or do not do. I have to tell you Bladder that I am not happy. Not happy at all with your behavior. Hence, please find, this memo to you.

I cannot abide slackers and since you have been with me for more than 50 years I can tell you we have both grown together. Oh yes there are times when I have not noticed you since I had to pay close attention to your colleagues at different parts of these 56 years. I know you are growing old, but there is no retirement plan when you are in my company.

When we first started out, we were young, very young. It was okay if you slipped up occasionally and did not do your job of holding water properly. Heck, we were both young and I remember how much fun it was jamming with you and playing with people’s minds. Just when they were all smiling and relaxed, bang, you’d open the floodgates and I would smile sweetly into their eyes while we gave them a total washout.

Ah,  those were good days, but at night when we were both asleep, you would not keep an eye on things, and I too was a very deep sleeper. I would wake up only when I found myself chilled to the bone, wet and cold.

But we both got the hang of things and then it was no longer a huge joke to smile over later. People would laugh at me, not at you, remember.  In the classroom; in the playground and that terrible, terrible day in the school bus.

But we learned control, you and I. Actually it was I who was controlling you. I thought you knew what was expected of you, and you gave me no cause to doubt, except when I pushed you beyond the point of no return. But you held in there and did not embarrass me. You did your job well.

Now I am appalled at your lack of control. I have noticed you going to rack and to ruin in these last few years. I think it was after my 54^th birthday. I find it strange to have to tell you your job. All you have to do is shut your mouth. It's simple, bladder. No leaks.

Added to that Bladder, you are aware of Husband, that blithering goop who insists on leaving the seat up in the bathroom. We really need a bathroom of our own, but what to do. So we improvise. I told him that you were not as young as you were. Neither am I for that matter, you and I are the same age, but one does not want to ruin one’s image in the market.

One can be patient and make excuses the livelong day, but there comes a time in a woman’s life when she must  teach Husband a lesson or two. Telling him to place the seat down again 17,875 times was not good enough for him. So I decided to teach him a lesson, where he would pay attention. I fitted clear plastic wrap tightly around the toilet and placed the seat down over it.

Right enough he whistled his way into the bathroom and I heard the zipper go with a flourish. I heard the seat go up with a bang against the flush tank and then a startled, “WOHOAA!” followed by a string of really strong language. He rushed out wet as to trousers and bulging as to eye.

Now I hear Husband too has worries about his bladder control and that delicate thing called a prostrate. I heard somewhere that when men pee sitting down on the toilet bowl, it keeps their prostrate small and healthy.  I just mentioned it to Husband and now the seat is down, well most of the time.

I have been told to exercise you often, do something called Kegel’s exercise, to contract and 

relax the urethral sphincter while peeing. It’s an interesting feeling, but you have to play ball too. Get active once again.

You have to get your act together Bladder. You have to be very careful to not embarrass me.

Dear dog who tried to bite me this morning

It is not cute. It is creepy. It is creepy to the highest degree of creepiness to try and take a piece out of my rear. Maybe your stupid owners have not fed you enough and you thought my juicy rear was a great way to get a week's supply of steak? Not amusing. It has taken me many years, my friend, many years, to build up a rear of this size. What a colossal waste to present it to you to fix your fangs on.

Also, I don't know if you have been inoculated against rabies. While I must admit I am curious, nay even fascinated, at the idea of barking at people and biting them, I like water and I like life. I understand with rabies you cannot drink water and you end up pretty dead. Ergo, I do not want to contract rabies through you.  So unless you can convince me otherwise in Doggese that you are not rabid, I am not going to let you get within biting distance of my person.

Today you caught me off guard. I was holding eggs in one hand and tomatoes in the other. Both you will agree are highly smashable commodities. You came in your creepy manner behind me and if I had not heard your feral breath and your ridiculously long claws clicking on the road behind me, I would have been sitting on the health centre's table getting my belly jabbed with anti-rabies liquids.

Fortunately, I think quickly on my feet having been brought up in the rougher part of a rough city. When I turned around and saw you with lunch on your mind, in a split second I decided the tomatoes would make a better assault weapon.

Luckily I buy tomatoes that are not red and squishy; I go for the harder orange ones. I could have flung the eggs, but tomatoes I can do without, eggs I cannot. All that flashed though my fevered brain with lightyear like speeds and I thwacked you on your stupid nose with all the force I could muster. Yes, I know you must have seen stars, I know that dog's noses are very sensitive and getting whacked with a kilo of hard tomatoes cannot be fun. But better you than me matey.

I did not wait to commiserate, I turned and ran for my life and what luck the eggs were in a hard plastic eggbox or I would have had the makings of an omelet all over the place. But you! If you had had any sense you would have run back to your home of hate, but you are stupid, and dumb and an idiot and a moron. You came after me, smarting nose and and all.

If you had returned to your home of hate to nurse your throbbing nose and wait for all those constellations to stop whizzing around it would have been a good thing. For the rest of my life, or yours, I would have made the necessary detour to avoid your salivating jaws. There was a small chance that you may be equally afraid of me but I would not be taking it.

But you came after me. That was a mistake. A huge error. There is one thing you should learn about me. I panic easily. Oh yes, I think quickly on my feet, but there comes a point in a quick thinking brain when logic quick-freezes and instinct kicks in.

I turned my head to see if you were really, unbelievably, stupidly, chasing after me. The thing is when I turn my head my body also turns, I think it's this slight crick I have in my neck. Or a center of gravity thing and a shifting axis. So before I knew what happened my body had turned right around and I was running towards you. At speed.

I saw the crazed look in your eyes turn thoughtful. Then the panic in your eyes mirrored the panic which was surely in mine. You tried to skid to a stop and skedaddle out of the way. But we were two meteors on a collision course. We met with some force. We both yelped as I fell on top of you. Yes, yes, I know it is unfair. I am 70 kilos and you are ... how much?  15 kg? I flattened you in a second. We were both winded.

You were yelping in a really sissy way and I was gibbering. A crowd collected and picked me up while your stupid owners came and peeled you off the pavement. The crowd shouted at the owners because a number of them don't like you. Some laughed. I found I was still holding the egg box and the bag of tomatoes. As I limped home, I could hear you yelping and felt a deep satisfaction.

Right now I have stopped hyperventilating, I have rapidly made and consumed a three-egg omelet. A steaming mug of strong coffee and I am feeling invincible again. Yes, the miracle of the morning was that the eggs were fine. Only three had cracked in the egg box. These egg boxes are bloody good!  Tomorrow I shall swing by with pepperspray. I have to show you who's boss. Be warned Dog Who Tried To Bite Me This Morning.

Dear Sadist who designed shoes for women and obviously hates their guts

I have never met you. I would not like to meet you. I do  not like what you have done to women over the years. We have enough hassles with leaking uterii (uteruses?) and cramps and bloating and people groping us in dark places, sometimes in bright places and you don't know what the hell to do, because everyone is looking. 

As I was saying, it is a tough life for us women, so only a sadist of the most vicious kind would actually force us to stand on the contraptions you call shoes. There are spiked heels which have got to be the worst invention ever. 

Most of us women are bad at maintaining balance in anything. Rollerskates, skis, frozen pavements, bicycles, chequebooks, budgets and there's that grey area of mental balance too. So to actually make a shoe and then raise it up to stand on a pencil heel, wow, that has to come from some really twisted brain.

The heel height and thinness of the thing is one thing. When you stand on the thing your entire weight then transfers to the heel. And then the brain gives out a red flashing signal saying, shit, the effing heel is gonna break so your body weight slides all the way down to the balls of your feet and your toes.

Which brings us to the reason why I think you need to be caught and forced to have ladies shoes fused on to your feet. The area left for the toes in ladies shoes is a joke. How can four digits and a big toe fit comfortably in a tiny triangular wedge? How can they breathe, wiggle and move? Toes like us need freedom, or didn't you know, Moron!? When they're  stuck together like that for so long, you know what's going to happen? They get squished and they stink! Moron!

Then the bunions form and you actually succeed in your dark evil plan to actually deform a woman's feet. The bunions stick out and get pretty painful and when where are we? We can't walk properly and that tiny pain you get? That's permanent Moron. That tiny niggling pain is deep in our brain.

Standing in that unnatural manner with body weight falling on squished smelly toes, bunions spreading out, you know what is happening to the rest of the woman's body? She gets curvature of the spine. Her backside sticks out and you fool her into thinking that it is sexy. It is not sexy. It is effing expensive, because you have to become a regular visitor to an orthopedic chap. And orthopedic chaps are effing expensive. 

So you say no one is forcing you to wear high-heeled pumps. No, no one is, except all the effing magazines and ads and films which show these lovely ladies with lovely legs saying how lovely their legs look ending in these fabulous heels. I know this is a canard you have spread. But you spread that canard to opinion makers and they have decreed that the more uncomfortable the shoe, the better you image.

Well I have had it. I am going back in time with a pair of Size 7 stilettos in my hand and when I catch you Moron Sadist Who Designed Shoes For Women and Obviously Hates Their Guts, I have outlined a Plan for you. I will first break your kneecaps with my stiletto heels, then I will make you eat the shoes, one at a time.

Dear neighbour who avoids sharing cost of building maintenance

You have five vehicles, six houses and you are five family members. That's fine. I have learned that your stress levels go up with each new vehicle and piece of property you buy. If you die of stress related diseases, I'm okay with that.

Your wife wears loud clothes and likes talking of how much you two help the community. I'm not fine with that, because I know it's a lie, but what can I do? What I cannot understand is why you refuse to pay a small sum of a little more than a thousand five hundred bucks. It was your share of the cost of the repairs to the roof.

Now I did  call you once, twice, thrice, fourice and fiveice. You answered only once and cut off my call on subsequent occasions. I sent you messages not once, or twice but forty-sevenice. Wars have been fought over less. You will agree I had reason and more for the actions I subsequently took.

The spray of quick acting gum in your wife's hair, just before she sat in her car was easy. A brief spritz was all it took. They had to cut her out with a scissors at the Church gate and the sacristan was not known for his steady hands at the best of times.

Next came your fat, ugly son. It was not easy chatting up the school bully, but once he heard that your eldest fat ugly son was trying to hit on his girlfriend, I guess things just took off from there.

I know it could not have been easy for your wife to meet the Principal to find out why your son was running through the school naked as a jaybird with red ants on his honey painted bottom. Not with whole chunks of her hair missing.

Your second son was a little difficult because I quite like him, but war is war. One cannot be soft. It's the end result that counts. The vanquishing of the enemy. Making a  Facebook page for him and putting Photoshopped pics on it was not difficult. He got 27000 hits on one day which is a good thing. His girlfriend dumped him which is a sad thing.

Your daughter now, she thinks she's the cat's whiskers. You know, I've never known why some idiot thought of cats' whiskers as something to be proud off. A cat looks perfectly fine without them. And they are of absolutely no use to anyone at all. Least of all to the cat. But your daughter now, taking a video of her while she sat alone in class was not difficult. A junior student had to tell her the class was in a different classroom. She went there and waited. I waited outside the window.

Now when you are alone you do strange and inexplicable things. Everyone does, but not everyone gets it documented in High Definition. All I needed was around four minutes of footage and I got all that, including her excavating deep, examining her treasure, sniffing her finger and then licking it. With the clip immediately uploaded on the internet - 45000 hits.

Then it was time to do you. Your family was already shaken and stirred. I knew of the room in your house with the big cabinet covered with a curtain. I knew of the large safe inside that cabinet. I knew of the loft and the contents of the loft. It took just one telephone call to the Vigilance Department and to the Income Tax department. Another few calls to the local news networks. Now you are suspended. Your days as a government servant are numbered.

I hear you want to sell your flat now.Would have been much easier on the pocket and the nerves if you had just paid your share of the repairs.

Dear People Who Say My God You’ve Had Your Car for THREE Years And You Have Only Driven 8230 km?

First of all you are nobody to tell me how many kilometers I can or cannot drive. This is a free country last time I checked. How much I drive is nobody’s business but mine.

Second of all I like driving on broad straight smooth roads. I do not even like roads with gentle curves. I don’t think much about slopes either.

My road, and let me be very clear on this, has to be straight, broad, smooth, no pedestrians, no cycles, no scooters, no motorbikes, no cars, no buses, no level crossings – therefore no trains, no stilt walkers, no elephants, no scaredy cats, no confused dogs, no buffaloes and no speed breakers. Straight empty roads is what I require.

But you chose to make this statement to me about how my car is three years old and I have driven only 8230 km. Because of that I decided I must drive, just to shut your damn mouths.

Now I am a person who prides herself on her elegance of mind and person. I walked elegantly to my car. I leaped elegantly backwards when seven dogs bolted out from under it.

This is important. Not driving around like a fool, means the dogs in the neighbourhood know that they have a roof over their heads for days at a time. The world does not have compassion. I have compassion.

Because of your stupid statement about years and kilometers, I began calculating how many km I drove on an average per day. Yes, your stupid statement made me actually do mental arithmetic and for other road users that is as dangerous as anyone talking on a cell phone while driving.

First of all I have never been strong in mathematics. It will be clear from what happened while I was calculating. I glanced at the odometer. It read 8230km.

Now reading an odometer is not easy. You have to take both eyes off the road. Said eyeballs have to read four tiny digits. It is very unpleasant when you look up and see the bumper of the car in front of you suddenly within bumping distance. Especially when your eyeballs pop right out of their sockets.

As it turned out Mother Car, yes she has a name duh, has always saved my sorry ass from an accident. She stopped just a hairsbreadth away from the other bumper. If the other driver was a bad one, he might roll backwards and hit my front bumper, which meant that I could get out and be the larger person and make snide comments on his poor driving skills. But the son-of-a-bitch moved off without incident.

I drove on and returned to my mental arithmetic. I told myself no looking at the odometer any more. Mustn’t take eyes off road.

That was a mistake. Soon as I told myself sternly not to look at the odometer, I just had to look at it. So I began snapping my eyes back and forth between odometer and the car in front of me. I found myself slowing down and the son-of-a-bitch behind me began tooting his horn. If you’re feeling horny go to a fucking brothel, don’t fucking toot at me.

I moved to the side and let him overtake, hoping I would see him being pulled out with pincers from the mangled remains of his car further down the road.

Then I began crunching numbers. 8234 kms in a total of 3 years, how many kms did that crunch to? I would have to divide the bigger number by 3. I knew that, but fuck knows why I broke my head dividing 8234 by 12.

Maybe because it was now 8236. That offended me, so I began dividing it in my head. Very difficult, a Swift wanted to overtake me, not only was the shit tooting at me, he was also flashing his headlights. Never could understand what is the fucking POINT of flashing headlights in broad daylight.

By the time I finished cursing him the odometer read 8238, so I got smart I would round it off to 8240. Divided by 3.  686 and 2/3. What’s WRONG with me? That’s 12! I was dividing it by 12! I want to divide it by THREE! Jeez how simple could it be? Okay now it is 8239! Quick quick quick! 8240 divided by 3. Divide or die you stupid cretin. 2746 and 2/3. Shit it’s still a big number. NOW divide the damn thing by twelve.

Now if you think a number like 2746 and two-thirds is an easy number to remember, well fuck you is all I can say. So I had to memorize it 2746 and two thirds divided by 12. Why 12? Because moron I have driven 2746 and two-thirds km per year.

Now I need to know how many km I drove per month. 2746 and screw the two-thirds, 2746 divided by 12. 228 and five-sixth. Ignore the fucking five-sixth. 228 kms per month that makes it. 

So now hah, we are coming close to how much am I driving per day. 228 divided by 30. 7.6km per day. Not bad. There you are, I tooted the horn triumphantly. 

I have calculated how much I drive per day. 7.6 is pretty damn good. I looked at the odometer. It was now 8250. I looked out of the window. This was not where I had to go. I had to take a turn off 10 km back. Now I would have to turn around. I have driven 10 km extra, so how does that add to my daily kilometrage? 

You want to know what it adds? It adds rage.

It was at that time that I screamed a primal scream, a scooterist was startled, he swerved, his pillion rider slipped off. His scooter ploughed into Mother Car. Wtf! He wants to make a police complaint. The scooter driver said I screamed at him right in his ear for no reason at all. The cop asked in a disinterested tone of voice:

“Why did you scream in his ear?”

“You are not going to believe it,” I told the cop.

“Tell me, I have to make a report,” he said.

“I raised my arm to signal,” I said, “I was turning right and a bee flew right into my armpit and stung me.”

“It was an act of God,” the cop told the scooterist, “adjust.”

I could have told him exactly why I screamed but he would not understand. But you, you have to understand why I feel compelled to write this letter to you. 

Do not in future express surprise or contempt that I have had this car for 3 years and 8 months and have driven only 8____, shit 8 months. I should have converted the years into days and then crunched the numbers.

Let’s see. 365 days in a year, leap year 366…

No.

It ends here.

Good day.