Saturday 23 February
Day 3 in India. Feels almost like Day 300.
Oysters, holidays, Portslade and all that jazz.
Today is a good day.
Even though Mumbai Metro hotel is on one of the busiest roads, I understand, of commercial Mumbai (according to Mr Hotel Receptionist who spent a year working in some american hotel chain for a year in Coventry. Ha, sent to Coventry ... no wonder he thought that english people were racist. The poor young fellow prefers our american/canadian counterparts. They tend to say it like it is) - the stench of the stagnant river, the 2 massive construction sites, the beggars, the commuters - the everything of that 300m stretch of Sakinaka Junction, Andheri East, to the corner of Marol Maroshi road, to Marol Residency where I ended up staying on my first night in India ...
... well, yesterday, I nearly threw up from the pollution, stench of the dead stagnant river, getting back here to Marol. Which I now consider to be my 'home'. The surburban corner a few door along from Marol Residency has enough humanity to last a girl like me a short lifetime. On Day 1, I stood there and marvelled at the idea of an Indian 'suburb'. Breathed, then when the threat of a couple of tears welled up in the old eyeballs, that's when I had to stop breathing.
In spite of all that, I still managed to give away a beautiful pair of handstitched Mexican-made cowboy boots, which have been with me since St Marie de la Mare, Provence, where the culture is more Romany and gaucho culture, than it is provincial pomanders ... (to a bemused cobbler not far from the hotel.)
Bought boots from a holiday taken with Mr DB. And what a brilliant holiday it was. Missed the Killer Mosquitos there, saw flamingoes fly in RAF formation for the first time. Hilarious. Serge Gainsbourg playing on the bootleg CD in hire vehicle, bought in Nimes from where we were returning.
There I discovered probably for the first time that I had started my allergy to oysters, en Provence. I was sick as a dog on the very first night of arriving at our budget, but beautiful chalet near St Marie de la Mare, I persisted on the oyster cuntal obsession for a good 3 years more. Three countries and capitals later, again in St Marie de la Mare (capital of the Romany Gypsies, I believe) near the bullring, and a beautifully clean oyster-only sunny cubby hole - 5 days later - I was fine that second time. Guess my body could handle them after being in France for 5 days. Then again with Mr DB in Lisboa. I remember I wrote an email to my friends on my return to the UK after that one-week wonder in the sun. Wrote something about the ugliness of the dozen oysters that had arrived on my plate - I mentioned something about 'Shell Suits' - the Portslade version of oysters, complete with Bovver Boots. (I'd just finished teaching in Portslade earlier that academic year. The whole reason why I'd moved down to the south coast, to get my first full-time, permanent contract. The Induction year teaching jUnpleasing to look at, and gorging on a whole dozen, I spent another evening throwing up. Nice. The third and, I hope, last time was in Brighton. South Lane, with Mr Sweet. A long lost friend from NYC. We decided to celebrate by ordering 6 oysters, I think, between the two of us. Knowing me, knowing his pocket, knowing my penchant for champagne - I probably also asked for a nice glass of bubbly. Or should that be blubbly? as the chances are, I may never get to see the ol' fella again ... Of course I hope he will live till he's 100 years old, but I fear that may not be the case. Not unless they invent a pill that cures CANCER. So one glass of bubbly it was. To keep my blubbly tears at bay.
I haven't got a bean - not compared with MS at least - but at least I haven't got oral cancer. M gave up ciggies 25 years before we met again on Brighton shores in 2009, and he questioned my reasoning for continuing the habit. His renal cancer team had said that the cancer was caused by smoking all those years ago. Idioats. What the hell do doctors know?
Day 3 in India. Feels almost like Day 300.
Oysters, holidays, Portslade and all that jazz.
Today is a good day.
Even though Mumbai Metro hotel is on one of the busiest roads, I understand, of commercial Mumbai (according to Mr Hotel Receptionist who spent a year working in some american hotel chain for a year in Coventry. Ha, sent to Coventry ... no wonder he thought that english people were racist. The poor young fellow prefers our american/canadian counterparts. They tend to say it like it is) - the stench of the stagnant river, the 2 massive construction sites, the beggars, the commuters - the everything of that 300m stretch of Sakinaka Junction, Andheri East, to the corner of Marol Maroshi road, to Marol Residency where I ended up staying on my first night in India ...
... well, yesterday, I nearly threw up from the pollution, stench of the dead stagnant river, getting back here to Marol. Which I now consider to be my 'home'. The surburban corner a few door along from Marol Residency has enough humanity to last a girl like me a short lifetime. On Day 1, I stood there and marvelled at the idea of an Indian 'suburb'. Breathed, then when the threat of a couple of tears welled up in the old eyeballs, that's when I had to stop breathing.
In spite of all that, I still managed to give away a beautiful pair of handstitched Mexican-made cowboy boots, which have been with me since St Marie de la Mare, Provence, where the culture is more Romany and gaucho culture, than it is provincial pomanders ... (to a bemused cobbler not far from the hotel.)
Bought boots from a holiday taken with Mr DB. And what a brilliant holiday it was. Missed the Killer Mosquitos there, saw flamingoes fly in RAF formation for the first time. Hilarious. Serge Gainsbourg playing on the bootleg CD in hire vehicle, bought in Nimes from where we were returning.
There I discovered probably for the first time that I had started my allergy to oysters, en Provence. I was sick as a dog on the very first night of arriving at our budget, but beautiful chalet near St Marie de la Mare, I persisted on the oyster cuntal obsession for a good 3 years more. Three countries and capitals later, again in St Marie de la Mare (capital of the Romany Gypsies, I believe) near the bullring, and a beautifully clean oyster-only sunny cubby hole - 5 days later - I was fine that second time. Guess my body could handle them after being in France for 5 days. Then again with Mr DB in Lisboa. I remember I wrote an email to my friends on my return to the UK after that one-week wonder in the sun. Wrote something about the ugliness of the dozen oysters that had arrived on my plate - I mentioned something about 'Shell Suits' - the Portslade version of oysters, complete with Bovver Boots. (I'd just finished teaching in Portslade earlier that academic year. The whole reason why I'd moved down to the south coast, to get my first full-time, permanent contract. The Induction year teaching jUnpleasing to look at, and gorging on a whole dozen, I spent another evening throwing up. Nice. The third and, I hope, last time was in Brighton. South Lane, with Mr Sweet. A long lost friend from NYC. We decided to celebrate by ordering 6 oysters, I think, between the two of us. Knowing me, knowing his pocket, knowing my penchant for champagne - I probably also asked for a nice glass of bubbly. Or should that be blubbly? as the chances are, I may never get to see the ol' fella again ... Of course I hope he will live till he's 100 years old, but I fear that may not be the case. Not unless they invent a pill that cures CANCER. So one glass of bubbly it was. To keep my blubbly tears at bay.
I haven't got a bean - not compared with MS at least - but at least I haven't got oral cancer. M gave up ciggies 25 years before we met again on Brighton shores in 2009, and he questioned my reasoning for continuing the habit. His renal cancer team had said that the cancer was caused by smoking all those years ago. Idioats. What the hell do doctors know?
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