See You Next Thursday

It’s the fear of right wing Daily Mail readers everywhere: The colourful immigrants that dot our towns are not painting them red, or enriching them with their cultures, but quietly muttering insults upon its locals. Have you ever sat on a train, overheard foreign language speakers and thought, for a minute, that the joke they’re sharing with their friends is on you?

Surely not, I thought. But today, I found myself – and not for the first time – sharing the fears of a Daily Mail reader. (The first time I was genuinely worried about the Y2K Bug.)

The Town Frier in Shrewsbury is a brilliantly named chip shop in the centre of town, and run by a family of Indian immigrants, one of whom I’ve taken a particularly shine too. (Chip shop workers too, I find, are particularly shiny people.) He’s made a sincere effort to sound English and, since knowing him, I’ve noticed an improvement from the Carry On language of yesteryear, to the sort of Gallagher brother English he employs today, going as far as referring to his younger brother as “our kid.”

He does usually converse with his family in Punjabi, and fair enough. Today however the conversation took a turn for the worse and, upon handing the customer ahead of me his order, he muttered a word that, translated into English, is generally considered the language’s lowest point. To his credit, however, it was at least in keeping with his adopted Gallagher tone.

And if you haven’t already guessed it, a Google search, at least with the Safe Filter on, returns a dissertation on the word’s cultural history.

****: A Cultural History

English Tea

"What happens when you leave tea in a cup overnight?" My Gran asks - in Punjabi - while I sip on a good English cuppa.
I reply the best I can - in English. "Er, Santa Claus drinks it?"
"The cup stains black."
"Right."
"So, what do you think happens to your insides when you drink tea?"
Surely not, I think to myself. Overwhelmed by this, I take one last breath of fresh air before the stale lecture about what I should and should not be drinking begins.

Water, milk and orange juice are all good apparently. (One can only imagine the colours swilling inside my gran's belly.)
"Do you drink water?" She asks.
"In my tea I do." It's a good job I didn't mention all the Guinness that was had last night.

She actually believes this stuff though, that's the funny thing. She actually thinks, as I write this, that I'm staining my soul, or what remains of it, black. You see, she thinks it's despicable that I speak so little Punjabi, though I can understand most. I would like to defend myself by saying that she's been in England for fifty years, while I've seen the occasional Bollywood movie, and still my Punjabi is streets ahead of her English, but a) it's a bit disrespectful and b) my command of the language is not yet that great.

I'm now fearing for my insides as she shoves a large and brightly coloured Indian dried milk pudding under my nose. I try some.
"You like?" That's the most English she can manage. That, and "you no like?" depending on the situation.
"Yes Gran," I say. But, like brightly coloured, saccharine Bollywood movies, it's definitely one for small doses. And so I decline a second helping - or forcing, rather.
"You either like it or you don't. I don't understand." We're back to Punjabi now and then, in a shock move, she unleashes a torrent of English. "You like it? You no like it?"
I swear to God, or rather many many limbed Gods, if my family weren't Hindu they'd be Jewish. And so I open my mouth, though not to speak, take another bite and think this would all taste a lot better with some good English tea.

Lost in Transmission

You may remember the story of Dana, the girl from Ohio, the bunch of roses I sent and the ‘thank you’ that never was: an episode we at sansharma.com are calling ‘flowergate’ (conjures a lovely image, doesn’t it?). I had just as soon put the whole incident behind me when, late last night, my mobile beeped (or rather played a Bright Eyes song, as I have it set) with a message. It was Dana, clearly unfamiliar with the workings of the world clock, texting at what was already an unsociable hour in her time zone, and, evidently, the middle of night in mine.
“How are you doing” it read, sans punctuation. “Well I hope”

Having just woken up from a particularly harrowing dream (Vanessa Feltz again), my brain, booting in Safe Mode, struggled with the syntax of the short and punctuation-free message. I remembered how texting is far less of a common thing in America and assumed that, being unfamiliar with the system altogether, Dana had sent the message prematurely, failing to finish her sentence.
“Well I hope,” she may have intended to write, “you might forgive me for not thanking you sooner…”

And so in my semi-slumber I replied with what, in retrospect, might seem a remarkably rude message.
“If there was anything interesting in that message,” I wrote. “I didn’t get it,” thinking, of course, that something was lost in transmission. Then, alluding to the bunch of roses, “did you get a delivery recently?”

No sooner was my message delivered when hers suddenly made sense. “How are you doing?” it should have read, question mark and all. “Well, I hope.” Full stop. “Well, I hope.” Not, “well I hope...Liverpool win the bloody Champions League tomorrow night.” Needless to say, she did not reply to my message. I doubt even that she got my flowers. She would have said thanks, wouldn’t she? Well one would hope so…

Love, In Actual Fact

Driving to the airport tonight at top speed and with the Bridget Jones soundtrack ablaring, I had the odd feeling that I was on some romantic quest to halt the departure of an unrequited loved one. Odd especially since I am in, actual fact, collecting my parents, whom I love...requitedly (though unromantically), on return from their holiday. Even now, sitting in arrivals I’m tempted to run at someone and say, “Stop! I bloody love you!” In fact, I’m actually considering the redhead in the knee-high boots. Imagine how that would go…
“Pardon?”
“I said ‘I love you’…what’s your name?”
“What?!”
“That doesn’t matter to me. So, I don’t know your name…” A crowd is now forming around us. A security guard puts down his scanning device and listens in. An air hostess stops in her tracks. “I don’t even know if you have a boyfriend - ”
“I’m married.”
“Right.” Just then hubby walks over. “I didn’t know that. But I do know – what is your name?”
“Diane.”
“Right. I do know, Diana –”
“It’s Diane.”
“Sorry – Diane. I do know that I love you.” With that female members of the audience swoon. “And you mustn’t get on that plane.”
“What’s going on here, Diane?” Diane’s husband is a remarkably large man, and I begin to wish that I'd picked on the minger in the tracksuit. She’s obviously single. “Is this bloke bothering you?”
“He says I mustn’t get on the plane.” The audience awakes from the slumber of their swooning and gasps in fear.
“Nobody board the plane!” The husband shouts to the crowd. And then quieter but with no less urgency, to me. “Especially not you.” Then everything goes dark.

Awaking from this thought I’m relieved to find that I am not covered in blood and reconsider the whole romantic terrorism thing altogether. Instead, I watch returnees wheel their luggage from the carousel to the crowd, appearing from behind a screen, looking tanned and tired and for family and friends. As I stand with them and behind the barrier that separates the tanned from the untanned (which I am, I’m not sure), I think to myself that it’s an arrangement not unfamiliar to celebrities the world over. The security, the barricades, the adoring fans. Throw in some red carpet, supermodel Caprice and a Star Wars prequel (not much, I know) and we’ve got ourselves a movie premiere.

The old man approaching is there already, waving at nobody in particular but enjoying his moment all the same. Hey, I know the next couple...It’s R2D2 and C3PO – my mum and dad, back from a Balearic Island, far, far away.

Sorry for the Delay

Sorry for the delay…Man, I start a lot of sentences that way.
“Sorry for the delay in replying…”
“Sorry for the delay getting here…”
“Sorry for the delay in child support, Little Jimmy (which is what we’ve called him)...”

I am sorry for not having written sooner. Although, to be fair, I have been writing – but it’s been so sub-standard that I’ve had to lock it away in a safe. Perhaps one day it’ll appear as a bootleg at a book fair. (Do authors have bootlegs? This is how much I read.)

This lack of anything interesting to write about, I’m sure, comes from a lack of doing anything interesting. You don’t want to know what I’ve been doing. Although, now I feel obliged to tell you, before you draw your own – very sinister – conclusions.

I’m currently fifteen miles (and five years) from my flat, and in the town where I spent my formative years, house-sitting for my parents while they sit on a Balearic Island, soaking up the sun. And since I’m unable to compromise the life of comfort and convenience that I have become accustomed to at the flat, I find myself driving between my two residences several times a day.

All this is very tiring. So much so that I’m getting my chores all mixed up and have started watering the dog and walking the plants. This is one reason for my delay in writing. Another is that things are particularly busy at work. I don’t imagine if I worked day and night that I’d get everything done. And so, when I’m wide awake, and less busy, I’ll write more. I am really sorry for the delay.

Thank you, please

I hold doors open for people all the time. Sometimes it’s an inconvenience. You know, when you’ve already walked quite some way but see someone coming and hang back in a sort of limbo, holding the door with just a few fingers and an act of balance. But they say “thanks.” And I let people out at junctions when I’m driving. I can be there for a while, just waving people through. They nod. Sometimes they mouth the words. But it’s usually “thank you”. (Once it I think it was, “what are you doing? I saw you here an hour ago!”) And you know, if you’re in my office, and I’m making a cup of tea, I’ll make you one. And you’ll probably say thanks. But these are minor gestures really. Small acts of kindness. Nothing a little appreciation doesn’t make worthwhile. So imagine, if one day, you do all those things – those little things – and add to them one grand gesture. And then no “thank you”.

You see, I met this girl...And so many stories start this way, but this one doesn’t end in tears, or a fleeing to America, or a restraining order. This girl, and I think I’ve mentioned her already, I met in Miami (so we were already in America – no fleeing necessary) and, frankly, we hooked up for the time I was there. Nothing serious. I mean, we did get on (and ‘it on’), and exchanged contact details and all that, but, of course, had no realistic plan to see each other again. She did however ask me to call her some time for a chat, but I got the impression that she didn’t really think that I would. And, in fairness, I didn’t.

But, last week, when Cinco de Maya struck (if you don’t know, a sort of Mexican holiday where there’s lots of beer and Gringos are killed and eaten), I thought to send a case of Corona to her home in Ohio. I thought it’d be a kind gesture. Like a ‘I-had-a-great-time-haven’t-forgotten-you-the-results-were-negative-from-the-clinic’ type thing. But it turns out, such are the laws in Ohio, that it’s incredibly difficult, if illegal, to order alcohol online. And so, with the determination to send something, I ordered flowers, albeit roses, but not red and not with a note worth noting. I didn’t mention the clinic, but did allude to the great time we had together and my original, though unhatched, plan to send her a case of beer. It was kind of funny actually and, at least I thought, sweet. And certainly deserving of a “thank you”.

But here we are. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not even a nod. No “thanks” whatsoever. But it’s not like I’m going to ask for one. (If I did, I would probably say “please.”) And so, as my good friend Beth kindly calculates the ludicrous cost per rose of this grand gesture, and I wonder if I might get a refund, I ask you, dear reader: when did a “thank you” require a “please”?

The Company I Keep

It’s not unusual in my line of work to find myself in the company of “grown-ups”. At 22, a director of a company, and a darling of local press, I am the Doogie Howser of the Shropshire business network. I expect at least a ten year gap either side whenever I sit at a business dinner. Imagine my surprise then tonight, when I found myself sandwiched between two high school girls.

Emma Jordan from Bridgnorth and Lucy Fairweather from Shrewsbury were tonight representing their schools at a Shropshire Young Enterprise Awards dinner and I, the middle-man, was there to lend a hand – or two, actually - applauding the names in envelopes.

Having only been in television audiences for the Oscars, Grammies and Randies (the Porn Awards), I hadn’t realised what long and laborious things they can be. Obviously, I don’t applaud the winners from my sofa at home (I may have cheered at Ron Jeremy’s Lifetime Achievement Award), but tonight I was pretty exhausted from all the clapping. I decided mid-way to clap only once per winner, which others at my table thought was sort of rude, and otherwise reserved my energy for the girls either side.

Conversation however, was no less laborious.

“So…do you have any nicknames, Emma?”
“Yes,” she said, rather timidly. “HP.”
“Ah…big fan of brown sauce?”
“No.”
“IT solutions company?” I scratched my head. “Harry Potter?”
I never did find out. Instead I turned to Lucy. “So…do you like brown sauce?”

When I come to think of it, I don’t think I got more than one word responses from either the entire night. And so it dragged on, one syllable at a time. And I thought to myself how rarely I sit beside someone my own age. It’s either one word or long words. If I could take the average age of the company I keep I might find someone who speaks with the right amount of syllables – someone my own age, at least.

“Now for the award we’ve all been waiting for,” the compare announced. “The award for best written report.”

And then it dawned on me, I’m looking for them in all the wrong places.

Domestic Bliss

My friend, Pete, and I use the term loosely, has expressed his doubt in my ability to not sound “like a complete wanker” (as I feared in the post below) and actually write altogether.

Perhaps the very nature of having a blog, a web site and a short-run of sansharma.com t-shirts, is, in itself, rather wankerish, but before I move on from that awful word, its variations (wankerisms, if you will), and the subject altogether, I’d like to assure you that my delay in writing is due to nothing more sinister than the my recent indulgence in domestic bliss.

What’s this? Has our lanky hero finally settled down and made an honest man of…himself? Not quite. I mean ‘domestic’ as in appliances. Though my reckless spending is usually reserved for the type of gizmo and gadgetry of a teenage boy’s dry dreams, I recently made the snowy trek from the black to the white goods section at the local electrical superstore and came home with an object of desire that is ultimately a treat for the nose, rather than the eyes or the ears.

Before you think that I’m this excited about a plug-in air freshener (though some are indeed very exciting) let me say that I bought a new washer and dryer and am smelling so fresh and so clean.

Is it weird to be this excited about laundry? Maybe it is. But bear in mind that, since November, I have fortnightly carried my soiled clothing through the streets of Shrewsbury to a colleague’s washing machine and back, damp and steaming, through a similarly hot and sweaty crowd of pubbers and clubbers.

Now, as I write, the machine spins just behind me, its 1200rpm vibrating my chair in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. Things are, in fact, getting quite hot and steamy. This is the worst kind of domestic bliss.

Sounds Like...

I'm sure, blog readers, that you've noticed a decline in quality since my editor-in-chief, Beth, up and left me, her post, and the long arm of the law, for a future of fugitivity in the US.

My most recent post, short of upsetting the friends, family and colleagues to whom I have recently returned, elicited a phone call from the Beth and some suggestions on my writing style.

"Before you post an entry," she began. "Just think, 'does this make me sound like a complete wanker?'"

And so with Beth's simple yet effective test in mind I hope you'll notice an improvement of sorts. Or at least a blogger, sounding less like a wanker.