New hymns

I'm back home with my parents for the holidays, where keeping up with the Jones' has escalated to a point where my family is no longer honouring its own religion, but instead joining the neighbours for midnight mass at the local Catholic church.

It's not typical behaviour for a Hindu family, but then mine has never been a typical Hindu family. Neither has it shied from Catholicism: My sisters and I went to the Catholic school opposite our house. (We got Christ and convenience - it was a 2 for 1 deal.)

As such, we knew what to expect from the service - lots of lengthy Bible passages, lots of time to 'reflect', lots of standing up and sitting down.

I didn't, however, expect there to be quite so many apologies. Soon after we arrived we joined the congregation in one massive plea for forgiveness.

It was a funny way to start, I thought. "Let's get this party started," I imagined the Father saying. "With a big fat, 'I'm sorry'." I wasn't sure why we were apologising (we weren't even late), but I joined in all the same.

It wasn't long, however, until my complicity turned into awkward silence. I was the only member of the congregation not saying 'amen,' 'thanks be to God,' or 'Kyrie Eleison' (I didn't even know what the last one meant, but I liked to think it was Jamaican patois); I was probably the only one censoring parts of Christmas carols, by refusing to sing them.

I wondered how the rest of my family could, not least because the church insisted on performing songs impossible to pick up. New ones, in an attempt to be relevant, employed all sorts of strange 'blue' notes, unpredictable key changes and song structures that eschewed the tried and tested verse/chorus formula of the last hundred or so years.

But then, I thought, that's not unlike my family at all: blue, unpredictable, unusual; also, unlike new hymns, relevant, at least to me. And, in a weird way, honouring its own religion.

No-one watching me.

"You don't want a girlfriend," I was recently reminded. "You want an audience." And despite her best efforts to, er, buck the trend, I went home alone that night and showed her that, in fact, I wanted neither. Oh, I showed her alright...

But waking up alone, again, I wondered whether there was any truth in her observation. I kind of wish I'd stuck around for its attempted deconstruction. But in all honesty, it's a fact that's been pointed out to me before.

I met her on a blind date, we'd e-mailed each other before the first meeting and she'd had the foresight to Google me in advance. Perhaps to check that I wasn't a suspected terrorist, a registered sex offender or a Tory.

But what she didn't expect was three pages of results, the first of which led her to this blog. "I have a lot less sex than people imagine," were the first words she must have read. And the dates that followed proved that I can, in fact, have even less sex than that.

But I appreciated her honesty in admitting her research, more so than her awkward first date questions. "Who is the real San Sharma?" She asked. "The man or the domain?"

I didn't expect questions any more soul searching than 'what's your favourite colour?' from a first date, but hers got me thinking.

Is being single intrinsic to my personality? Or to my persona, as a "single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male", as per the blurb above?

"What I'm asking is," she continued. "Can you have a girlfriend and an audience?" I didn't think that was an invitation to tape us having sex, so I told her that, at this time, I didn't think the two were possible. And walked home, with no-one watching me.

In Jobs we trust

It's the age old dilemma: the secular world versus the spiritual; the things you can't touch and the things you can't stop touching. And this Friday, the conundrum continues, when Apple's long awaited iPhone lands in the UK - on Diwali.

I'd booked the day off work, picked out a traditional outfit, planned my route to the temple (casual shirt, hipster jeans, Central Line to the Regent Street Apple Store). I was all set to get in line and get an iPhone (at 6:02pm - its official launch time, inspired by Apple's O2 partnership), when my mum called.

"Don't forget Diwali on Friday," she said.

Diwali is the Hindu festival of lights. And although the iPhone boasts - amongst other things - a backlit touchscreen, queueing for one on Regent Street is not, apparently, an appropriate way to give thanks to God.

At £269, with a minimum 18 month contract, the iPhone is rather an appropriate way to give thanks to Steve Jobs, blue jeaned and turtle necked co-founder and CEO of Apple, who in September announced the iPhone's arrival in the UK.

"We can't wait to let UK customers get their hands on it," he said.

I can't wait either, Steve. But instead, at 6:02pm tonight, I'll be putting my hands together and celebrating the return of Lord Rama. I'll also be praying that there'll be iPhones in stock by the time I get to an Apple store on Saturday.

But why am I so blasphemingly excited?

Well, the iPhone is, to the mobile phone market, what the iPod is to MP3 players. Neither are the first, but both are quite easily the best - light years ahead of anything else - and clear solutions to the problems that have plagued consumers since computers could talk to peripherals.

For years, you've been able to synchronise your mobile phone with your computer - it's nothing new - but, honestly, who does it (without wincing)?

The software has been clunky, the hardware flimsy and the whole process of navigating your phone awkward and messy. Apple cuts through that predictable haze with a phone that's a joy to use (I know because I've used one), and built on the iPod/iTunes model that's served an unprecedented 119 million customers.

At its price, and worrying O2 lock in, the iPhone might take some time to reach those kind of sales. I don't doubt that we'll see a price drop in the next year (or an iPhone nano), but in the meantime, expect to see iPhone-flourishes in all new mobile phones, as manufacturers step up their game, as they have post iPod.

It looks like we can all give thanks to Jobs. So, this weekend, put your hands together, in your pocket or on your iPhone and have a Happy Diwali/iPhone Day.

• iPhone - [via Apple.com/uk]

Get ready for iPhone

Apple has its own 'Get ready for iPhone' guide, with advice on how to prepare your contacts, calendar, music and videos. In anticipation of tonight's UK launch, I've prepared my own pre-purchase to-do list.

'Finger tips'
Before you reach your grubby hands into your soon-to-be empty pockets tonight, make sure your fingers are worthy of the iPhone's gorgeous 3.5-inch touch screen display.

It takes at least fifteen seconds to wash your hands properly, which - according to a dedicated NHS hand washing website - is about the amount of time it takes to sing the 'Happy Birthday' song twice through. The site includes a 10 step guide, but if you can memorise the routine ("Step 6: backs of fingers to opposing palms with fingers interlocked"), you might as well learn this.

Look the part
You might think that buying an iPhone is your ticket to the lifestyles of the rich and courageous. But remember, tonight's launch is for the first generation model, so expect to see some early adopters and hardcore Apple fan boys in the queue.

Plus, this isn't San Francisco.

So, stand out from the crowd of the great unwashed, the forum fanatics and - dare I say - the Windows users, and pick an outfit that's casual, clean and as close to Justin Long as you can manage. (Unless, of course, you're a girl, in which case wear nothing and make a queue of geeks very happy.)

Make a nest
You're going to want to play with your iPhone right away (make a few 'emergency calls only' before you activate it), but think about how you'll carry it from one curious admirer to another. Don't just stuff it into your jeans' pocket with your keys, redundant iPod nano and Wii controller.

If you're going to put it in your jeans, make sure you wash them first, inside out with the pockets reversed. Fortunately, the iPhone gets a winter launch here in the UK, so most punters will be wearing jackets to brave the queue. Pick one with a lined inner pocket and place your iPhone with its screen facing you.

My reputation recedes me

I have a lot less sex than people imagine. In fact, it's people's imagination, I think, that's preventing me from doing so (that and my strange face, probably). In their heads, I'm sprawled across a boudoir chaise longue, explosive kegs between my legs, dining on three square meals of girls, girls, girls...

When in actual fact, I've an appetite like a python. Eyes bigger than my belly (already pretty big), I get all wrapped up, bite off more than I can chew and lie bloated for another year. (The resemblance doesn't extend to my anatomy, unfortunately. I'm more like a grass snake in that respect.)

But I met this girl on Monday, and I was hoping things would follow suit like the Craig David song. But instead she said, "I bet you do alright with the ladies."

Now, I'm no gambling man, but either way, I figure, is a losing hand. There seemed little reward in betting against her, but there was something about her assumption that seemed to lower my odds. It was as if she was saying, "You do alright. You don't need this."

Hang on, I thought. This isn't like tipping a lawyer or sending Donald Trump a tenner. If an athlete does well in the Olympics give him a gold medal, surely. Applaud him at the finish line. But here I was, waiting for the starting pistol.

"Oh, I do alright," I said, ironically. Unfortunately, the pub was loud, and my self-deprecation construed as declaration, as if I was laying my cards on the table and revealing aces.

But she'd failed to see my joker and raised her eyebrows. If there was a starting pistol, I thought, I'd shot myself in the foot.And would lie bloated for another year.

'Talk' on sale

I don't often give special shout outs on this here blog. Let's face it, I don't post a great deal either. But there's a sale over at my mate's blog and talk, it turns out, is cheap. You should check it out on the link below or via my blog roll.

Talk It Is Cheap is the true story of a single, chauvinistic, twentysomething, English man in New York.

Head on over and leave comments.

• Talk It Is Cheap [Peter Woods]

"May contain traces of boyfriend."

"I can't do this," she says, pulling away.
"Why?" I ask.
"I've got a boyfriend."

So, this is the conversation that marks the end of so many of my dates. It's become as familiar to me as picking up the cheque, saying goodnight and poking on Facebook. (It's usually the only poking I do that night.)

And it's making me wonder what it is about me - or my dates - that makes this conversation so familiar. Do they think I'm gay? A "Will" to their "Grace"? Are they shopping for a new boyfriend (but "just browsing, thanks")? Or, like Schrödinger's cat, does the boyfriend only appear at the end of the date, when I take a gamble and try to open the box (so to speak)?

In any case, it terrifies my friends in relationships. "It makes me wonder what my girlfriend was really doing on Saturday night," my housemate says. "Come to think of it, what were you doing on Saturday night?"

Well, I was probably having that conversation, like a disclaimer tagged onto the end of a radio advert, muttered quickly and incomprehensible, a list of possible side effects - "may cause mild embarrassment, sudden loss of date and that sinking feeling that this is all too familiar..."

Alphabet Street

When my dad argues that there are thirty more letters in the Hindi alphabet than there are in the English, he refers to the languages as 'ours' and 'theirs', respectively. That's because he's talking to our Indian visitors, who've travelled from Madras, by way of New Jersey, last week to London, and now to Shropshire, where they're staying with my parents and discussing - at length - the respective strengths and weaknesses of Hindi and English. There can't be enough letters in either, I think, as I listen to them debate in an odd fusion of both languages.

Queer eye for the fat guy.

Having "outed" myself as a metrosexual, I've done very little to maintain a lifestyle in keeping with the culture. If I were a homosexual it'd be like not liking musicals or not having a small dog. As it goes I'm not. And I really ought not make such sweeping - and possibly offensive - generalisations.

The fact of the matter is, I make a terrible metrosexual. Sure, I moisturise. I use a range of hair products. But my sexuality, my...metrosity is tepid, to say the least.

I'm terribly out of shape, I eat crap and I shop at Topman - almost exclusively. I've never bought an Armani suit, I don't care for fruit and I wouldn't know my yoga pilates from my yoga flames.

I've decided, if I'm going to do this properly, if I'm going to write the "true story of a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male," I'm going to have to shape up or ship out. (Besides, I figure I can't do much about my being twentysomething or British Indian.)

So tomorrow I'm going for a run.

It's either that or Annie Get Your Gun, a Chihuahua and another closet from which to emerge. But I'm pretty sure it's easier to turn a fat boy slim than a straight guy queer.

• Meet the metrosexual - [Salon]

 

Gone fishing.

I've been writing my little heart out for the past week or so, working on some stuff for the business, hence the somewhat slower than usual blogging.

In fact, I've temporarily relocated to a quiet spot in Ireland, in an effort to concentrate on my words, which, it turns out, was something of a deft move, since I can't understand most of those uttered by the locals anyway.

My business partner and I just had dinner in Kinsale and nodded politely through the specials menu, which we're pretty sure was mostly fish; she had lobster (something I vowed to never do again) and last night we saw a movie called The Squid and the Whale.

It's been like a fishing trip so far. I'm back on dry land next week - expect more stories then!

Budge

Hey, it's just dawned on me that some people may still be visiting my Blogspot even though I've moved. In case you didn't know you can continue my adventures - those of "a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male" over at www.sansharma.com.

15 minutes

Since the Stephen King/Rob Reiner chillfest, Misery (1990), having a "number one fan" is an altogether terrifying prospect. (A number two or three is fine.)

In the film, a novelist, played by James Caan, is rescued from a car accident in a blizzard, by a particularly fat Kathy Bates. Wait, it gets scarier...

It turns out she's his "number one fan" and has no intention of letting him go. She also lops off his feet with a hammer (don't click this link if you're squimish!).

It's no wonder then that I had cold feet (or any feet at all) when I agreed to meet one of my fans last week. ('One of' suggests there are more; 'one and only' may be closer to the truth.) She'd read my blog, saw that I'd moved to London and wanted to meet up.

Why the hell not? I thought.

Well, there was one prettyyy big reason why not:

• Kathy Bates.

But anyway, I chose to look beyond the Bates and found instead a very charming, not at all psychotic, PhD student.

And it got me thinking, perhaps prematurely, about the notion of fame (and the fifteen minutes of it promised us by Andy Warhol). I realise that it hasn't yet touched me in the same way that it did, say, Princess Diana, but it has sort of tickled me on the nose.

The PhD student knew only a persona, pixelated and preserved on this blog; a "true story of a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male."

And while one fan does not a fan club make, I imagine it's just a matter of time before I'm shaving my head and checking into rehab, dangling a baby over a balcony ledge, or dying in a high speed car chase in Paris.

That's a lot to cram into my fifteen minutes.

Harry Krishna

My mate, Peter Woods, kindly pointed out that the Harry Potter pictured on the cover of the new book bears a striking resemblance to a certain...me!

It's uncanny! To the point that he actually looks Asian. Check it out.

• Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows [Amazon.co.uk]

Things not to do on a date.

In all the time I've been single (which totals around 18 years), I've learned three things about dating:

1. Don't get hideously drunk.


2. Don't order lobster.


3. Don't arrange a second date in Cyberspace (I'll explain, even though it sounds inexplicable).

Interestingly enough, I learned all of these lessons in one sitting, on a date in Exmouth Market just last week.

1. Don't get hideously drunk.
"Hideous" may be too strong a word, but I was certainly "buzzed." I know this because I started banging on about a half-baked revolution in which we all "just love one another (why can't we just love one another?)." So, as a general rule, try and keep as drunk if not less drunk than your date.

2. Don't order lobster.
"Compliment her on her shoes," Beth advised, before the date. "It's more specific than 'you look nice,' and less cheesy than 'you've got amazing eyes'..."

So, as it turned out, my date did have pretty amazing eyes, but I couldn't get a good look at her shoes from where I was sitting. That was until the waitress came over and offered up the very same compliment to my date. Not wanting her to muscle in on my game (which is pretty sad, when a waitress can do that), I saw my opportunity and chimed in with a perhaps overly enthusiastic, "Yes! Your shoes are amazing!"

I was too late, of course, and my compliment, now really an afterthought, had no real positive impact. It only served to distract me from the real reason the waitress was standing there, complimenting the hell out of my date.

And so, for some reason, I ordered lobster. And then proceeded to wrestle with the animal, break the thing apart and eat its insides across the table from my date.
My advice? Order anything but lobster.

3. Don't arrange a second date in Cyberspace.
So, sozzled and strewn with lobster meat and exoskeleton, I was in no fit state to conclude the date in any way that was appropriate. Instead of suggesting we meet again, that I call, or even that we move to a position more conducive to kissing, I turned away from my date, ever so slightly, pointed over my shoulder and said, "well, the tube's this way," and, "you should, er, Facebook me sometime."

It sounded like something from the Chandler Bing school of shitty dating, updated for the 21st century (dating 2.0, if you will). And as soon as I said it I turned, looked down at my shoes, seasoned ever so slightly with lobster and white wine, and thought, did I actually just say that?

SuperPoke!

When I was younger - maybe 13 - some kind, possibly sympathetic soul told me that when girls were into guys they just ignored them.

Imagine how I got on, all lanky limbs and awful hair, thinking that every girl I passed, eyes glued to the pavement, was secretly admiring me: tall and thin, ugly and assured.

God knows how else I would have made it through my teens.

But 10 years on and I'm beginning to seriously question that small piece of advice. It may have got me through my teens, but it sure as hell won't get me through my 20s.

If it were true then London loves me. In fact, by that logic, I got a whole lot of love at the pub last night. Indeed, it's a wonder I didn't get raped on the Tube home.

Now, of course, you're spoiled for choice when it comes to indicating your interest. Glances on the Tube are generally ill-advised, especially at night. But, ladies, when you get home, why not log on to Craigslist and post about your "missed connection", in the hope that Mr Right-Across-the-Carriage will reply.

Here's one from a few of weeks ago:

Victoria Line, Monday Evening, discussed Harry Potter

Going North on the Victoria Line, sitting across from you, talking to my friend about how we still haven't gone to King's Cross to have our pictures taken between Platforms 9 and 10. You said you bet we'd meet on the train again a week from now, and I still wouldn't have had my picture taken. I said I'd get it done the next day on my way to see the Tower of London.

I only realised later that I should have given you my number.

And you were right, I didn't go to King's Cross - I'm hoping to go with you!

Craigslist is just one way in which you can flirt online. There are, of course, countless other, more explicit ways - and I've already covered match.com's virtual winking feature - but we won't dwell on those sites that charge to do it. Because, frankly, it's pretty sad. I can say that because I've done it.

A more popular, kid-friendly way (though I wouldn't try it with kids) is Facebook's built-in poking device. With it, you can let your 'lover' know that they've been poked when they next log in.

Here's what I saw when I logged into Facebook tonight:

Pokes

You were poked by Meghan Vaughn.

poke back | remove poke

And when I clicked "poke back"?

Poke Meghan?

You are about to poke Meghan. She will be informed of this the next time she logs in.

Poke | Cancel

It's about as far removed from actual poking as you can get. If you've ever been poked by or even poked the person next to you on the Tube (and again, I'd advise against this), there is no option to "remove poke" nor is it wise to "poke back".

And now that Facebook's opened up to third-party applications there are even more ways to poke people. You can use Poke Pro! Super Poke! Party Poke! Pokey Poke! Edgar Allan Poke! The list is endless...

But despite all these options, the third-party application support, the AJAX controls, the JavaScript widgetry, even logging in to see that I've been poked in every conceivable way, I feel no closer to an actual physical connection than I did those years I spent being ignored by girls.

At least when one looked up it meant something. And if they ever poked back, I knew I was in.

Feeling awkward.

For those of you who thought my blog would suddenly become more interesting (as if that's even possible) since moving to London, and perhaps less about mundane adventures, such as boarding a train, playing video games or watching TV, I write with a story that takes place outside of the house and, indeed, the banality of public transport.

That's right. In an attempt to find something more interesting to write about (and maybe - incidentally - have a good time) I went out on Friday night. To a bar.

(I won't even tell you how I got there.)

But I was early. Never one to be fashionably late (or even fashionable, for that matter), I got to Tiger Tiger in Haymarket a good half-hour or so before my friends arrived, giving me ample time to loiter awkwardly by the bar, even smash a glass and act like it wasn't me.

Still, the fracas drew some attention. And I was soon chatting to a South Korean girl who loitered with just as much awkwardness, if not more. Hers derived from the fact that her English was almost incomprehensible.

At first I couldn't tell if it was because the music was loud or if indeed because she was new to the language. In any case, I understood that she was looking for a boyfriend and, I suspect, a way to stay longer in this country.

Her attempts to do so were misguided to say the least.

"You have strange face," she said.
"Like...in a good way?"
"It's a strange," she insisted.

Just as she began to gesture with her hands and demonstrate just what it was about my face that was quite so strange my friends arrived.

I followed them, left the South Korean girl at the bar and headed to the dance floor, more awkward than ever.

Onward Christian soldiers...

modern jesus army., originally uploaded by San Sharma.

Two groups with recruitment issues - the Christians and the Army - join forces to increase numbers.

A very random act of kindness.

If, according to American band The Shins, 'Caring is Creepy', kindness is just plain weird. And increasingly rare, I'm beginning to find.

I was just waiting for a train when my bag split and spilled its contents all over the platform floor. Dashing to pick up the pieces before my train arrived, not a single soul offered to help.

Imagine my surprise when I got on the train and a soul (single, I'd hoped) offered up her seat so that I could use my Mac, fresh from the floor of platform 2, near an electrical outlet. (Perhaps she'd read of my recent 'power struggle' on this here blog.)

"Yes, that would be...great," I said, dumbfounded and a little flustered.

Also in my hands were a pair of pants and some moisturising cream. I'd picked them off the floor (they were mine, after all) and was quite aware that it was an odd grouping of objects.

She was too, I suspect. Because instead of moving across, so that we could both sit at the table, she slid past, grabbed her belongings on the way (a more conventional grouping - bag, coat, etc.), then appeared to vacate the train all together.

Whether she meant to exit at Birmingham, I'll never know. But I didn't go after her, I didn't even ask. I just let her go.

That, I suppose, was my act of kindness.

Rock, roll and RSI

You know, it's funny - I've been working at my computer for almost two years and am suffering from repetitive strain injury only now, after spending just two days away from my computer.

The cause?

Guitar Hero for the Playstation 2.

If you've never played it before, I urge you - go out, get it, buy a Playstation if you need to (you can sell your real guitar for the cash), and say good bye to your social life.

It's the most fun you can have without leaving the house. I bet you'd love it.

I'd shake on that, but my hand is wrecked.

• Guitar Hero II

"Day 47 in the Big Brother house."

Big Brother is back on the telly tonight. And little brother, Ben - one of my four new housemates - will be, I imagine, quite pissed off that I'm taking that fact as inspiration for this post.

I'm contractually obliged, he said, to write about my new abode on my blog. And perhaps he's right. (I never did read the contract.) But I'm pretty sure he won't be happy that, despite all the good times we've shared, its the return of Channel 4's beleaguered reality TV show that has compelled me to write.

I've made up my mind. And I'm going to run with the analogy.

15 Kingsgate Road, my new house, is not unlike that of the compound at Elmstree Studios, where tonight a dozen fame-seekers will wheel in their suitcases and roll out their desperation.

Here, at Kingsgate Road, there are fewer fame-seekers but no less desperation. If this were reality TV - and it very nearly is, with all this digital equipment - Bill would be playing up to the camera, Adam, playing it down, Nic, the gobby posh one and Ben, a young boy on the verge of manhood.

Think Glyn from series 7.

And me? An agoraphobic, web-cam wielding recluse? I'm the perfect housemate.

Powering down.

I am today simultaneously impressed and disappointed by modern technology.

I'm finally blogging from a coffee shop in Birmingham - here's me, looking a little worse for wear (and like I'm leaning on that guy's arse). But it took me some time to get here.

In what may have been an act of defiance, my phone switched itself off last night, when it's battery died and the whole thing powered down for the first time in ages.

It's like it was saying to me, "hey! Silent's not enough, buddy. I'm powering down."

This led to a series of panic attacks. What if someone needed to get in touch with me? What if someone died? Or, worse still, what if my other communication devices join forces with the phone, form some sort of union and go on strike!

Thinking that I ought to check the former before fearing the latter, I tried to give me mum a ring. But, lo and behold, her number was stored on my phone. My sister's too, and my best friend's.

Don't worry, I thought. I've got backup.

But, when you're standing on a train platform in England's second city, having your phonebook backed up online is really no use.

I needed to get inside and find some wi-fi. This shouldn't be too difficult, right? This is England's second city, after all.

Well, I don't know how they rank these things, but finding wi-fi was pretty difficult. And when I finally did, my MacBook dimmed and whirred, as if to say, "sorry boss, the phone was calling me a 'scab'," and powered down, it's battery dead. It had joined the strike, the aluminium encased bastard!

And so the last hour or so has been spent, scouting Birmingham for a power outlet. Starbucks didn't have one spare, neither did Costa, and security weren't best impressed when I stole power from a Coke machine in the Bullring (though the act itself was rather empowering).

So here I am now, having been thrown out of Europe's biggest shopping centre, sitting in the concourse between it and my train back to London. I'm powered-up and connected; I've Skyped my friends and family, they're all fine. But I'm terrified to check my iPod. If that powers down I've got a two and half hour journey in silence.

What will I do? Read?

Good timing.

I couldn't have timed my return to Shrewsbury any better.

In a strange sort of reverse ethnic cleansing, the beautiful market town I once called home was this weekend left practically empty. Its townsfolk - arguably its least appealing quality - had hit the road to Wembley to support their local team, who in a weird twist of footballing fate were to play in the country's premiere stadium.

The streets were both eerily and delightfully quiet - football fans free to frolic in their fighting someplace else. All but one, I discovered, remained, here at Shrewsbury train station.

"You going to the match?" a lady shouted to another, who stood under the shadow of her hulking, skin head husband. She looked at him.
"Nah," she said.
"Why not?" the other asked. "I didn't think you guys would want to miss it."
"It's, er...him," she said, craning her neck to look up at her man, who had the word 'England' tattooed on the back of his. "He's got a football ban."
With that he bowed his head - partly in shame, I thought. Partly to reveal another tattoo. It was of a dog, burned to his scalp, now forever burned on my memory.

The man had a tattoo of a dog on his head.

Before I had much more time to think about that, my train arrived. I couldn't have timed my return to London any better, I thought. And with that left town.

Underwear still a big drawer

Picturing a crowd in its underwear is the worst possible advice to give someone nervous about addressing a classroom full of school children. Still, it's the advice I received a couple of years ago, right before I spoke at the Priory School in Shrewsbury.

It's also the advice I chose to ignore this afternoon, when I returned to the same school and to the same children - all grown up, their voices and bra straps having broken under the full force of puberty. With their lip gloss and their lethargy they were almost unrecognisable. And surprising in their intellect.

I was there to teach them about business, but - as per the cliché - they ended up teaching me. One girl told me how she'd secured the rights to all the pin boards in the school and that if anybody wanted to hang a poster they'd have to pay her for the privilege.

"It's premium ad space," she said.
"It's a monopoly." said another.

The kids were 14!

At that age I didn't know what was or wasn't 'premium ad space', nor that 'monopoly' was anything other than a board game - and a boring one at that.

I guess I was too busy picturing people in their underwear to care. Not much has changed in that respect.

Great, white and blue

It took me a little while to get into the band, The National. Might be because their name is one word short of The National Front. It's more likely because I didn't have their CD.

But I got Alligator yesterday and it's brilliant. In fact, I've been playing 'Mr November' for almost eight hours straight.

I think it saved my life.

Though lyrics like, "I'm the great white hope/I'm the new blue blood," do little to separate the Indie rockers from that other 'National' group, there's something about lead singer, Matt Berninger's baritone and the energy with which the band pop out the 4-minute wonder that gives me hope.

Even if I'll never be great or white. Or blue even.

The National – mr november

'Sorry' seems to be the hardest word.

I don't know if that's true. I find 'proliferation' very hard to say. 'Sorry' is easy. I say it all time - too much even.

• "Sorry, I thought you said it was fancy dress."
• "I'm not your father, sorry."
• "Sorry, no speaky English."

The last one's a bit of a cop out, to be honest. But it's something I've been doing a lot of recently. (Not 'copping off', mind you. Nothing's changed in that respect.)

But I haven't been posting much and I am sorry.

In a post entitled 'Cop Out', fellow blogger (and one time 'real life' friend) Wanderingjess perfectly captures my feelings of late.

I've just been beat lately, a little emotionally drained and a little too scattered to blog. (sigh)

And now I'm wondering, like Jess (but with an 'o' not an 'a'), do I bring you up to speed with the recent happenings not covered by this blog?

Or, like the first episode in the returning season of an American TV show (which is quite how I see my life), gently reintroduce the themes (social faux pas) and characters (me) that are recurrent in this blog?

This being the Internet - and me being quite lazy - I'm going to opt for the latter.

But please, browse the archives of this site, expect more regular updates and, inevitably, more social faux pas from here on.

Right, I'm off to a fancy dress party...

Roti and respectability

I've just explained this to a friend and she thought it was hilarious. Hopefully you will too. Hopefully some good will come from my evening, before something bad comes from my mouth.

You see, I'm full. Like really full. I'm so full I can't see my feet.

And it's all because I've just been caught in a cycle of roti and respectability, of cauliflower and chapati.

My aunt, who is staying with us this week, has made alloo gobi - a curried combination of potato and cauliflower, which, she tells me, is disrespectful - for some reason - to eat alone. Not with a loved one, of course (this is the land of the arranged marriage, after all).
"You mustn't eat without chapati," she said.

But it's also quite bad, I understand, to eat chapati alone - without the curried combination of something else. So, imagine my difficulty tonight in trying to synchronise my chapati and my cauliflower.

Each time I finished one I was served more of the other.

And so it went until both were finished at exactly the same time. And most of my lower torso had completely vanished beneath my big belly.
"More cauliflower, Sandeep?"
"No thanks, Aunty ji."

Gay pride

"Sunshine makes British people act crazy. Like...nice and everything."

Twitter update 06:03 PM April 05, 2007

It's a Bank Holiday weekend and spring has sprung its sunny self on us, like a hot, unexpected guest at a party. It's like we're so used to bad weather - and ugly people - that we don't know how to act.

White guys everywhere are wasting no time in impressing our new guest by whipping off their shirts and parading their pastiness with puffed-up pride.

Even I've been acting sort of strange. So overwhelmed was I with the morning sun that I sent a group text message, to around thirty people, announcing my good mood, the good weather and the apparent good news that I was, in no way, a homosexual.

"The sun - and the San - is out," it read. Quickly followed by a disclaimer - "Sorry, I'm not 'coming out.' Just wishing you all a good day."

"The lady doth protest too much," read one response. "You are gay," said another.

Well, if 'gay' is being happy and carefree maybe that's what I am. And proud too.

But heterosexual, I will add. And enjoying the sunshine.

In a bohemian sort of way.

I know it's really wrong but I still like Pete Doherty.

The Namesake is super, man

It's no secret that I saw Superman Returns six times last year (and that's not including DVD viewings). I own both Spider-man films, eagerly await the next, and have all but the Joel Schumacher Batman outings.

It's not that I particularly like men in tights, though some may suspect otherwise; or that I have a hero complex, any more than most men.

I suppose I identify with these stories that are, essentially, the stories of immigrants.

Sent from far away places, living with alter-egos, battling with the duality of identity - on the one hand plain and inconspicuous, on the other colourful and foreign - superheroes (powers aside) are your regular, run of the mill, second generation immigrants.

Meera Syal went as far as claiming that Superman himself was Indian in her comedy sketch show, Goodness Gracious Me. NHS glasses, kipper tie..? Where else, she asked, could a man run faster than a train?

It's another Mira (though spelt slightly differently - Mira Nair) that reminds us of this fact. And it's on a train that her new film, The Namesake, begins. It ends the same way and in-between fills its two and a bit hours with, what critic Mark Kermode calls, "issuetastic family drama."

This, from the film's synopsis:

When the the Ganguli family moves from Calcutta to New York, they embark upon a lifelong balancing act to meld into a new world without forgetting the old. Though parents Ashoke and Ashima long for the family and culture that enveloped them in India, they take great pride in the opportunities their sacrifices have afforded their children. Paradoxically, their son Gogol is torn between finding his own unique identity without losing his heritage. Even Gogol's name represents the family's journey into the unknown.

Though I might rather relate to the Super side of Superman, his alter-ego, and that of the unfortunately named Gogol Ganguli, strike a more notable resemblance.

In The Namesake, Gogol's experiences were very much like mine. I cringed watching him bring home a white girl to meet his parents, flinched as she put her hand on his during dinner and squirmed as she planted an awkward kiss on his father's cheek. We just don't do that, my mum says.

I wondered what it must have been like for her, being born in India, coming over to England as a child and raising children of her own - 'neither here nor there'.

I wondered how she must have felt when I, like Gogol, disappeared into the surrogate family of my girlfriend, my work and my country.

Like all second-generation immigrants, I suppose, Superman himself is torn between two cultures - taught to respect his Kryptonian heritage, whilst embracing his undeniable Americanism.

The actor who plays Gogol Ganguli (Kal Pen) was, incidentally, in Superman Returns. It was a non-speaking role... You notice these things when you watch a film several times!

The Namesake was brilliant. I urge you to see it at least once.

• The Namesake [Fox Searchlight]

Window shopping

I've always felt a sort of, I suppose, misguided affinity with the Irish. My dad told me when I was younger of the signs that would hang in shop windows - "no blacks, no dogs, no Irish." And I just imagined that the three would hang outside, on high streets, and peer into the windows of a country that hated them.

Of course, this was never really the case. Being hated is no foundation for a friendship. And the dogs didn't really give a shit.

Nevertheless, when I detected an Irish accent at the hairdressers' this morning I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it belonged to my new stylist. There aren't many Irish people in Shropshire. In fact, I know one other, and I think she puts it on anyway.

But this was the real thing. And, as we chatted, I thought to myself - if only there were a dog and a country that hated us the picture would be complete. I was quickly glad that there were neither.

Like a tree.

There was a television advert for a bank or an insurance company - I don't remember which exactly - but I'm pretty sure it was for an organisation for whom the level of emotion was completely inappropriate.

It featured a montage of faces, each dreamily looking upwards, sharing the wishes that were somehow facilitated by said organisation.

"I want to be a gymnast,"
"I want to be teacher,"
"I want to be a sex pest," and so on.
And, the closing thought, "I want to be a tree."

The latter was my mum's favourite. She likes trees - she couldn't quite see how banking or taking out insurance would allow her to become one. But the thought became something of a catch phrase for her. "I want to be a tree," she often said, dreamily looking upwards, fantasising of a life more peaceful and serene.

Well, that dream has slowly been hacked away at for several years. And last night it came crashing to the ground, when my dad committed axe to trunk and bought the whole fucking tree down.

Concerned that it was growing out of control, dad was determined to assert his, and fell the tree that loomed over a main road in our front garden.

Obviously, there are precautions that need to be taken when dealing with a felling so close to a busy road. For my dad these precautions, and the costs involved in taking them, were to be - at all times - avoided.

The tree, he decided, would be felled by himself, his shopkeeper friend, a chainsaw, and a bit of rope. And in the hope that the twenty-foot beech tree would fall this way and not that - onto the road and to the injury or death of its innocent users.

But, while still shedding the tree of its branches, onlookers must have observed this potential tragedy and complained; for when the police arrived the men dropped their chainsaws and their plans.

But not for good.

Determined to fell this tree, without any financial cost to himself, and undeterred by the warnings of the police (and soon after the local council and two tree surgeons), my dad decided that he would return to the tree, under the cloak of darkness. And, if his shopkeeper friend wouldn't join him, he'd get his best man on the job.

81-year-old war veteran, John would trade his walking stick for a chainsaw and fell the tree in exchange for fire wood, such was his quality of life. He lived alone, in the bad end of town, and would use the wood to heat his abode through to the summer, if he'd make it.

To my dad being compassionate and frugal were two mutually exclusive things. You couldn't be one and the other. Saving money, he thought, was a cruel thing. And so he watched as the old man boarded a step ladder and began to saw at the wood.

But before they were done, the local council returned. The tree, they suggested, may not be ours after all. My dad may be fined, the old man deprived of his fire wood and my mum, whose dreams had been dashed, sawed and partially felled, proven right, after all.

Being cheap and wise, she'd always insisted, were mutually exclusive. In trying to save money my dad had incurred additional costs. And had he learned his lesson?

"I think I'll get John to make a start on the tree in the back garden," he said over dinner the following night.
"Why don't you just do it the right way," my mum said. "For once."
With that she got down from the table and stood her ground, strong and firm. And not at all unlike a tree.

Coloured people.

You wanna live like coloured people?

People. Pets. Places.

We grieve over people and pets but also over places. And while they never die, as such, our relationships with them can change, remain desperately the same or end altogether. In that sense, the towns and cities in which we spend our childhoods, teens and adult lives, are like the relationships we have with people and, to some extent, with pets. They do, after all, get run over by cars; they are loved and are lost.

The places where I've lived, I suppose, are like the girls I've loved. I've played kiss chase in the town of my infancy, got hot and heavy in the suburbs of my teens, and played the field in the the travels of my twenties.

Now that I'm moving to London - the big smoke - I wonder where the analogy will take me. A fat girl with a cigar? I certainly hope not. But, in the meantime, I'm revisiting an old love, having moved out of my flat and in with my parents.

If the travels of my twenties were like playing the field, moving back with my parents is like being castrated. Long gone is the freedom and the flirtatiousness of my young adult life. It's back to curfews and cooked dinners.

But I can't complain. The food is really very nice and there's no where to go out anyway. It's given me time to think. And yesterday I took our dog for a walk down memory lane. Well, actually Mill Farm Drive, the street where my parents live.

I found that either the houses have shrunk or I've grown. I'd walked the streets as a teenager but, for the first time, could see over its fences, and into the gardens and trampolines of its backyards. I saw not the past but what could be my future.

Young families, new money, old people - in relationships with their places more stable, more kind.

I wondered, when the fat lady in London sings, and my twenties become my thirties and those my forties (as the sequence goes) if I would find myself, on a street like this with a life more ordinary.

Marriages, mortgages, divorces, down payments.... Our relationships with people and places are complicated things! I'll stick to having pets, I thought.

That was until I had to use the poop-a-scoop in my hand. If there's one thing that's true about all relationships: shit happens. You love, you lose and, occasionally, you pick up the shit and move on.

The writing's on the wall.

Removing Dawson's Creek from my list of favourite TV shows on social networking site, Facebook, had the exact opposite effect yesterday, when its 'news feed' announced the move to my entire network of friends.

"'San Sharma removed Dawson's Creek from his favourite TV shows'?" Bill wrote on my wall. "...you big gay."

• Facebook

Gutterball

To quote Larry David, "I like bowling." But I can relate, almost too readily, to his many, many complaints:

"You can't find a ball, that's the problem. I don't know, maybe you own a bowling ball; I don't own a bowling ball. My whole life, every time I'm at a bowling alley, sticking my fingers in all these holes, picking up balls...

You gotta get your own ball. I don't bowl enough, I think, to get my own ball; it takes up a lot of space in the house. You'll end up looking at it in the closet going, "What am I doing with a bowling ball? I don't even bowl!"...You know what I mean?

...Say you want to get rid of the ball. How do you get rid of a bowling ball? Think about that. Who do you give a bowling ball to? Nobody bowls. Their fingers -- it only fits your fingers. You throw a bowling ball in the garbage can, you know what that sanitation man's gonna do? He's gonna knock on your door; that's how upset he's going to be. He's gonna say, "Who the f*** threw a bowling ball in the garbage can?"

Curb Your Enthusiasm
Season 4, Episode 31 ("Mel's Offer")

Lately, I've been sticking my fingers in a lot of holes. Not enough, mind you, to buy my own ball, but just enough to become friendly with the alley staff. You might think that Ed was the manager. He certainly rolls around the place like he is. You may even mistake him as being a bowling ball. He is, after all, big and round, and with just as many holes.

Tonight however, if only momentarily, I reserved my judgement, kept my fingers to myself and decided that Ed, while cocky and mildly irritating, was actually a nice guy.
"Listen, when you're, er, finished let me know," he said, as I slipped and laced my way into something less comfortable. "I'll, er, see if I can try and sort you out with another game." With that he winked.
Brilliant, I thought - free game. What a nice guy?

So, when we were finished I headed over to the reception to let him know.
"So Ed," I said, slyly slipping over to his counter. "We're, er, finished...I wondered if you could, er, sort us out with another game?"
"Ah, I see..." He smiled and pointlessly looked over his shoulder, at a wall. "I can't see why that would be a problem."
"Brilliant. Ed, you're the man, you know that?"
Apparently he did, because he didn't acknowledge the question. He just furrowed his brow and banged away at his keyboard. "You're on lane six, right?"
"Yeah."
"Right," he hit the enter key as if he'd just written a novel and was punctuating its final sentence by giving his keyboard a good whack. "Okay...that's going to be £10.50."
My face burned red, or that sort of maroon colour Indian people go when embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I'd misjudged his intentions.
What was the wink? I thought. And why would he try and sort us out with another game? Isn't that his job? Isn't that what he does all day? What's there to 'sort out'? Payment?

In any case, I was standing there, going maroon; so presumptuous as to not even bring my wallet with me, and very aware that I hadn't responded to Ed for the duration of my thought process.
"Yeah, of course," I managed. "I'll, er, go and get my wallet." And with that rolled slowly, back to my lane, to fetch my wallet and my self-respect, and to lose at a game I didn't really want to play.

Cosplay

The gospel according to The Hold Steady

Craig Finn took to the stage last night like the speaker at a school assembly. The crowd was small and well behaved, many smartly-dressed, few actually paying attention.

Chubby, bearded and sweating profusely, Finn's appearance reminded me of an old school teacher, whose assemblies were almost always about global tragedies and usually infused with a typical mix of guilt and religion that, on one occasion, made one boy vomit and all of us - always - feel terrible.

When Craig Finn sang however it was clear he bore the mantle of preacher, not teacher. His stories were of local tragedy, of New York City and Minneapolis, of heartbreak and drinking. They made us feel good. And while one or two of us may have been sick, we were drunk with more love than religion could muster.

In 2000, guitarist Tad Kubler, drummer Judd Counsell and bassist Galen Polivka joined Finn and started a rock and roll band. But last night, on stage, they were his disciples. And four hundred or so people in Birmingham heard the gospel according to The Hold Steady.

Playing mostly from their third album, Boys and Girls in America, Finn smiled and sang and swung his arms, grabbed us by our collars, and whispered in our ears, the secrets of his friends, the stories of his youth.

And when he was done - sweating more so, drunk and tearful - he thanked us, he thanked the band, he said we were one and the same. "You are The Hold Steady," he said. And never before have I felt a deep sense of belonging to a room full of strangers. He walked into the crowd and to open arms and embraces, still singing, "I've had kisses that make Judas seem sincere."

And, just as soon as we planted one on his cheek, he turned the other and it was all over - ears ringing, amps buzzing and lights up on a room full of friends.

• The Hold Steady

Le Moonwalker

Ooh la la! Check out my photos from Paris on the link below.

• Paris is for Lovers [via my Flickr photo stream]

Agnostic for chemistry

"I've decided I'm agnostic," Pete said. "Not atheist."
"What's the difference?"
"It means that the only thing I can be sure of is that there may or may not be a God. But that I can't prove it, so won't worry about it."
"That's exactly how I feel about chemistry."

"1 adult, 1 child, please."

There is something of an image problem with the new Kate Winslet's film, I realised last night, when the attractive, box-office clerk asked me what I'd like to watch.
"Little Children," I replied.

• Little Children (2006) [via IMDb]

My poor, unsuspecting Valentine.

I convinced myself that this year's lack of Valentine's Day cards was due to my recent change of address. Not that in previous years I've had much trouble wading through the post.

I'm usually the one sending them out - channelling the creative powers of an entire cottage industry, crafting a card with a year's worth of consideration, and carelessly spending a crazy amount of money on a gift as romantic as it is wrong.

An ex-girlfriend suffered the brunt of my love some years ago, when one such romantic gesture marked the beginning of the end for our relationship.

Not content buying roses, chocolates or - rather surprisingly - slutty underwear, I got wood. And not in the way you might expect on Valentine's Day. I actually bought two trees in "Lover's Wood", Scotland - planted to "symbolise our love", not intended to scare the crap out of my Valentine. Needless to say, it was the last we spent together.

And so this year I thought I would spare womankind my kindness - less through choice, I suppose, than circumstance - and enjoy a vomit-less Valentine's without the crafts, the cards, the crazy gifts.

There could be no less romantic excursion on Valentine's weekend, I thought, than a city break with my mum and my sister. Unless of course the city is Paris.

And that's where I found myself last weekend. In the exquisite opera district, and a hotel room that sleeps three, where the question, "voulez vous couchez avec moi?" decides who gets the single bed and who shares the double.

It was the Valentine's I'd wished for - unromantic, though no less wrong; spent with two women, albeit members of my immediate family; and cheaper - I don't doubt - than two trees in Lover's Wood or whatever gratuitous gift I would have given my poor, unsuspecting Valentine.

Movin' Out.

I'm leaving this place in the morning.

• My videos

And this is what happens when you read the Daily Mail.

In the wake of the Big Brother racism row, distressed viewers are returning to a sense of normality and to discussing topics more typical of a reality TV show.

For the past week however the most distressed of viewers have been on the receiving end of the following arguments, surprised by the opinions of colleagues and co-workers, alarmed by their naiveté.

I do hope that these do not represent the views of most British people, but these are some of the arguments I actually heard last week.

• "I'm sick of white people being sidelined."
  Yeah, I suppose Black History Month is a bit much, isn't it? Really cuts into White History Year.
• "It's political correctness gone mad."
  I'm sorry, do you long for the time when we could tell one another to "f*** off back home"?
• "Oh, but it's okay for Jermaine to call Jackie 'white trash'?"
  No, Jermaine is not granted some sort of immunity from being racist on account of his being black. What he actually said was, "...they brought up the word 'white trash', and I don't want to bring that up. I wouldn't call her that, because she's a human being..."
• "But Jade can't be racist. She's mixed race."
  There's nothing in Jade's genetic make-up that excludes her from being racist. After all, I'm 100% me, and I hate myself a little bit.
• "I'm sick of people playing the race card."
  FYI: we don't like to, us darkies. If we gave you one you'd realise it's not that good a thing to have.

Death of a celebrity

In the eastern Indian city of Patna protesters are burning an effigy that is said to resemble the organisers of Channel 4's reality TV show, Celebrity Big Brother. It looks very much to me like a standard, two plank wooden frame, cloaked in a burning white salwar kameez. Now, I've met John de Mol, co-founder of Endemol, the production company behind the Big Brother franchise, and he is definitely a jeans/sports jacket kind of guy.

Some four thousand miles west and Patna's favourite Bollywood actress, Shilpa Shetty, sits under the surveillance of de Mol's creation - the Big Brother house - caught by the lens of 36 surveillance cameras and the attention of the world's media.

Shetty, 31, is the unwitting subject of a racism row. Her treatment by fellow housemates has generated a record 30,000 viewer complaints and has sparked a national debate on bullying, class and race.

Whether you think her tormentors are racist or not, Shetty has been on the receiving end of some sort of sinister bigotry. And its origins, whether in cultural ignorance, jealousy or arrogance, is a story that needs to be talked about: it is the story of racism in this country.

The name calling, the back stabbing, the bitching, is not unusual in a television show of this nature. But it has become a vehicle for an issue that is as uncomfortable to discuss as the show is to watch.

Does Big Brother reflect society? And if so, are we a racist nation?

Shetty's biggest opponent in the Big Brother house is former contestant Jade Goody, who left series three in 2002, nominated by the public, denounced by the British tabloid press and met with a crowd of booing protesters. Since, she has returned to television, relauched her career and amassed a not inconsiderable fortune.

It's interesting, as a subplot to this series of Big Brother, that we may be witnessing a turning of the tide against the post-Heat notion of celebrity; that we are fed up with what is being celebrated; that it is no longer intelligence, artistry and achievement.

It is predicted that Jade will be the next contestant to leave the Big Brother house. When she does I suspect she will be met with another booing crowd, and that we may see another burning effigy.

Apple: "We need to talk."

Probably the best thing I've ever seen.

• Apple iPhone

This Life +10: Snap, crackle, flop.

I skipped out of the Maidstone Community Centre New Year's Eve party before midnight this year (God knows why) and missed out on all the fireworks. Luckily for me, and viewers of 'This Life +10', there were a few bags of explosives on last night's telly. And a reminder that, amongst 'Celebrity This' and 'Reality That', there is still some British TV worth staying in for, even if it's a one-off Christmas special - and I use the word 'special' quite liberally.

'This Life +10' caught up with Miles, Anna, Milly, Egg and Warren of the original BBC drama, which ended in 1997 with a bang (actually, more of a wallop) after 32 episodes and a lot of shagging, swearing and snorting. Last night's reunion however ended on a much quieter note. There were fireworks, sure, but they were lit carefully, as if according to health and safety procedures: proof that people - like old fireworks - get duller with age.

Egg is somehow a literary sensation; Milly a mum; Warren is into life coaching; and Miles is a mega-rich hotels entrepreneur, hosting the former lawyers at his huge country pile. Anna still practices, and is the only character not completely mutated by time. She's still got attitude, balls (not literally) and those great legs. She didn't however have the best line. That honour went to Warren ( "Well really, I mean, arguing about the war...is so last season"). What she did have was a baby complex and exactly what was wrong with 'This Life +10'.

The original series was the twenties we had or wished we'd had (I'm still wondering if mine will come, as I struggle to stay awake at 9:30pm). They shagged, they swore, they swayed to...Suede. They were of their time. And now, while they don't swear any less, they discuss babies and bankruptcy and what exactly a "Kaiser Chief" is. And I wonder if it might have been best if they'd just stayed away and, like Suede and...shagging (I remember that), remained warm in the memory.

'This Life +10' arrived on our screens between two bastions of reality TV: 'I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here' and 'Celebrity Big Brother', where fireworks mark the entrance and exit of its c-list contestants. Last night however, 'This Life +10' snapped, it crackled, but it flopped. I only hope that this so-called special, like the lingering smoke of a disappointing backyard firework display, doesn't cloud the memory of a groundbreaking show.

Happy New Year and that.

I figured I'd be excused for my lack of Christmas spirit this year on account of my Hinduism, which - as you know - seems to come and go. In any case, I apologise for a quiet couple of weeks. And, while I'm late in wishing you a Merry Christmas, Hinduism is really no excuse (even if the calendar itself is Judo-centric) - and so I wish you all a very Happy New Year and all the best for 2007.