Harry Potter and the World of his Aficionados

It was in the pages of The Hindu that I read about it first, sometime during the early millennium. About a so-called Children’s literary phenomenon that was slowly gripping the world.

About a boy who could do magic.

And that’s all I knew about it until I reached my graduation years and my sister and I were spending a quiet afternoon in the library holed up in the English Fiction section (while all our batch mates were sweating away in the Mathematics wing as we ought have been too), when we discovered that the library had copies of the first four books. We randomly picked two of the lot, having absolutely no idea what was in store for us.

It was love on first read.

Over the next two days, I simply escaped into the vivid imaginative world created by the genius of a writer, and proofs and theorems lay forgotten (not like I was missing them). I followed little Harry as he opened the chamber of secrets, and impatiently waited another long day till I could get my hands on the goblet of fire (my sister has selected the thickest book of the lot, not knowing it was the fourth installment). We then eagerly set off to borrow the other two, and quickly flipped a coin to see who will get the philosopher’s stone.

Soon, we were at the local book shop on the release date of the order of the phoenix just as two sleepy assistants were unloading the two cartons of (deliciously –smelling) brand new copies. They seemed irritated at having to wake up early, but our arrival had induced a new emotion. Of course, we were the only customers who had called in two days ago, to confirm the exact arrival time; and then, again the day before to ensure that the shop would be open.

Mental. I think that’s what they were thinking.

I know there are a lot of Harry Potter fans out there, but I am sure there is not a pair in the world who could both read from a single book as fast we did. I had to remind my sister to use the restroom at regular intervals (that gave me a precious two minutes of reading). She caught on very early, and started taking the book with her. You might think she is crazy; but to be fair, I would have done the same in her place. So after 10 hours of not-so -consistent reading (my nagging to check her progress was very consistent), I finally took the precious one in my hands. Not surprisingly, I forgot to sleep that night. I read into the wee hours of the morning, and it was with great restraint that I stopped myself from cheering for Fred and George as they made their glorious exit from Hogwarts, 4.30 am IST.

Yeah, the bookshop assistants were probably right.

And then I moved out of my small town, into a big city. All alone in a new world, not completely unlike Harry. The first time I felt that I belonged was when I talked my way through a Public Speaking course by talking about, well, who else.

The applause was worth making a fool of myself.

I read the half-blood prince a week late, and every day of waiting was torture. I think the worst part was not reading newspapers or avoiding friends who were likely to have read it.

I learnt later that I had (inadvertently) made a couple of enemies that week.

There were the movies, of course. I watched them as any HP loyalist would, and said at the end of every single outing, ‘It was good, but the book is still better!’ It was pure academic interest, you see.

And then, so soon that you couldn’t have played a single Quidditch match in the interim, it was finally time for the end. A sleepless night and one hour in the queue later, I collected my pre-ordered copy of the deathly hallows, and sneaked into the terrace. That was because my roommates threatened that they would spill the beans on Harry’s state of survival. Who can blame them? The headlines in one of the channels went something like this – ‘The last book in the Potter series released today; Harry survives!’ (Talk about spilling the beans!)

I read through the book drinking in every word, every sentence, aware of the fact that I would not have another book to look forward to. I laughed at Ron’s and Hermione’s familiar bickering; shocked when it turned serious; I cried when dear Dobby died; I cheered when they hunted down every Horcrux, even louder when Neville finally had his big moment of glory. Before I knew it, it was the final battle. Where did all those pages disappear? I cried one last time, I laughed one last time and I smiled for one last time…and then, it was time for the withdrawal symptoms.

You can call it a phenomenon, cheap publicity gimmick, good writing or bad writing. You can call me crazy, you probably already did. But there is something strange about it. While this saga was unfolding, the real world was grappling with its own problems. There was more than one Voldemort-esque characters wreaking havoc. There were scandals, bad governance, and man-made disasters. I moved through two colleges and a business school, survived broken hearts and wrecked friendships; and met atleast one Snape –like person, who unfortunately for me, did not show an inclination to turn positive. But nothing has changed in the world of Harry Potter.

At the end of a book, I experience the same feeling of emptiness that Harry felt at the end of every year. I return with renewed optimism looking forward to the new year, in the next one. And those feelings are consistent, every single time I read these books. They have picked me up on a depressing night; they have brightened up an already sunny morning. Literary genius?

Or pure Magic?

Palace (or a little less luxurious something) on wheels...

How did a colonial legacy like that survive so successfully in the most complicated nation in the world, and in time, become a symbol of affordable long – distance journey for , well, everyone who needs affordable journey? It is a question that has baffled me ever since I took my first ride, or at least the first one that I remember – a 5 minute hop and jump that my father arranged for me and my sister, between the two nearest stations. Well, not exactly since that moment – I was barely 6 years old then. But over a number of delightful, interesting, albeit not-so-comfortable turns at it, I had started to ponder about it at some point.

And interesting, they certainly were. Rewind to older times when it took two days and a half to travel from Thrissur to Mumbai (Konkan rail had not entered the minds of populist politicians yet). No wonder then that Mumbai had planted itself in my mind as a city far, far off. The journey was a roller-coaster through various different terrains and climates – through the climatical familiarity of central Kerala to the humid Coimbatore and Salem to the very humid Hyderabad, before somehow coming to its senses and finding its way back on the right track on-course Mumbai. But not before the passengers encountered another range of varied landscapes and atmospheric temperatures. This coupled with the variety of people you met inside the train ensured that there was never a dull moment.

Trains were, of course, the only way to travel long-distance if you were within the boundaries of mainland India. How I envied my cousins abroad who got to fly! Well, to be fair, if you were to embark on a long – distance trip, the planning was not all that different from going on one abroad. Preparations would start days in advance. Everything starts with food: What to cook – suggestions aplenty from those who claimed to have travelled long – distance on trains before and evidently survived on home-cooked food; When and how to cook – the sources would, unfortunately, be the same as before. How to pack: Funnily enough, this is one topic on which everyone has contributed, and no one has got it right. Atleast not completely. On one such journey to attend a wedding, my mother and her sister debated endlessly for weeks on how to carry their gold jewellery on the trip. Why they had to do it is a totally irrelevant question – to them, at least. How they finally managed to safely transport the precious metal over a few hundred kilometers fending off possible theft, kidnap, gangster / mob attack etc. is really beyond the scope of this blog.

I am running away with my imagination here as I have personally not encountered any of those scenarios during any of my train journeys. But, of course, strange things happen in India. And stranger things happen in Indian Railways.

Like the one where my friends and I had to ‘purify’ the berths with (what else) our deodorants after a group of pilgrims left behind ‘prasad’ that had definitely crossed expiry dates. Talk about practicing what you preach!

Or the one where I sat through an entire day without talking a single word to my co-passenger only to realize at the end of the journey that he was my sister’s friend.

Or the many occasions when I had to fight off cockroaches for half the night; and spend the other half cursing the guy snoring off to glory on the berth below.

Or the only time I was ever late for a train. Entering the platform after hearing the final whistle, I had no option but to hop in to the nearest compartment hoping that the barely discernable outstretched hand would grab mine in the most romantic Indian train image of all times. Alas, he was not the Shahrukh Khan figure of my life; but the guard who shouted at me for being late and told me to jump into the next compartment door. So much for life imitating DDLJ.

The Railways represent a lot more than just transportation for the quintessential middle – class Indian. For my grandparents’ generation, I am sure it could have meant a really special journey, as they did not do a lot of frequent long – distance travel back then (it’s an ignorant presumption, of course; as I have never really asked my grandparents about it). For my parents, it meant having fun while travelling long distance comfortably. I don’t think we would ever find a generation that was so much in love with the Indian Railways as they did. Travelling 3 or 4 days at a stretch was nothing at all- because it meant seeing new places (even if it was through the very narrow windows) and meeting new, interesting people. Indeed, they were the originators of ‘Transportation Networking’ a.k.a ‘I am so happy to be on this train that I am determined to spread the joy to everyone on the compartment’. At this point, I am forced to reminisce those mortifying moments travelling with my mother while she doles out the family history to total strangers, who she parts with as ‘next to best friends’ by the end of the journey.

Even for my generation - the last of the quintessential middle-class Indians who have truly experienced the joy, if not comfort, of travelling by Indian Railways through most of their growing-up years - the trains are more than just transportation. They are an uncomfortable mode of transportation that people have to resort to, till they are rich enough to always book a flight, or even better still, purchase a private jet. Social mobility is no longer determined by the compartment of the train you belong to – General, Sleeper, First Class, Second A/C, First A/C and so on – it is determined by the mode of travel.

It is therefore, only natural that, for the generation next, trains only mean ‘something that their grandparents did’. It is now officially cool to say that you have never travelled by ‘the train’ in your entire life! They have no idea what they are missing…

Tuk – Tuk Blues…

Last week, I was returning from work with two of my colleagues who were going along the same route. After endless rounds of waiting and getting disappointed, we finally piled into an auto rickshaw who insisted that we take the route suggested by him as opposed to the one I had been travelling for the past one year which has been without doubt proven to be the shortest and easiest. So this guy finally consents to take my suggestion, but at the first possible opportunity, takes a detour and stops in the middle of nowhere saying that his vehicle has broken down. He drops us right there (and it was raining heavily too!) without even offering to find an alternative, and when we looked back he has disappeared with his auto that was not fit to move a few seconds back!

I have had some very strange incidents involving the autos in Bangalore, including one where the driver literally threw me out because I asked him to go a little faster; but this last one was really the limit!

I believe every city defines its uniqueness through a complicated maze of transportation secret codes that you need to crack to ensure that you have a peaceful existence there. Now the trick here is that what seems to be the easiest form of transport would also be the most painful. Which brings me back to my topic.

I have lived in Bangalore a.k.a The Garden city cum Silicon Valley of India, for the last six years. Long enough for me to crack the transportation code, you would think. Not so. Let me give you an idea about the general scene. Bangalore is very positive about private transportation. So positive that every Tanvir, Das and Hari owns a vehicle here that steadily adds on to the cacophony. As for me, I don’t own a vehicle, not as yet. I have thought about it, and I am pretty sure that the reason I am not going to buy a two-wheeler is that I don’t want to get wet in the glorious-but-completely-unpredictable-English-like- weather in Bangalore. And I am also pretty sure that the reason I don’t (read can’t) own a car is because I don’t want to waste my hard-earned money on a machine I am not even sure I can control (don’t get me wrong, I do have a license)! Let’s just say, when I own a car, I would Iike it scratch – free..Needless to say, the idea of hiring a driver is not just laughable, but unaffordable.

And did I forget to mention that there are no taxis in Bangalore?

And so, if you are one of those self-important people like me who believe that after four years of slogging in the corporate world, you deserve to have a decent, exclusive, comfort-ridden ride to and from work; you have to opt for the next best thing. Enter the auto rickshaws of Bangalore. Exclusive, yes. Comfortable – no. See the irony?

There are various ways of describing what has been India’s great invention and contribution to the world (I see that the rest of the world has cleverly stayed away from them). But the breed in Bangalore are a class apart. Truly. I mean, they are completely unlike the auto drivers in Mumbai who are very professional and friendly at the same time (they are my favourites); but they are also not like the ones in Chennai (the ultimate Rickshaw passenger’s nightmare come true!). But they are atleast predictable in Chennai. You know and expect them to haggle, not to use meters and sometimes not have meters installed at all, but they hardly ever refuse service to anyone.

It’s the sheer variety and predictability of the Bangalore auto wallahs that makes them so fascinatingly interesting. The vast majority of them are very picky about their passengers, and even more so about the destination. They don’t just drop you anywhere you want to go. You tell them to go to Koramangala, a distance of 4 kilometers from my place, they don’t. You ask them if they would drop you at Whitefield, a distance of 18 kilometers, they refuse yet again.

The worst are those who refuse service to you, and give a facial expression to go with it, something I have now come to recognize as the worm look. “Eww..how can you live in BTM Layout; I would not go there in the next nine years!!” Based on all my past experience, I am fairly confident those are the exact words behind the worm look. I have always wondered where they are all off to, with their empty vehicles. My colleague seems to think there is some kind of parallel Bangalore that they are all heading to; I am starting to think that’s a possibility.

Now, next in line are those who will offer to drop you wherever you want to go (finally!), but they do have a list of conditions. First, those who do not run their meter, and start haggling for money straightaway. Then there are the kinds who switch their meter on, but demand an extra 20 bucks over the fare. I don’t know why they like 20 a lot, but that’s where they all start. And when you refuse, it comes down to 10. I have had some asking me for an extra 5! It’s almost like when they extract a rupee more than what they deserve, they feel obliged to go through the unpleasant business of transporting you somewhere. The reasons for demanding extra fare are varied but all equally illogical:

“Heavy traffic on the road” (like we are somehow responsible for the traffic clogging, and have to be penalized for it!)

“No return ride available” (I am still trying to figure this one out, since I live in one of the busiest and crowded localities in south Bangalore. Not that ensuring them business is my duty, in the first place.)

And my personal favourite,

“It’s raining” (Bangalore is officially the only place on earth where commuters are designated as rain Gods!”)

Now, you have managed to ward off all the obstacles above, you finally get into an auto whose owner has agreed to drop you anywhere, unconditionally. Seven times out of ten, his meter is faulty. Okay, there is no scientifically researched basis for my statistical revelation, but I am willing to bet that it’s true.

Agreed, there are a few, very few, professional, honest auto guys plying in the city. The trick is to spot them. With the rest, well, there’s not much you can do. I have tried various levels of cajoling, coaxing, requesting, asserting and demanding, even got inspired to learn Kannada; but there’s nothing you can guarantee will do the job – securing a fair and hassle-free Auto rickshaw ride.

I have always believed hiring an auto in Chennai is a lesson in negotiation. Well, in Bangalore, it’s a lesson in human study! Happy tuk- tuking!

It’s a girl, and a girl!!

It started from the start. From my mother’s womb, to be precise.

There was this magical moment when the egg decided to split into two and be two different individuals rather than one. Was I supposed to be the one child that was actually conceived, or the additional one? I may never know.

I feel admiration for my parents (read mother) for managing to bring up two self – destructive infants with no major mishaps. It’s not like they had any choice since they got caught in the medical miracle of twin births which is “oh-so- wonderful!” to all onlookers, but I can pretty much assume that, for my folks, the novelty would have worn off the second day. One minute, they are the proud parents of twin girls. The next day, they wake up thinking (probably like all first – time parents), ‘Oh, no! Life is never going to be the same!’ Only it’s a double whammy, when you finally realize that you are chosen for that special life where everything happens twice, and at the same time!

For the perfect loner that I am, I have actually never been alone. Every single memory I have of my early childhood is not a single memory. Wherever I went, whatever I did, I had someone with me; she was my shadow and I was hers. Do you think that makes life easier? I am not sure, but I bet it did.

And then somehow, we survived infancy and we were off to school. Off the hands of a hapless mother and father, into the frying pan that was labeled teachers. To be fair, we never really indulged in the quintessential twin jokes that included getting away with things by taking each other’s places and confusing everyone around. Again, to be fair, we never really had to try hard to be naughty. People would inadvertently fall into traps we never even laid in the first place, but it was fun to watch nevertheless. It did not help that my mother insisted we wore identical clothes till we turned 14, so “Ohh..ahh..s”, ‘oh, how nice!’ , “You are twins!” were commonplace, almost boring. Double – takes, surprised and shocked looks, was the order of life. As far as we were concerned, we just could not see the point – what is the big deal about being twins??

Life was not all rosy, though. Being two very independent, strong – headed Arians, we were always at loggerheads. Sibling rivalry was second nature. I had to always, always, fare better than my twin. It did not help that for the first 17 years of education, we were pursuing the same stream. Comparisons were, therefore, inevitable. My parents, of course, handled it really well by deciding it was ‘double or nothing’. Whatever we got or had, we both did; or else neither of us did.

We moved along. Sometimes like bread and butter. Other times, like chalk and cheese. For twenty – two long years. And then, it was time to move apart. After spending literally every minute of our lives together, I guess we had decided enough was enough. No, there were no emotional good-byes. Quite contrary, in fact, we both took it really well. I would like to think that we are so close that we never felt each other’s absence.

Things were not much different in the six years we spent in different cities. You would think we would have learned to appreciate each other in the event of absence. I don’t think that really happens with twins. You see, unlike other siblings, our relationship does not grow with age. You see, we got to see each other’s true colours right from the time we knew each other as a fellow space- crammer inside a thick-fluid bag for nine whole months. There is no further discovery involved.

Of course, when we were apart, we talked less often. By a basic statistical law of frequency, we tend to disagree less, therefore to agree more.

So now, here we are. Together again under one roof. A perfectly dis-harmonious pair of people to those who meet us. We still pretty much have arguments over the same old things. She can’t understand my obsession with movies, and also why I end up broke at the end of every month in spite of making a decent living. I still love fish and onions, and she hates both. And to think we have the same DNA. Well, almost.

All said and done, the ‘twin thing’ is really not an exaggeration. I do feel blessed to have a twin sister. I feel blessed to be part of this special bond that is unique, inexplicable and completely amazing.

She might still drive me up the wall, but she is also the one and only person who can understand my unspoken emotions, even over a telephonic conversation. We still have conversations while laughing and crying, and nobody around follows a word. I speak one word and she guesses the remaining nine. We really can complete each other’s sentences. I can count on her to be loyal and supportive to me like no one else has ever done, and no one else probably ever will.

And above all, I know that she is the one person who actually understands me and I am the one person who probably understands her better than anyone else. The best part is that it’s not something we have worked on at all. Like they say, it’s only natural.

I don’t think I can start to encompass all my feelings on this topic in this one small article. So for those who have experienced this special bond, you would have gone through many of the above. And for those who haven’t, it only takes being parents to a pair to drive the fascination away.

So what does being a twin mean? It means to have someone who means so many things to you at once. She is my sister. She is my best friend. She is me in my mirror image. She is my soul mate.
She is my twin.

The Great Indian Circus...

The Shahrukh Khan – Shiv Sena war of words has been consuming a lot of media bytes recently. That set me thinking on a fundamental question: Does Freedom of Speech exist in India? The Indian constitution provides all citizens with Right to Freedom, which includes Freedom of Speech and expression, which enable an individual to participate in public activities. It can be safely interpreted that this includes Freedom to express one’s opinion in a public forum.

For many years now, we have been suffering under the tyranny of certain extra – constitutional authorities that claim to represent the sentiments of common people. They pretend to know and understand what exactly offends people’s sensitivities and what does not; all the while scoring long distances of political mileage. Shiv Sena is, unfortunately, only one of those. We have more wannabes of the ‘I –am- India, People –of- this- country- are- all- stupid- and- I- am- the- only- person- who- can-keep- them- sane- and- civilized’ title.

For the life of me, I am not able to figure out what is objectionable in SRK saying that it’s a mistake to not let players from Pakistan appear in the IPL. He is a businessman who owns a franchise; and lets face it, we are missing out on a huge pot of talent from right across the border. And in a completely unoriginal master-stroke of a move, they direct their ire towards his about-to-be-released movie. Considering that the same routine has been done to death numerous times, Shahrukh should have anticipated the response. Well, the timing could not have been worse for him. I personally think he should have released his movie before the IPL auction. I can’t help but think about those childhood games we played – “you took my bat and I will hide your ball. You took my marbles, I will not give you my pencil!!!”

I am intrigued as to who gets the maximum media mileage out of this episode. Shiv Sena, of course, manages to grab attention every single time – Love them or hate them, but you can’t ignore them!! More often than not, they evoke sentiments like anger, frustration and resentment in me, and many others I know; but I somehow feel they are fine about that. In any case, I am not a voter from Maharashtra, so I doubt if my feelings would make any difference to them whatsoever.

SRK – arguably one of the biggest brands in India (according to himself) comes across refreshing as someone who would not want to retract his words even in the wake of a possible huge loss in revenues if his movie is not allowed to be exhibited in Mumbai. And for all you know, this might bring in more publicity for his movie. I, for one, am sure to watch ‘My name is Khan’, only because no Shiv Sena is going to tell me what I should do or should not do.

What about IPL – the silent third party in the controversy? An annual money – minting entertainment extravaganza that has as much good cricket as a Netherlands – UAE ODI might have. This brouhaha might not make any impact on them or on their self – proclaimed Modi King - another extra-constitutional authority in the making who feels that a media circus designed to make a few rich people richer is more important than the election circus that we get to see every five years. I am surprised that very few questions are being raised on the actual issue: Why weren’t players from Pakistan chosen by the Franchise owners? If it is, indeed, a political issue, it is worth pondering on. Agreed, international cricket with Pakistan is suspended, but isn’t IPL a domestic league where players from different nationalities play with and against each other? Sports can reflect political opinions once in a while, but it should not be an extension of politics. And don’t even get me started on the issue of the Australian players not being allowed to be in the IPL because some of our fellow citizens are being attacked down under. This coming from a political group who obviously does not believe in the same principle. How wonderfully hypocritical!!

This incident is a classic example of how the three great forces in India – Politics, Movies (read Bollywood) and Cricket come together to create chaos. I fear that we, “the common citizens of this Socialist, Secular, Democratic Republic”, will lose our sanity in the process.

Coming back to where we started, the Indian constitutional Right to Freedom also gives “Freedom to reside and settle in any part of the territory of India which is also subject to reasonable restrictions by the State in the interest of the general public”. Doesn’t that ring a bell??

Technology and its trappings...

On my way to work today, I met my neighbour who stays on the floor below, and I was shocked to realize that I did not know her name! In the three months I have been living in the building (that has only 5 tenants apart from the owner’s family who stays on the ground floor), I have met her only thrice. Nothing out of the ordinary in a busy city life, you might say; considering that we all work to different timings and are hardly around at home during weekends…

My friend says she does not bother making small talk when she is around people she is not comfortable with (read a family or social setting); instead chooses to browse the internet on her i-phone. In fact, the phone has now become an instrument that helps you to pretend that you are busy as much as, or more than, something that actually keeps you busy!!

Last time I visited my uncle, my college – going cousin (who is in her early twenties) proudly displayed to me her huge network of friends on Facebook and Orkut, and tells me that she was (apparently) voted the ‘Nicest kid on the block’ in her network of 500 – odd people. She diligently keeps track of all important milestones in each of her ‘friends’’ lives (all of which are, obviously, recorded in her calendar!!) and makes sure she sends completely non – customized, ready –to – sent, ‘meaningful’ messages to all of them. Along with amazing ‘virtual’ gifts like teddy bears, and sometimes even fresh fruits, vegetables and live poultry (??!!!) from her ‘virtual’ farm. She, of course, draws a complete blank when I asked her the name of the domestic help who cleans her room every day, and cooks her meals. Clearly, the birthday of your long – lost school friend’s cousin’s brother - in - law’s second kid is more valuable information…

I go to her brother’s room - a 14- year kid who is now bespectacled, no doubt due to his constant exposure to whatever harmful rays that came out of computers these days; and see him engaged in a multi-user online game with (I can only imagine) a group of like-minded kids from various ‘virtual’ locations. He assures me that Crazy Nuclear Annihilation III helps you improve your mental and physical (of the fingers, I assume) faculties and helps improve your concentration. Whoever needs fresh air and exercise!!!

Now, before you conclude me to be a cynic, let me make this clear..I am not against technology that brings people together. I am only against technology that pretends to bring people together. I use Facebook and orkut for a considerable amount of time each day, looking through the latest updates for new happenings in my friends’ lives, so I can keep track of people who are important to me..oh…well, who am I kidding? Most of these ‘friends’ would not even know if I am dead, or scarier still, might not even care!! More often than not, I waste time online so I will be saved from the more unpleasant tasks of lifting the phone and speaking to one of those real friends who actually care for you, and who do not merely ‘follow’ you on Twitter..Worse still, I am wasting precious time that I could otherwise spend on connecting with the larger world around me who I can see, feel, touch and interact everyday: the next – door neighbour, the extended family, the colleagues in the cubicle nearby, or even the domestic help. They might not actually be friends, but they probably would save you from turning into a virtual machine..

I am lucky to be part of a generation that knew a far less complicated world without cell phones and i – touch..without Twitter and Orkut..all those trappings of the modern world that traps you to your home, while making you believe that the whole world out there is literally hanging on to your next Status Update…

Back then, life meant unlimited space and time to go out and enjoy the wonderfully pleasant green grass and blue sky..playing games, cycling, visiting and hanging out at friends’ and cousins’ places..I wrote letters – actual physical letters to aunts and uncles who lived out of town and in complete sentences, not SMS syntaxes..made holiday cards myself..The phone ringing was hardly an irritation – it was always a race to the phone to see who would be calling (that was before the days of answering machines and caller IDs, you see)..And we always, always knew who lived next – door…
And although, i did not have 500 – odd friends in my network, the 5 I had were real friends.. Life, indeed, was far less complicated..

So today, I have promised myself not to give in to the trappings of technology..to use it rather than to be used by it..So today, when I get home, I will make sure to knock on my neighbour’s door and talk to her..and later, I will call a friend who would be happy that I thought of him..

While on the topic, I should probably also tell my cousin to get outdoors and play real games for a change. Now, that might not really be a great idea…