BLINKY THINGS

Today is the day that one should go down to the club with one's pipes and a tin of tobacco, ensconce oneself in the smoking room (the library), and avoid people. Except for Roger. The man who pokes the fire occasionally and will silently bring one a cup of tea while fending off the vagrants (other members) with a machine gun. Loyal man, Roger.
Too bad that he doesn't exist.
Tragic.

Other than calling up the pharmacy for refills to pick-up next week, there is nothing I have to accomplish today. Laundry and taxes are done, bills have been paid, pipe stems have been polished, and I gave the downstairs neighbor some vegetables and fruit yesterday. Oh, and people have been spoken to and it has been made clear to them that I am not interested in changes to medicare parts A and B, my solar panels are up to date, the airducts have been cleaned, there won't be contributions to the policeman's benevolent fund or the poor starving widows and orphans in outer Muscovy, funeral expenses if and when are not their concern, and they don't need access to my computer hamsters and elderberries.

Yes, I have answered the damned phone. Several times.
Speaking Cantonese. For the spam callers.
All of whom were Indians.

One has to wonder whether the British, as they were raping and pillaging the third world and learning how food might advantageously be prepared (still an ongoing process), were ever aware that their cringy victims would eventually discover that they could spam-call the entire civilized world and commit brigandage on an unimaginable scale? If they were, they probably said "oh that's just the Americans damned colonials we still haven't forgiven them for saving us in two world wars and their commercial vulgarity! Horrid superpower. Trump, feh!"
Then went back to sleep. While raping and pillaging.

It is because of the British that Sunil or Rajiv or whoever now calls me several times a day. The best prospect the average subcontinental apparently has is somehow gaining access to my private data and credit cards wherewith to finance his paan and bidi habit while snarfing biriani from that lovely place behind the emerald mosque run by Afghan refugees who use real saffron, and fingering the itchy spot under his dhoti.

And one can understand that. Britain is a cold wet bog where washing oneself every week in those unheated hovels runs you the risk of pneumonia, and India is an air-polluted mess with too much heat and several tropical diseases plus tourists from Berkeley being spiritual. On the plus side, there are samosas and tandoori chicken in both places. On the minus side: patchouli and pudgy white women doing yoga.


The weather has turned cold again. It's hurting my knees. I shall go down to Chinatown and have an early lunch, then lurk in abandoned doorways smoking my pipe and saying "boo" to little children while sheltering from sporadic rain.

A pity about the club. I really wish it existed.



On a different note, Graham living in exile in Germany is desperate for fresh crumpets and Branston Pickle. Whereas I would like some real marmalade, good tea, and curry. Oh well.
It's tough bringing civilization to the savages.



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