I just yoinked the computer from Abez and now I gotta type a blog real quick before she knocks me off it again! Eeek! Gotta think of something!

Foist off: De odda day I woke up wit a New Yoik accent. I dunno how it happened, but I couldn’t fo da lyfe of me aaticulate. I figga it’s got sumtin to do wit de fact dat my wisdom teet have come in and my mout is sorta numb. It was kinda funny dough, wakin up my dad fo fajr wit “Yo Abbu, praya tyme.” (STELLLLAAAAAAA)

I’m suffering from the same ailment the B-Filer has. I’ve got university-phobia. I have to register within a week and I’m a wreck. This is going to be the first time, since I was a kid, that I’ll be in school without a sibling or my posse of friends. I’m so nervous. Yeh, I may be hell on wheels in blog land (I wish) but in reality, I don’t do too well in places full of people. I keep having to fight the urge to run away and lock myself in my room until the registration deadline passes so I can come out later and say “Oh well, too late. Better luck next year maybe.” I wish my mom was here. She’d push me to do it and I’d be thankful for it. My best friend in high school used to help me out with this sort of thing. She’d hand me my registration forms, nag me to fill them out and drag me to the offices I needed to be at. Sabah where are you? I guess I’m just a big wuss. I have to stop whining and waiting for other people to do things for me and take charge of my own life.

(If I happen to sound like a late night self help program infomercial it’s not my fault.)

And on top of it, there is a pretty damn good chance I won’t make it into the university I’m aiming for. My marks from the US are fine, but my Pakistani marks stink. I decided to jump the line here when I came and did my BA with the private tuition system, which means you study at home and then just take a couple weeks worth of exams to verify you’ve learned the material.

I studied my brains out, and that’s an amazing thing since I’m pretty much allergic to effort, and made myself read the most horribly written textbooks known to Owl kind and learned by rote (‘rattafication is the secret to the Pakistani edumacation,’ my best friend used to tell me) tons of useless knowledge, and what did I get for my troubles? A crappy result.

Can you believe I did better on Pakistan Studies than I did on English Literature? That’s pretty shocking considering that my entire background is in English and literature, while before I read my Pak Studies textbook, I knew next to nothing about the subject and even now my wisdom on the matter is iffy at best.

I asked my dad what happened, how my marks were so odd, and he laughed and gave me a long and sad explanation. Apparently, a traditional way of grading college exams here is to measure, with a foota scale (a ruler), how many pages and how much space your essay answers take up. No thought is put into the body of the essay. The examiner just reads the introduction and the conclusion and sees how much you’ve written. The more the better.

My cousin once told me that his friend, who passed in the top quarter of his class, used to write a smashing intro and then proceed to copy page after page of nursery rhymes, poetry, song lyrics and any other nonsense he could think of until he ran out of paper. Then he’d end with a whizbang conclusion and voila, he got a great grade!

Poor me, who grew up in the US educational system and was raised to weigh each word and avoid deadwood and verbosity in writing like the plague it is, was very choosy about what I wrote for my essay answers. But a short, concise answer was just not what they wanted, so I passed, but with less than satisfactory marks.

That, bachoos, is the glory of the Pakistani educational system!

Btw, how many of you guys have 10 year plans? I read something about them somewhere (vagueness thy name is Aniraz). Novel idea. The thought of having one has never even occurred to me, which is sort of sad. I have no set goals in life, I never have, I just do things as they come. My only plan has been to keep the faith, try to be a good Muslim and maintain my personal morality and ethics standards. But now I think I could use one. So I have to figure out where I want to be in 10 years. Hmm... if all things go well, what would I have myself doing in a decade? Arg. This is some deep stuff and I don’t relish having to think about the future.

(If you too are a great big loserly bum who is afraid of large groups of people and refuses to think past tomorrow, please call 1 900 GET A LIFE.)

I’ve put in my notice at work. I sort of dreaded telling my boss that I plan to quit and go back to school if I get accepted into the university I’m aiming for. I feel like I’m letting the agency down. Right now, I’m sort of manning all the decks. If I go, they’ll have to hire three peeps to replace me. I finally emailed my boss and told him my plans a week or so ago. After all, it wasn’t a life contract and I stayed longer than any other editor has in six years. But why then do I feel so bad about going? You know, there really is such a thing as too much loyalty. I’m too stinking loyal to an agency that bores my brain out and doesn’t pay enough and forgets to water me. Very sad.

I think I’m getting sick. I knew my good luck would run out. I’d been healthy and shipshape for too long. Life in Pakistan has its thorns, and being violently ill every month or so is one of them. So if I’m not up to standards, your forgiveness please. I’m just going to be a bit bogus and post something interesting I found on BBC.


India debates 'racist' skin cream ads

A recent row over a television advertisement for a skin-lightening cream has fuelled a debate in India over why fairer skin should be considered more beautiful.

While India has seen a phenomenal growth in the number of skin-lightening products, women's groups in the country claim recent adverts are insulting, as they equate fairer skin with beauty and success.

One advert - for a product named Fair And Lovely - has now been taken off the air.

"It's a highly racist campaign," Brinda Karat, general secretary of the All India Democratic Women's Association, told BBC World Service's Everywoman programme.

"It equates fairness with beauty."

The advert was known as "the air hostess ad". It showed a young, dark-skinned girl's father lamenting he had no son to provide for him, as his daughter's salary was not high enough - the suggestion being that she could neither get a better job or get married because of her dark skin.

The girl then uses the cream, becomes fairer, and gets a better-paid job as an air hostess - and makes her father happy.

"Of course, there is a cultural base in India for this kind of market. [Fair And Lovely are] taking advantage of that and exploiting that very backward understanding," Ms Karat said.
"This advertisement, we believe, is demeaning to women and it should be off the air."

The company that manufactures Fair And Lovely, Hindustan Lever Limited, said it acknowledged the concerns that had been raised regarding the campaign.

"Some individuals or organisations have expressed objections against specific exhibitional elements advertisements," the company said in a statement.

"As a responsible company, we have taken note of these objections and will address them."

But they pointed out that only one advert had been withdrawn, and added that they had not intended to show it again anyway.

"This ad had already been withdrawn by us, as it had run its campaign period," the statement continued.

"All the other ads for Fair And Lovely are all on air."

But that is not likely to be the end of the row. The Indian Government is now looking into other adverts, and indeed the whole skin-lightening industry.

"You have to maintain a very delicate balance about that," Rita Vorimer of the ruling BJP party, told Everywoman.
"I do not like the concept of moral policing.

"But some of these ads have really been very irresponsible, and they portray women in a very poor light."

Ms Vorimer was particularly critical of the impact the adverts were having on India's youth.

"They are polluting the minds of the younger generation," she said.

"They think women are the objects of lust - that is a very wrong value.

"Something must be done by the government, and the government has a responsibility to stop all this nonsense."
-ends-

It’s about damn time someone said something about this!

LATE BREAKING NEWS:

OMAGOSH! The weirdest thing just happened!

Abez and I, as part of our daily Sunday routine, went out to run errands today. I had to drop off some photos I’d borrowed from a couple of people I’d interviewed a few months back. One of the stops was at a private, volunteer-run conservation society. I’d never been to their official office, so I was a bit unsure when I walked up the driveway. The door was open, so Abez and I walked in and I knocked on a table and called out “hello?” After a few seconds of silence, there emerged from the office a large, fat Punjabi man...with no clothes on.

*goes blind*
*gags*
*dies*

One hand held a cigarette, the other was holding the corners of a large bed sheet around his waist. I was just about to do an about-face and walk out in an embarrassed haze when the dude very matter-of-factly says, “How can I help you?” as if being caught wearing nothing but a blanket by two shocked young females was a matter of course. I stuttered, not sure where to look (I settled on the spot on the wall behind his left ear), and explained that I needed to have something delivered to the director of the program. He asked a few more questions, said ok and took the photos. Abez and I, who had kept ourselves quite composed during all this, rushed out of the office and almost died in the driveway.

What the hibbity dibbity?!?! Since when, on what planet and in which dimension is it all right for a dude to be lounging about au naturel in the office of an NGO? The door wasn’t even closed!

I should point out that the sheet was *almost* wrapped like a lungoti/tahmad (sarong/toga/man skirt thing), which would have made it *almost* acceptable for the dude to be seen in public dressed as such. But it wasn’t a lungoti/tahmad, it was very obviously the sheet for atleast a queen sized bed in a lovely shade of blue. Plus it wasn’t properly wrapped and he didn’t have a shirt on and men just don‘t walk around shirtless here. Even construction workers and menial laborers toiling in searing heat will never be seen without at least a sleeveless t-shirt.

Abez and I were just shocked, but the dude wasn’t even fazed! He didn’t bat an eye after being found in such a suspicious situation. In fact, he even seemed perky and happy to be of service to us.

After catching our breaths from the laughing, Abez and I deliberated as to what just happened. The weather today is terribly hot, over 100 in the shade. Maybe the man had a sudden bout of heat stroke and was in the process of some extreme cooling off. I thought maybe he’d just stepped out of the shower, though why someone would be showering at an office is another matter, but he wasn’t wet as far as I could tell in those few seconds. I think he was just a head case who’d wandered into the office and went wild.

I wonder, should I call up the director and let him know his receptionist is a nudist?

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

******

MMMmrrrrfffffffPTHTPTHTHT

That is the sound of swollen-footed, leg-cramped tiredness. After weeks of being very lazy, today I decided to ‘be productive’ and do some much needed baking. Yeh, my family is weird, but we *need* baking. It’s a partially legit need, and partially silly. The legit bit is for my dad’s restaurant. I had to make two trays of lasagna. That was more a chore than anything. The silly part was prompted by my dad’s question yesterday “how come you girls never bake anything?”

That’s pretty funny, coming from my dad. He’s one of those desi uncles who insists he doesn’t eat sweet things. Unless of course, he’s presented some. Yeah, you know the type. So he always makes a fuss when one of us makes cookies or a cake or even muffins. He always swears he won’t touch the stuff, but does anyways. Gotta love my dad.

So of course, Abez answered him with much shock “What do you mean abbu, we made muffins last week and you got mad. What do you want? A cake?”

“Oh no no no! Not a cake, too sweet.”

“Then what, cookies?”

“Oh no, I don’t like cookies.”

“Maybe muffins?”

“No, not muffins either.... well.... just maybe... bagels.”

When you stick a desi in the pardes he picks up weird local habits. One that my dad has adopted is a penchant for black coffee and good bagels. I wish he’d have simpler cravings, like oatmeal or maybe ice water (I make hecka good ice water), but bagels it is.

So, after much dough kneading and bagel boiling and bagel flinging, Abez and I have baked a couple dozen bagels. Tada. Where’s my prize?

No more domesticity for me for like, 20 years. I’ve filled my quota.

Then comes the obvious question of “Er, why do have to make bagels just cuz someone wants some?” It’s all about maintaining a higher standard of living. Meaning, people are just generally happier if you feed them nice stuff. It’s an accepted premise. That’s why nicer companies will offer gourmet foods at employee cafeterias and why militaries will waste so much money on feeding their soldiers more than just boiled potatoes. If people are eating well they’re less liable to feel deprived and thus disgruntled. So, since my family is sorta in a compromised situation right now, half my family being in the wrong country and all, we all try to maintain happiness standards. Thus I bake when need be and my dad, who’s really a great guy, buys me limka and gol guppay upon request.

Who says the road to a man’s heart is through is stomach? The road to most people’s heart is through their stomach. Works for me and I’m not even a paitoo.

And yeah, we do other things ASIDE from cooking and eating to uphold the happiness, but that's not what my blog's about right now so bleh.


*****

I had a pleasant epiphany the other day. There are people in the world far weirder than I am. I’m just moderately weird, in a still logical, still reasonable but slightly eccentric sort of way. I’ve met some people who are just insanely weird, in a frustrated, miserable, no-body-loves-me-you’re-all-stupid sort of way. They’re not very happy and it’s almost entirely their own fault. Really, you don’t have to be a nutter. You very easily can mold and temper your own personality a bit so you’re not so very much at odds with all of mankind. But they don’t. They revel in their oddity. To each his own.

*****

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those that can operate plastic-wrap and those who cannot.

I cannot.

I am a mass insectal murderer. It’s really very horrible. Today, in the course of a few hours, I have massacred many many thousands of ants and I feel no remorse. I’m going to burn in hell. Sigh...

Really though, I have no respect for bugs. Yeah, they’ve got exoskeletons and way more legs and movable bits than I do, but they’re dumb little monsters.

Take for instance a particular brand of ants that lives in my parents’ bathroom. These ants have been wandering lost in the grand canyon of the bathroom floor for many generations. They do not congregate, they carry nothing away, and they do not eat anything in the bathroom. They just run like mad, back and forth, across the floor, waiting for divine revelation. I am not impressed. Occasionally I hose them down. They irritate me.

Then there are the ants that live in the kitchen. These ants are even more idiotic. I will not lie, my kitchen is not a particularly clean one. I often forget to put the lid on the sugar pot and sometimes there is junk on the counter. These nourishing tidbits, however, do not attract the ants. They’re much more interested in licking the sink. There is nothing in the sink, mind you, just dried sinkishness, but they like licking it anyways. Must be like a great big vitamin pill. High in iron, or, stainless steel rather.

The ants will also meet up near the garbage can. When the gangs all there, they proceed to run around the can in a frenzied rage. They want what’s in it. They do not, however, have the brains to climb in and get it. They do this every day. Not surprisingly, it’s become a popular weight loss plan with the ladies. It’s a happening joint, The Rubbish Bin, but none of the ant hordes have figured out why at the end of an outing everyone’s still hungry and nothing has been eaten. The girls are just happy to still retain their second segmented waist.

The rest of the house is populated by the odd straggler. This ant perhaps was cut off from the herd and is forced seek his lone fortune in the wide world. Or he’s of the greedy variety who was left behind when he decided to attempt to carry home a chicken leg, or Abez as she lay semi-comatose in video game land. Either way his fate is grim. Chances are he’ll get swept up in the phenomenal vortex caused by the ceiling fan or he’ll find death beneath the many shoes that cross the great expanse of the floor or worse, he‘ll accidentally drop his load on his own head while trying to scratch his third elbow with his chin. Little does he know that even for ants, this is physically impossible. Feel no pity, sympathetic reader. Remember, he brought it on himself.

Ants also do not climb stairs, they do not turn door knobs and they refuse to eat anything that is too easily provided. That is why they have yet to discover the sugar grinder upstairs still covered in powdery goodness, why they are never found in the fridge (unlike the odd mosquito, which will generally be quite pleased and very frozen when you let him out) and why they’ll ignore the obvious cough drop on the floor but will work enmass to secure the dog’s ear when she’s asleep.

Wish I could be one of those lovely charitable people who love all of God’s creations. I like the useful ones and the furry ones, but the rest don’t interest me. And anyone who gives me a lecture on the many uses and the grand importance of our insect friends is gonna get a joota.

THOUGHT THREADS AND DENTAL FLOSS

I’m supposed to be updating right now, as per direct orders in my comment box. I haven’t got much to say though. But lets not let that stop me.

The past three days have been an unfun cycle of migraines, insane amounts of caffeine and sleep deprivation. I think I’m finally done now, I hope. Boy, my brain feels like an over-used dish rag, Subhanallah.

I love me some good books. Abez and I hit the bookstores this Sunday with our shiny pay checks. She got the Lord of the Rings trilogy and some stuff for her students and me, the biggest miser this side of the Durand Line, got the latest Harry Potter book for only Rs 100. I hate fads, but hey man, good books is good books. I’ve been reading it since I bought it, though not non-stop. Used to be no matter how good or bad a book was, I had to read it in one sitting. Now in my grand old age, for some odd reason, I only read things in fits and starts and though I may really enjoy a book, I easily put it down for hours and go do something else. I guess this is maturity or something like that. I better enjoy what little bit I’ve been allotted. Or maybe I’m de-evolving and I’ve lost my attention span. That sounds about right.

By the way, what makes good literature? I’ve been reading stuff that comes in the ‘classics’ section for years, but I’ve also read a lot of stuff that never made the cut and the difference isn’t always obvious. Why are some works celebrated, while others that are similar, are ignored? What makes something literature as compared to just fiction? It all seems so very arbitrary.

Oh yeah, and maybe my wisdom teeth are coming in. It’s about damn time! I’ve been waiting to get wise! HMPH (Note: This is probably a false alarm. De Owl has been awaiting with much trepidation the arrival of her hindmost molars for some years now. They peak out, and then run back in again. Not ready for the world. Not unlike a groundhog.)

I’m looking for a new country. This one is aight and all, but it makes me look fat if I turn to the side. So I want a new one. It’s gotta be predominantly Muslim (life without the call of the adhaan five times a day is simply lacking), mainly moral (sigh… sad how those aren’t automatically together any more), and not hot! De Owl was never meant to live in a tropical climate! She’s a deciduous forest dwelling animal, donchaknow. I was thinking maybe outer Siberia. It would just be me and the yaks, and all yaks is Muslim cuz all animals is Muslim. Right. But I’m not sold on the idea so I’m taking ideas from the blogistanis.

And the question that has been weighing on my mind: Why don’t I have any money? Why do all those over-fed sheikhs get all the cash? Who said those useless losers could get all the dinero to waste on stuff like cars cars and cars when I need me an island to rule? Why isn’t there any oil in my backyard? Why am I not the ruler of the world yet? Where is my wombat?

I want to learn how to bake pastry. They don’t have very good bakeries here and I’ve been spoiled by growing up in an area spotted with European bakeries, patisseries and cafes. I need a Neapolitan! I tried making them once, but it was a horror so great that I swore an oath never to speak of it again. Not good for chewing, but excellent as doorstops. Yipes! I am cursed to be a shell of a man, er, woman, until I learn how to make my own philo dough and puff pastry. And you all thought baking was ordinary. It’s life altering, universe saving, dimension dementing wildly important stuff.

Be careful what you wish for.

We went to the Subway here the other day. Next time I feel like eating at an international crap food, er I mean fast food, place, someone please remind me not to. For a meager Rs 109 I got a salami sandwich and severe brain damage. The salami sandwich, you understand, but brain damage you wonder... (Abez is probably thinking, ‘daaahling, fist you must have a brain to have it damaged...”) The music, which was horrid euro-pop barf, was so danged loud I had to shout my order. But I’m not SO old as to be completely put out by obnoxiously loud tasteless rhythms. It’s the price that bothered me.

Hey man, for 109 rupees (which is in dollars only about $1.30, but hey, I don't earn dollars!) I coulda bought me like 7 bun kabobs ! Not that I could eat seven bun kabobs, but at least I could have had them on hand in case I felt up to it (chances are I’d have choked and died after the first 1.5 kabobs). Not to say it wasn't a nice salami sandwich, cuz it was, it’s just that, I can never enjoy something if I know I got ripped off for it.

But that’s just me complaining at you. I’ve gotta live up to my intro, which if ye turn your head slightly to north-west, you’ll notice. I don’t know if I’ll be able to be a global dictator, but professional complaining I can manage and how!

I was watching a drama here, back before I had better things to do, and it showed a guy and girl on a ‘date’ at a McDonalds (BAH! NONSENSE! IDIOCY!). She looked very pleased with the whole thing, and was dressed up for the occasion, in full war paint, er I mean, makeup, and stylin’ clothes. The dude was in a suit. There was an armed guard at the door and a waiter brought their food.

I almost died laughing. First off, in the US, there are no waiters at the craptastic McDonalds. There are no armed guards and you sure as heck don’t go dressed up to partake in finer mystery meats and fried frankenfood. What’s really hilarious is that, in the US, generally speaking, if some dude asks a girl out to McDonalds, he rightfully expects to be laughed out of town or at least get coke poured down his shirt. McDs is the bottom of the bottom and SO not an impressive thing. For you desis who don’t catch the silliness of it, its like asking a girl to join you for chaat at a cholay tayla. But since McDonalds is a Western import, here in Pakistan, its the cat’s pajamas and worthy of all that hype.

International restaurants are pretty funny here in Pk. They’ve got McDonalds, KFC, Pizza Hut, Subway, Dunkin Donuts, A&W, Kudos, and probably a bunch I’m forgetting. I’ve read the Pizza Hut in Clifton, Karachi, is actually the most profitable branch in the entire world. Kentucky Fried Chicken does very well too. The rest aren’t wildly popular, but they’re making enough to stay in business. To me the fact that they make any money at all is really shocking.

See, the secret of fast-food success in the West is that, people generally don’t cook too much at home any more, and the average person spends hours a day in commuting, so they’ve come to rely on the convenience of cheap restaurant food that they can eat on the go. But here in Pakistan, that need and that reliance on fast food isn’t there.

From the poorest to the richest homes, roti is cooked individually at least twice a day, and there is at least one sort of main dish thingie. Most every home has one person who cooks daily, if not more. Either your mom, or your sister, or your bawarchi, makes salan once a day, so it’s not as if there’s nothing to eat at home.

And the whole eat and go thing is just not done here. People in Pakistan don’t eat in transit. Really. Try drinking a mug of coffee in your car or walking around eating your sandwich and everyone will look at you like you’re nuts. Food is meant to be a refreshing and relaxing thing here; people roll up their sleeves, sit down, laugh, talk and eat, taking their time. It’s not about cramming as many fries in your face in the time it takes to get from point A to point B. (nutting wrong with fry crammage in its self..... Don't want Yaz to be offended ;)

So what’s so great about burgers, fried chicken and pizza? As a partially Western person, I know all about food based wholly on mayonnaise, mustard, salt and black pepper. Yep, it’s nasty and bland stuff. But here in Pakistan traditional food has taste, texture and value. It’s not churned out of a factory a mile a minute, possessing more preservatives than basic food value. People here know what homemade, fresh, home-style food tastes like. They get it every day. Why then are they losing their minds and insisting on cruddy soy-product burgers and genetically modified super chicken deep fried in fat?

But the answer is sad. Because it’s cool. Because it’s a status thing to be able to afford a happy meal that costs more than a whole kilo of beef. Because if your neighbor is eating Usmania qorma every day, you have to one up him by having Pizza Hut every day.

I read an interview of some actress/model chick. She’s supposedly extremely demanding and particular about her arrangements on the set. One quote stood out in my mind. Her mother, who manages her, was heard yelling at a director “And listen, Baby only eats McDonalds, so none of this other stuff, you hear me?”

Ah well. She’ll get her weird just deserts for being such a stuck-up sheep. With her preference for the choicest McD obesity-inducing burgers, that chick will probably soon join the ranks of the super sized herself.

They've forgotten to water DeOwl again. Sigh. Obey yar, is it so very hard to give madam in office number 2 a bottle of water a day?

If I ever quit this job, my resignation letter will list "extreme neglect and dehydration" as my reason for leaving.

Wise man say, he who laughs last, obviously not get joke.

I just got my first driving ticket.

*gasps*
*falls over*
*wails*
*dies*

I’m pretty damn cheesed about it. Half of me wants to say “ah, hell with them stinking tullahs (flatfoots) and they’re stinking laws and !$@#?*#&$&!” while the other half wants to curl up in a ball and cry.

Of course, I have no one to blame but myself.

I’d already had a pretty cruddy morning before I left the house for work this morning. I was late, not feeling well, the dog wouldn’t come home, and there was a traffic jam in front of my house. The usual way to the main road was blocked, so took a side street. I had to come down the wrong side of the road a bit, since the crossover thingie was idiotically placed away from the t-intersection by the wondrous CDA. Hey man, don’t look at me like I’m nuts. It’s a completely acceptable thing here. People come the wrong way down the expressway. Amazingly, there were cops down the road, they stopped me, took my license and ticketed me.

Woe is me. Now my driving record is tainted. But its good in a way. Now I'm free to plow into obnoxious cars, scratch up roadhogs and hit medians if they look at me funny. No wait, I've already done that. That median had it coming.

Another wonderous storm has knocked out our electricity lines. They really have great rain here. It’s windy, hard and exceedingly wet. Just the way rain ought to be. I highly recommend it.

Strangely, though our tube lights won’t turn on, and neither will the fans, but the computer is working fine, so I sit here, in complete darkness, typing up this pathetic blog. We’re in some sort of civilizational limbo. Running water? Nope, the tank’s empty and we can’t turn on the electric pump to fill it. Telephone? Negative. TV? No. Lights? No. Fans? No. Doorbell? No. Indoor plumbing? Yes, for all its worth without running water. Computer? Check! Refrigerator light? Check! Microwave oven? Check! I guess this is what is called a brownout.

So now the computer monitor is being used to light the living room, the fridge is being used to cool the house and the microwave is being watched like TV. That third innovation puts a new meaning on frying your brain watching the idiot box, doesn’t it?

Losing electricity during a storm isn’t too bad though. You just gear up (hijab and jalb for the ladies, obligatory weatherproof clothing for the men) and go onto the roof or veranda and watch the show. No matter how often it rains and no matter how hard its pouring, Pakistanis will always make a party out of a storm and come out in full force for the fun. Roof tops everywhere are suddenly populated with the people who are usually hiding beneath them. Aunties, uncles, larkay and larkian (guys and gals), all go up top to get wet. The villagers, they take a more direct route, and come outside and play in the growing river that pours down the street. Little boys and girls bring out soggy paper boats to watch float for a few seconds before they capsize in the quick moving streams that rush pass their doors. They jump over the newly-formed rivers, push each other under waterspouts, kick water at anyone near enough and try to have fun without losing their shoes, which by the way, is the most perilous part of rain raves. That and falling in open manholes.

The shop keepers who usually don’t have access to running water in their stores take full advantage of the sudden excess and start bathing, fully clothed, underneath the rain spouts above their shops. The butcher in front of my house first stood and washed his hair with a bar of soap, not unlike the great cheesy Lifebuoy soap commercials on the tube. Then he decided to wash his chickens in their coop. He scooped up big bowls of muddy water from the temporary river by his shop and womped the poor clucking birds full in the face with it. Then he dragged them out of their cages and cleaned them with the same muddy water.

The milkman suddenly appeared with his shalwar hiked up to his knees and a blue banyan (undershirt) on ready for fun, with the other shopkeepers who were hiding from the wet from the comfort of their own stores cheering him on. He just sort of stood there for a while, enjoying the wet, before he decided to make use of the gallons of water pouring from the roof of his shack. He brought out his plastic chairs and gave them a happy scrubbing. Then he washed his windows and his sign board before standing proudly beside his store looking very pleased with himself.

The tandoorwala, or bread baker, had his slapping and baking of rotis halted by the rain, as his oven was only covered by a flimsy tarp. He just put a lid on the mud baking pit and came and swept the street with a stick and used a very sad looking umbrella to keep his head dry. I guess it was better than sitting around and doing nothing.

The rain went on for a couple hours, coming in going in tidal waves of wetness. After tiring of watching ‘the rain channel’ we finally went back in and sat around the microwave and told ghost stories. Ah, good times.

Too tired, too hot, too tired, too hot, too tired. Got no electricity or phone line at home. I do, however, have a razzy snazzy mobile/cell phone. Not a fair trade.

I giff yous guys a question. What's the single biggest thing wrong with the world? (and yeh to you danged optimists, it's a trick question, you can't say 'er Owl, nuttin is wrong with it, its peachykeen!' Something's gotta be wrong somewhere.)