Random stuff, reflections on the meaning of life and death, humour, self-deprecation, a bit of bad poetry.

Being East Indian, my dad is wont to leave out prepositions when he speaks. He is also low vision now, no longer able to drive and depending on his recently purchased CCTV machine to decipher bills and financial statements.

The other day my mother and I were emptying the fridge of expired food items, dumping them unceremoniously on a section of newspaper flyer placed in front where my dad was sitting at the kitchen table, having recently finished his lunch.

« What hell is this? », he exclaimed.

« It’s recycling, dad. »

« Recycling? », he repeated, not understanding.

« Compost, dad. Organic waste. »

« Oh. »

Yesterday, he asked me how the office move was going.

« It’s okay. », I responded. « We’re in cubicles now. »

« Oh. How many people in your cubicle? »

Laugh out loud.

« Only one, dad. That’s the whole point. »

He’s recently been suffering from very swollen and painful fingers on one hand. I asked him how it was.

« Funny you should ask, my whole body was stiff this morning. »

« How did you manage?», I asked, not really interested because I do this all week in my cubicle and like to take a break from other people’s pain on the week-end.

« I pound my back twenty times and then I’m able to walk », he replied, demonstrating for effect.

A week ago when I visited my parents, I noticed my dad’s head had sprouted two unruly « Bozo » puffs of curly hair on either side (if ever I wondered about the origins of my crazy hair, here was my answer). Yesterday, he sported a buzz cut.

« Nice haircut, dad. »

My mother piped in, « Doesn’t he have a nice shaped head? »

« They molded and shaped my head when I was a baby. It’s what Indian people do. »

Wish my Indian aunties had molded and shaped my head as a baby but my Welsh mother wouldn’t let them. As a result, I’m left with a flat spot that means my pony tail never quite sits right.

Happy Sunday, peeps!


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