Truly. Really. Nothing to say. No words of pontificating wisdom. Nothing.
Its called a writers block, I’m told. It is a malaise that affects the best out there. It comprises sitting in front of the computer, staring at the blank screen, waiting for the words to form in your head that string themselves into a sentence with meaning and finding nothing emerges. Nothing coherent that is. You decide to give up and come back later, and so you do, to find the process rinse and repeat. You read up the newspapers, trying to hunt down something that will pique your interest, that will get your goat, anything that will make you want to comment, say something. Nothing strikes you as worth writing about.
Not even the fact that they are seriously contemplating cloning the woolly mammoth in the near future and you could take your kid and point out the living animal from the Ice Age series he so loves. No matter than said woolly mammoth might need to be transported to the Artic or the Antartic in order to survive, given the heat wave which has us sweating through what is supposed to be winter here. No, that’s not exciting enough. Not even the fact that this might excite them scientist types to get bold enough to start cloning dinosaur DNA and result in a situation where we might soon be reduced to dinosaur fodder, with TRexes roaming our cities, with their sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight.
Not even the fact that a chappie innocently chewing on his naan in London found that the darkened parts of the naan were a xerox of the face of Christ. Can you imagine the horror. This is a true incident, and I quote: Plumber David Howlett, 34, was enjoying his meal at India Dining in Esher, Surrey when he saw Christ like markings on the blackened parts of his bread. The other diners who came to take a look at the bread also found it a bit spooky since it was the twelfth night.
I wonder whether he ate the bread eventually, or whether he carried said naan home and had it framed for posterity. I wonder what a rational person would do if the face of Christ stares at him from a bread. Would he take it as a sign? Did he go forth and multiply? And I wonder if the hand that took the bread out of the tandoor has been suitably venerated.
In the same issue I read about Roxxy the sex robot which kind of makes women redundant. That was a sobering thought. For Rs 3,20,000 odd, any man could say to hell with the nagging, and the fights and the not tonight darling. I wonder when they will come up with the male equivalent of the same. I’d vote for a male robot who tidies up after himself, has deep and meaningful conversation with me and lets me be in charge of the television remote control.
Be back when I do find something worthwhile to talk about.