And because I commit ten minutes to writing a post everyday, I can write about totally unsuitable things today. For those of you wringing your hands in anticipation, this is about totally off the wall stuff like how lawns in the UK are turning pink this winter. I kid you not. Pink lawns. This is the sort of stuff they joked about with the when pigs fly and then swine flew. And how. We spent the better part of a few months with face masks in public places, schools shut and sanitiser as our permanent accessory.
Across the world swine flu, and not just on them low cost carriers where even peanuts are to be bought and the air hostesses will hand you water if you express a desire to purchase a bottle which will cost three times of what you would have paid had you had the good sense to pick up one from outside the airport and drink till your bladder was fit to burst all before boarding the damn flight. Pink lawns make me wonder how Barbara Cartland might feel about this latest development in nature. And whether this is a message from the extraterrestrials who have finally given up struggling over large concentric crop circles and messages in fields, and decided, here lets do something really dramatic that they really cant miss, and here we are saying its to do with some fungus. Arrggghhh. Why cant we play to the gallery? Why cant we go around screaming in fear as the lawns go pink, and build our little alien attack basement shelters stocked with enough food, water and DVDs to enable us survive till the aliens come, survey the planet and take off from boredom what with all the television channels on the blink with all the programming dudes in meetings in basement shelters. I think when the aliens do finally land on this planet and look around for a responsible adult to “take us to your leader” the damn leader will be in a meeting from which he cannot be disturbed and the executive assistant will offer said alien a seat, and a coffee, and the planet’s invasion will get thwarted by the alien getting engrossed by the capers of the participants on the reality show being aired on the channel currently on in the waiting room reception, and forget all about its hideous plans to convert all humans into alien goop and instead decide to barter all their weapons and technology in exchange for the members of the Bigg Boss house and the freedom to take them as caged entertainment for their world. And of course, when they do take them Bigg Boss inmates to their galaxy through the interstellar distances warp speed might be a dicey proposition unless they have mastered the art of not getting flattened by hydrogen atoms which we are told will pound at the spacecraft crunching it and all its passengers into compressed molecules.
While having digressed from the subject of lawns, one might also touch upon the subject of them honey bees cribbing about their morning cuppa caffeine being taken away rudely by this pink conspiracy (given that said pink fungus might spread in an unspeakable manner and make all the flowers stop producing nectar and such like for us to drizzle honey over our morning pancakes). Yup. I kid you not. All them worker bees buzzing around angrily over them pink lawns, theyre protesting the cuts in their ciggie and coffee breaks occasioned by flowers and grass and everything out there in the garden turning a vile shade of dried out rani pink (the navy blue of India if Diana Vreeland insists, though I would beg to differ and suggest maroon as the navy blue of India. But then I’m no Diana Vreeland. And I do live in India.) and no nectar being available for love or money. All them bees taking coffee breaks, now are getting pounding headaches and downing Disprins and cant concentrate on their jobs. And them who needed a quick puff of a ciggie before setting out on their search for nectar mission, are drooping all listless in their hives with limbs tremoring and antennae flailing in withdrawal pangs. All ye in Britain, do them bees a favour and leave out some cups of coffee and some fags in your pink gardens will ya.
As for me, I’m contemplating about getting some Botox put into my forehead. Not for the wrinkling you know, but for the 75mm Dolby Sound Cinemascopic migraines that lay me out flat an average of once a week. I dont mind the unlined expressionless forehead I would get as a side-effect. After all, it wouldnt do to get a blinding migraine attack just when them aliens land. I need to put my basement shelter to use. I’ve already built up my DVD collection and put batteries in my torch.