This is something I don't imagine people without glasses will ever understand. Once you get a new pair made, with new lenses and everything - no matter how meticulously the guy that passes for an oculist at City Eye Light thinks he measures them, they'll always be a tad off. In the sense that you can put them on and go "Whoa" as you would when you put on those 3D glasses at the theatre. That, followed by a searing headache that persists for a day, and constant reminders of how 'I think you looked better in the previous pair' and how 'These cover too much of your face', is another nuisance. Well fuck me, I bought this pair and I'm going to wear it! Things are not helped by the sudden propensity your legs acquire to go wobbly and make you trip over things.
With this new pair, however, I have noticed a new phenomenon. Dogs are more attracted to me. Street dogs now come bounding joyfully, tongues lolling and tails wagging and rub playfully against my leg as if I were their generous master. Now I don't know who goes around Southern Avenue wearing hipster glasses, feeding Parle Marie to dogs, being generally tall and unconventionally handsome which so confounds the dogs that they assume he's me, but they're clearly mistaken. Which is a hard thing explaining to a loving dog. So I'm forced to buy 5 rupee packets of Parle-G and offer them some. They seem grateful. One in particular, a brownish mongrel of the big-brown-eyes variety chomps them down happily and then looks longingly up at me with a twitchy nose and a quivering lip. Then it thoughtfully bites my thumb.
Hehehe, yeah I love dogs.
I reckon I'll have a dog when I grow older. It will be one of those big stupid ones that come leaping to the door and lick you when you bang on it and holler 'Wilma'. Preferably one in purple.
Everything looks better in purple. Nowadays it's fairly common to walk into a store and find Black Currant Ice cream, but when I was younger, you'd have to check a Kwality store a dozen times to find it in stock. I remember then I had a black metal frame for my glasses. I used to walk around pretending I was Harry Potter and wondering why, if he had magic at his disposal to mend broken limbs, he couldn't just cure his myopia. But then again, Madam Pomfrey made me think of Pomfret Mach, so who am I to judge?
I am not a chronic fish lover like my dad is. He eats with the gusto of a man about to sink his teeth into his last meal. Needless to say, he weighs a 110 kilos and has the jolly demeanour of a man who has spent his life cradled in the cornucopia of the bountiful gods, glazed with honey and lightly grilled till tenderly obese. Surprisingly though, he has spent a healthy 59 years, purloining the odd picnic basket at Jellystone National Park, always a spare apple at the ready to ward off prying doctors. He will greet Death, as one would hope to, with a cheese and bacon sandwich in one hand and a chicken leg in the other and having locked Him in an oily embrace, use however many virgins offered solely to toil the kitchens of Valhalla.
Of all the mystic interpretations of heavenly abodes that reside in the minds of curious bespectacled nerds, I have always found Valhalla the most fascinating. Before Tom Hiddleston rocked Loki, before even the massive golden-pillared castles of Asgard reached out of film to grab you and happily after Age of Mythology, a fascination for the high walled hall and shielded ceiling dipped in the fluoroscent green haze of Valkyries dripping blood on earthly corpses of Einherjar clad in furious armour that one pictures when such things gnaw at the mind, was born.
I wonder if dogs are allowed in Asgard. And how many soldiers I'd have to best in battle to catch Odin's eye so he'd let me in.
With this new pair, however, I have noticed a new phenomenon. Dogs are more attracted to me. Street dogs now come bounding joyfully, tongues lolling and tails wagging and rub playfully against my leg as if I were their generous master. Now I don't know who goes around Southern Avenue wearing hipster glasses, feeding Parle Marie to dogs, being generally tall and unconventionally handsome which so confounds the dogs that they assume he's me, but they're clearly mistaken. Which is a hard thing explaining to a loving dog. So I'm forced to buy 5 rupee packets of Parle-G and offer them some. They seem grateful. One in particular, a brownish mongrel of the big-brown-eyes variety chomps them down happily and then looks longingly up at me with a twitchy nose and a quivering lip. Then it thoughtfully bites my thumb.
Hehehe, yeah I love dogs.
I reckon I'll have a dog when I grow older. It will be one of those big stupid ones that come leaping to the door and lick you when you bang on it and holler 'Wilma'. Preferably one in purple.
Everything looks better in purple. Nowadays it's fairly common to walk into a store and find Black Currant Ice cream, but when I was younger, you'd have to check a Kwality store a dozen times to find it in stock. I remember then I had a black metal frame for my glasses. I used to walk around pretending I was Harry Potter and wondering why, if he had magic at his disposal to mend broken limbs, he couldn't just cure his myopia. But then again, Madam Pomfrey made me think of Pomfret Mach, so who am I to judge?
I am not a chronic fish lover like my dad is. He eats with the gusto of a man about to sink his teeth into his last meal. Needless to say, he weighs a 110 kilos and has the jolly demeanour of a man who has spent his life cradled in the cornucopia of the bountiful gods, glazed with honey and lightly grilled till tenderly obese. Surprisingly though, he has spent a healthy 59 years, purloining the odd picnic basket at Jellystone National Park, always a spare apple at the ready to ward off prying doctors. He will greet Death, as one would hope to, with a cheese and bacon sandwich in one hand and a chicken leg in the other and having locked Him in an oily embrace, use however many virgins offered solely to toil the kitchens of Valhalla.
Of all the mystic interpretations of heavenly abodes that reside in the minds of curious bespectacled nerds, I have always found Valhalla the most fascinating. Before Tom Hiddleston rocked Loki, before even the massive golden-pillared castles of Asgard reached out of film to grab you and happily after Age of Mythology, a fascination for the high walled hall and shielded ceiling dipped in the fluoroscent green haze of Valkyries dripping blood on earthly corpses of Einherjar clad in furious armour that one pictures when such things gnaw at the mind, was born.
I wonder if dogs are allowed in Asgard. And how many soldiers I'd have to best in battle to catch Odin's eye so he'd let me in.
4 comments:
Why do you describe my eyes with the same adjectives with which you have described this dog's? Highly suspicious.
What nonsense. I describe your eyes with much greater affection :)
I joke. This is actually classic you. Last thought of every para leading on to subject of the next, as if it just occurred to you. Is it entirely spontaneous? That, and pop culture references, suggests you'd be a more popular Seinfeldish comedian than manager.
Another career option then :P But why have you started speaking like Noosh? :O
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