Ow fudge! The iPod's stuck again. It's slipped behind the bedpost and being the attention-seeking 7-grand worth nuisance that it is, naturally demands the considerable exertion of effort, a fair amount of huffing and puffing, maybe a grunt or two thrown in for good measure before I'm able to retrieve it. Blasted moronic piece of machinery! Why doesn't it ever get so hopelessly lost that it never bothers me again? Instead, it will show up once in a while, a summer on the mantelpiece, trying to attain an even tan on the veranda ledge one winter (failing miserably and only slightly melting its plastic cover), or even during Diwali break, handed to me by a friend who claims, "Thanks for lending it to me, I really enjoyed the songs!" Blast it! Better yet, why doesn't it just quit working?
"Because it's Apple," says brother Sam.
Sam might stand for a lot of things, Samosa, Sambhar, Samba, but what he really stands for is a dash of annoyance in your soup of contentment.
"Grumble grumble," I reply, and then, "Grumble".
Sometimes there really are no responses worth giving. One might be annoyed, irked, hurt or even dismayed by brother Sam's timely interjection, but there's one thing you cannot do - and that's refute it. For all the singeing unpleasantness of a carefully planted hot fart that it exudes, it is as clean a statement in logic and panache as you'll ever hear.
"Now I have to get it out," I announce, rising with recalcitrance and lazily limbering up for the lusty tugging that would move the ten-tonne bed.
The bed used to be fine walnut-wood and came embellished with an ornate headboard laced with delicate carvings of prancing deer and roaring tigers and what not. But with use, there comes a time in a bed's life when it's sent in for repair and arrives at your doorstep, somewhat leaner in style, but without the thousands of bucks worth of carvings, accompanied by a furniture salesman assuring you it's just as comfortable without and then smiling meekly as he hands you a bill for another thousand bucks. Beds, I tell you! What's wrong with a good old mattress dumped ceremoniously on the floor? It works just as well. But no, we must have a set of legs to go along with it. How on earth else will babies tumble over the edge and land on their bums in the middle of the night? Oh that's a problem? I present to you the Kolbalish!
"Here," says brother Sam, producing a hockey stick out of nowhere and adroitly pulling the blasted-nuisance-chargeguzzline iPod from behind the bedpost with ease.
I give him the stink-eye. Oh look at brother Sam, so smart and practical and helpful. Solving my problems by butting in uninvited.
"Now find me my charger," I command the worthless twit.
"Oh that's been lost for ages," he quips. "But look on the bright side. Now you get to lift your worthless butt off the bed and do something productive." He storms off as if he has the right to be offended. Sorry plebeian. He even plays Holi.
What a cunt.
"Because it's Apple," says brother Sam.
Sam might stand for a lot of things, Samosa, Sambhar, Samba, but what he really stands for is a dash of annoyance in your soup of contentment.
"Grumble grumble," I reply, and then, "Grumble".
Sometimes there really are no responses worth giving. One might be annoyed, irked, hurt or even dismayed by brother Sam's timely interjection, but there's one thing you cannot do - and that's refute it. For all the singeing unpleasantness of a carefully planted hot fart that it exudes, it is as clean a statement in logic and panache as you'll ever hear.
"Now I have to get it out," I announce, rising with recalcitrance and lazily limbering up for the lusty tugging that would move the ten-tonne bed.
The bed used to be fine walnut-wood and came embellished with an ornate headboard laced with delicate carvings of prancing deer and roaring tigers and what not. But with use, there comes a time in a bed's life when it's sent in for repair and arrives at your doorstep, somewhat leaner in style, but without the thousands of bucks worth of carvings, accompanied by a furniture salesman assuring you it's just as comfortable without and then smiling meekly as he hands you a bill for another thousand bucks. Beds, I tell you! What's wrong with a good old mattress dumped ceremoniously on the floor? It works just as well. But no, we must have a set of legs to go along with it. How on earth else will babies tumble over the edge and land on their bums in the middle of the night? Oh that's a problem? I present to you the Kolbalish!
"Here," says brother Sam, producing a hockey stick out of nowhere and adroitly pulling the blasted-nuisance-chargeguzzline iPod from behind the bedpost with ease.
I give him the stink-eye. Oh look at brother Sam, so smart and practical and helpful. Solving my problems by butting in uninvited.
"Now find me my charger," I command the worthless twit.
"Oh that's been lost for ages," he quips. "But look on the bright side. Now you get to lift your worthless butt off the bed and do something productive." He storms off as if he has the right to be offended. Sorry plebeian. He even plays Holi.
What a cunt.
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