India again

My tenth trip to this magical place came and went as always in a flash. I do remember swimming in the pool and lying back on the water and looking up at the trees and flowers and having a pinch-me-I'm-dreaming moment.

Trouble is, I come home and feel instantly discontented. The house is too small, work is too sporadic, weather is foul - it's chilly and raining, people don't smile, the food is rubbish, I'm too fat....then two days later I'm back to normal. Until the next time, which is July or August.

Thankfully one day in about three years I shall go and not come back. Then I will feel like I'm dreaming.

Musical Taste

I blame my generation for instilling a love of music in me. How could anyone who grew up in the 60s and 70s not be influenced by Hendrix or the Who or the Rolling Stones? I've never been one for soul or pop but do like rock and blues. Not heavy rock these days, although I don't mind a bit of Led Zep occasionally, but good, decent music with real instuments, not something over-mixed in the studio. I listen to my music nearly every day. Problem is my friends. They no like.
"Could you turn it down, it's giving me a headache." It wasn't loud, honest.
"Is this your choice of music?" asked another friend incredulously.
And the last time I saw a certain man friend "Oh, you and your teenage music!"
What's wrong with the Editors, Fleet Foxes or Elbow? Quite a lot according to my friends, so I listen in private, holding on to my guilty secret.

Mothers

I have a little ritual. On Fridays at 12 noon, I collect my mother and she comes to me for lunch. It's no big deal for me, but it makes her week as otherwise she doesn't get out. The fact that she puts up with her grumpy daughter for the best part of six hours shows how lonely she must get. I have usually bought her some clothes during the week, which we discussed carefully on Friday and then I take the whole lot back on Monday morning. All this is fine. I also don't mind that she's on a dairy-free diet but implores me to buy her Roses chocolates and muffins. What does get on my nerves though is the humming. Right from the moment I collect her to when I take her back, if she's not eating or talking, she's humming. It's like having a large Winnie the Pooh sitting next to you in the car, only not nearly as amusing.
I told my friend. "She's happy, that's why she's humming. Don't be so critical." I felt like a heel.
I told my daughter. "Humming?" "Humming?" she said again as if she couldn't believe I had said it and looked at me with, I felt, a little more loathing than was strictly necessary. "If my mother's only fault was her humming, I'd be really grateful." Touche, mon petit.