tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25560384645967064642024-03-13T04:31:43.769+00:00Diary of an Asian MumEditor/Writer.
Born in India, lived in London since 2000.
Married. Mummy.
Loves literature, politics, pontificating, advertising, fashion and everything Indian (not in that order!)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-40166157903487142702015-06-13T00:27:00.000+01:002015-06-13T00:27:26.078+01:00The real reason I did not want another baby<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Why did you never try for another?<br />
If you tell people you have a child - just the one - it's almost a given that the next question is why? It's like asking someone "are you sure you're having sex?" Followed by 'that' look of commiseration and condolence.<br />
9 times out of 10, it is almost easy to take that sympathy on board and mumble something about medical reasons and be done with the conversation.<br />
<br />
I have a 9 year old son. Like most mothers, I'm besotted. But unlike most mothers, I am made to see some sort of flaw in my priority and passion for my child. For my only child. Because if I were a large hearted woman, I would have spread that love among my children and not just the one.<br />
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For someone who continues to smell newborn babies (no, not random babies. The ones belonging to friends and family only), look longingly at baby stores and envy baby bumps (the clothes that pregnant women can buy...love how fashion has embraced pregnancy) I never felt the need for another baby after our son was born. As a balanced, happy unit of 3 there was not much talk of disrupting the equilibrium either.<br />
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We all settled into our roles -a working mother, a stay-at-home father and very well-rounded independent child. I just did not want to be encumbered by another baby. Being a Mummy is not all I was born to be, with my prime years dedicated to this one project alone. And as a couple, we are not one for constant clamour in the house. For my husband and I, to become the kind of parents we wanted to be there was just never enough time, money or resources for a second child.<br />
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Did my husband and I ever discuss if were being selfish? After all when we are gone, our son will have no immediate family. No siblings. My husband, scarred by his own family connections, is not convinced. The greatest gift of choice is what we are giving our son. A choice of creating his own extended family, and not just the ones foisted on us because we happen to be related by blood.<br />
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For the time being, my son is more than satisfied with his imaginary family which includes his army of Power Rangers and cuddly toys. In the process he is learning about life and the possibilities it can offer. Possibilities for his mum to carve out her own life, and create the kind of family his dad always wanted. And for my son - a life filled with the promise of possibility.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-4341920808744244812014-07-23T14:31:00.001+01:002014-07-23T14:31:52.698+01:00A Place Called India. A Place Called Pakistan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What is the difference? Asked my son. Both countries are part of his history, but how best to explain to a 7 year old. His school project - Asia - gave us the perfect opportunity to explore more.<br />
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Here it is.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-20853266942491157822013-11-03T22:13:00.002+00:002013-11-03T22:13:42.338+00:00Happy Diwali...... pomegranates and He-Man<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Pomegranates and He-Man. My enduring memories of Diwali at home with Ma, Pa & little sis. <br />
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When we were little, Pa used to bring home one pomegranate every Diwali. Just the one. A rare and an expensive fruit once upon a time in a India, for his two precious girls. Every year it was the sweetest thing we ever tasted. Over the years, the presence of the fruit started getting more frequent. But now when I think of Diwali at home - I am little again, dizzy with anticipation for our special treat.<br />
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So for the last 14 years, I have been trying to turn around and retrace my steps - buy pomegranates every Diwali. I close my eyes and inhale like I haven't breathed in ages. But I have yet to find one that tastes just as sweet or smells just as delicious. <br />
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And then there was He-Man. Every year after she had bought us new clothes, Ma used to let us buy a few garishly coloured clay toys. The dazzling colours and the array of the caricatured figurines spread across markets meant a few giggling hours spent trying to buying the clay toys.<br />
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One year, both my sister and I were fixated on He-Man on TV and desperate for the He-Man toy, which we were promised one Diwali. Not sure why, but the thrill and fuss of that year looms large in my memory. I can clearly see the He-Man toy sharing space next to all the clay figurines that Diwali. <br />
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I thought I should start my own traditions with my son, and asked what he wanted for Diwali - "Something exciting," said the boy who clearly wants for nothing. <br />
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Some things happen only with your parents, and this here is not the house I share with them. These moments don't happen here. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-66926274726891428752013-10-30T13:23:00.001+00:002013-10-30T13:28:52.128+00:00I want India, Pakistan and England to win the match Mummy.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am not a child of the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/1751044.stm">Indian Partition</a>. It happened 66 years ago. My parents were born just around or after that <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/shared/spl/hi/pop_ups/06/south_asia_india0s_partition/html/11.stm">time</a>, and my in-laws certainly were the children of that horrible time in Indian history. But my sense of that era comes from the numerous films and books on the subject, but more so from my granddad - a brilliant storyteller who brought history alive - after all it was the story of my family and where I came from. I remember I was 10 when he told me how he had been married before, much before he was betrothed to my grandmother, but she sadly died (a fact unknown to Papa, or his two brothers); how Papa was only few months old when they fled from the newly-created Pakistan to India on a packed train with little food and no water. <br />
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There were several other far-more heart-wrenching stories. Maybe because I can still recall my late granddad telling me those stories in his room, filled with thousands of curious little glass vial bottles and smelling sugary and sooty at the same time (not many people were allowed in his room - he was a strange loveable amazingly tall creature who practiced Ayurveda) - that every time I watch a film on Partition or read about it, I feel transported in time. <br />
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And I also want my son to be aware of his history. Roshan generally enjoys history - got the top grade in his class in his Black History project; loves reading about Guy Fawkes, Henry VIII and Mary Seacole. <br />
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The best way, I thought, was to get him to watch a film. I bought <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0213985/">Partition</a> - not one of the best films made, but it is in English. Roshan switched off the film in tears. "But Ahmar is my friend," he cried. <br />
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At the age of seven, not sure if this was too close to home for him. His (several) best friends at school are all different hues, religion and nationalities, and he does not even want to entertain the fact that Sikhs and Muslims massacred each other or Indian and Pakistan have been at war several times.<br />
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A child that cannot watch a cricket match because he cannot decide which team to support -- Mummy, I want India, Pakistan and England -- all of them to win the watch, he says - does not want to recognise his own history. How long should I wait before I try again, I wonder?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-44393094832642647522013-10-28T19:19:00.000+00:002013-10-28T22:49:44.971+00:00You angry, Mummy? You tweeting then?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My first encounter with politics was when I was eight, I think. I marched with my mother & my little sister and with the rest of the neighbourhood in tow, to demand for our civic rights, while banging pots & pans. I remember the time with much glee, and perhaps it was also my first lesson in fighting for change.<br />
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At the time, we were living in a newly-built Government house (in India - this is quite unlike like the council houses here, but instead is a prized accommodation reserved for public service officials & different sized houses are dished out according to the hierarchy of position) but the only access to the house and all the neighbouring houses was through a dirt road. My parents, being of the active variety (the type who write letters to the editors on a daily basis), invited the press, wrote to the authorities but nothing much happened. The Indian monsoon flooded the area, and the area surrounding the entire street was a great big puddle that <a href="http://www.channel5.com/shows/peppa-pig/episodes/muddy-puddles">Peppa Pig, George, Mummy Pig and Daddy Pig</a> and all their friends could have jumped and played in all day! But my Mummy & Daddy were not into jumping in muddy puddles. They were angry, very angry.<br />
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Ma tucked up her sari, picked a few pots and pans, asked us to start drumming, went around and gathered all the women in the neighbourhood and marched to the Commissioner's (a City Mayor) house and all of us stood outside banging for hours and demanding that paved streets are built outside our homes. I can't remember how many hours the protest lasted or whether Ma had to carry us back home. But I do remember opening the door to the Commissioner the next morning, who had cycled through the muddy puddles to get to us and who promised to get our streets built.<br />
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It was the start of protest rallies and marches for me. I remember protesting against the size reduction of the samosa in the college canteen.<br />
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But what do I do when <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/money/2013/oct/26/british-gas-caroline-flint-credit-windfall">British Gas</a> announced a whopping increase in gas prices? I sent out three indignant tweets to British Gas and one to David Cameron.<br />
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Roshan knows that when Mummy gets angry, she will tweet.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-87798479643705947982012-01-03T23:55:00.000+00:002013-10-28T23:08:15.450+00:00A Christmas Tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My first Christmas in the UK. In 2011. The first year that I did not fly back to India with my son to be with my family and friends. And it did not disappoint. <br />
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I have always resented my husband's family for being. Sometimes, just being. For being around him when he needs them. Whereas I always have had to pretend that I am happy to be thousands of miles away from home, content with just three weeks holed up with them every year. So every year I fly back to India to be with my own people, especially during Christmas. But this year was very different. I stayed put in a foreign land, taking part in a foreign fuss. <br />
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I often get asked if I celebrate the big day or whether I make turkey curry on the day? Curried turkey? Not everything can be made edible by adding in curry from a jar.<br />
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What makes a celebration, any celebration is when family and friends get together. Not all my near and dear ones in this country celebrate Diwali, and anyway it is not even a holiday, making it so much more difficult to arrange a feast on the day. So Christmas it is then. Add excitable kids to any of these occasions, and it makes it so much more memorable. <br />
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My son made my Christmas. He was almost at bursting point on Christmas Eve, making the day just perfect. Trips to Santa's grotto, Christmas tree, Christmas dinner with all the trimming, a never-ending mountain of gifts, Christmas markets. This was one of the best ever in a very long time. But not the only one. It reminded me of how my sister and I used to celebrate in India.<br />
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Coming from an Indian middle class meant that we were both sent to an all girls overly-strict Catholic school and therefore the images of Jesus Christ, Mother Mary and even Mary Magdalene stayed with us through our growing years. Our Christmas day started with our parents driving us to the local orphanage as bearer of gifts for those "not as lucky as us" and spending time with them, followed by us building a "shrine" for Mother Mary and the baby in our garden. Me and my sister used to spend hours looking for the choicest flowers and stones to build our shrine, followed by some tinsel, balloons, and Christmas decorations going up on the guava tree in the garden. We were then joined by our two favourite cousins for a Christmas feast. Mamma, a teacher at our school (she's still there!), at the time must have felt duty-bound to join in the Christian fun (it is a marked day in her calendar these days, which she celebrates just as she would observe <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visakhi">Baisakhi</a>) and would bake cakes and samosas. And of course any excuse for gifts. We were of course the lucky ones, who would get presents for not birthdays alone but also for Diwali, New Year and Christmases. <br />
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But our festivities did not end here. We took it extremely seriously. <br />
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One year, we planned to put on a play-- it was some sort of a ghost story. I think I was 12, my sister nine years old and my two cousins 13 and 10. We wrote the script, did costumes (spent months!), and even managed to convince the 14 yr old son of one of our family friends (who I used to have a crush on) to come and join us in our production! We wrote invites; rummaged the drawers in our homes for any old junk that we could wrap and then give away as Xmas gifts at the end of the show. Come the day of our show-- December 25, 1985-- and the four girls and one rather tall, gawky lad were all ready to go, dressed in some white robes held by safety pins. My sister and my 10 year old cousin were both statues who come alive (it was a ghost story). We had an audience of about 15 people in our garden, and the play progressed beautifully I think, though the din of the crunching of samosas and gurgling through the straws failed to cease. We were finally coming to the end, when the two statues who had been still for a rather long time started getting a bit itchy, resulting in my sister's robe getting undone. Unflinchingly, she just picked it up and resumed being a statue. Always the pro. But me and my other cousin collapsed on the stage in a fit of girly giggles, the 'other' statue joined in. Forsaking all reverence for Baby Jesus, whose picture was on the 'stage', we were rolling on the floor hysterically, my sister was crying in anger and the boy walked off the 'stage' in disgust- with the rest of our audience. We never managed to finish the final scene of our play, and anyway the audience had had enough and were being called to get back to their homes and finish homework. <br />
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Never one to give up, a year later it had to be done differently. <br />
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This is one of the best memories of childhood. Me dressed up in a padded red jacket riding on my red bicycle around the city of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chandigarh">Chandigarh</a>, shouting "Merry Xmas" to everyone. Perfectly choreographed, the 'Santa' on the bike was followed by my three helpers- my little sister and my two cousins. My sister and my two cousins, running after me singing Jingle Bells. My bike was adorned with balloons and I was throwing hard-boiled sweets at everyone! Naturally.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-64354853296251017592011-09-25T22:04:00.000+01:002013-10-28T23:19:46.889+00:00I love being free....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was made redundant, a few weeks ago. For the second time. And from the same publishing house that made me redundant the first time, rehired me, and made me redundant again. Obviously, this time I knew the motions. How to be singularly focused on getting the best deal for myself while maintaining a sense of dignity. It's never easy.<br />
<br />
Like everyone else around me, I took it for granted redundancy is not something that happens to you. My first close encounter with this dreaded 'R' word was five years ago, when my husband, a civil servant, took voluntary redundancy. I must confess that it did not really matter much to me. I had always earned more than him, I loved what I did, and he hated his job. So absolutely failed to understand why his self-esteem hit rock bottom or why he appeared depressed at the best of times. It is that constant feeling of being 'finally found out' that gnaws at you, something I do now know. Combined with that sense of the enormous amounts of time that you wasted worrying about work-stuff. And that feeling of not belonging, and being made to feel like an outsider. I felt like the foreigner I truly am. <br />
<br />
I came across Louise Chunn's (editor, Psychologies) <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1189964/Dumped-Magazine-editor-Louise-Chunn-didnt-just-lose-job--lost-pride-self-esteem-too.html">outpourings on redundancy when she was "dumped" from Good Housekeeping</a>. (It was around the same time I was reflecting on my sufferings) . I understood every syllable of that piece, and because I knew Louise it struck more of a chord with me. I even cut out the article to keep at my bedside. It was one of those many things that told me why I was at home and out of work when I was at the top of my game. All this time I was surrounded with love and affection from all the people and the industry I had written about, but it wasn't till I found another job that I got my mojo back.<br />
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The second time around, redundancy was more mind-numbing. I don't remember feeling anything. When I think back to that hot summer day when I was told I was being redundant (again) I remember a robotic-self. Very calm and collected. The only time I shed some tears was when I called up home to talk to Papa.Can never bear to disappoint him. He was of course more than encouraging. And hubby dear, as always, demonstrated his 100% faith in me. "You will find something better," he said!<br />
<br />
But what surprised me most was how I felt this time. I was ready for a new challenge, ready to take everything I had learnt with me and start afresh. Most importantly for the first time I felt sort of free.<br />
<br />
I remember walking around Soho in my ridiculous heels ricocheting across cobbled streets and finally falling into a pub to enjoy my afternoon G&T. And it felt so good. I sat there for hours. Not drowning my sorrows, but remembering the shy 26 year old shy Indian girl who celebrated her first job in this country with a double espresso outside Carluccio's in Soho. It was my first taste of the Western world, where no one even looked let alone judge a lone woman.<br />
<br />
And if there is one lesson I have learnt in these 11 years of living in the Western world is the importance of freedom. The beauty of freedom of thought and action. Simple everyday pleasures that allow me to live the life I want.<br />
<br />
And that is what redundancy meant the second time. I'm not sure if paying off the mortgage with my redundancy gave me that sense of abandonment or my middle age. It might be knowing that what I left behind was a job. Just a job.<br />
<br />
I have learnt that I will always have the skills to look forward to and enjoy in the next challenge. And that the freedoms that this world has offered me has allowed me the ease of spontaneity.<br />
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I am on to pastures new soon, and I am willing to go full throttle again.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-70882165145667696902011-08-10T00:52:00.000+01:002013-10-28T23:10:03.855+00:00I long for the Indian monsoon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was 10 yrs old when the <a href="http://www1.info.indiatimes.com/1984/">1984 anti-Sikh riots </a>erupted in India. Unabated violence in Northern India against Sikhs, following the assassination of the then Indian Prime Minister Indra Gandhi by her two Sikh bodyguards. It is not a time that I've thought about or ever remembered in any great detail. But last night, the haunting images of my tearful mother and a distraught dad shaking every time the doorbell or the telephone rang during those riots just would not leave me. I remembered after all these years how my father had to hide in the Hindu household next door for a few nights. And how we were holed up in our house, with curtains drawn and no lights, for several days. Horrible memories triggered by the images of London burning last night on my TV screens. Something that I've never talked about loud and shudder to think about even now. I was only a little girl then.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't the London riots itself that gave me a sleepless night and reminded me of that frightening time in India, but the more shocking images of a helpless police standing by and not doing anything.<br />
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<br />
I insisted that my son slept in my bed, I became so paranoid. It did not help that living in Croydon, one of the more severely affected areas, made me feel very vulnerable.<br />
<br />
The background of the 1984 riots in India and how the violence was characterised at the time are both hugely different to what happened on the streets of London and beyond in the last 72 hours. But as a law-abiding citizen what sent a shiver down my spine is how bloody helpless we are when violence erupts. The State always fails to come to rescue. And you could be anywhere in the world.<br />
<br />
Coming from India, like many others I was led to believe that nations such as Britain have the willingness to look after its citizens and their welfare. Living in this country for the last 11 years has dissipated that belief to a large extent (Six years ago when my car was vandalised in front of our house and two of the car wheels stolen by joy-riders, the only luck we had with the police was an incident number we managed to get on the phone. The police did not bother to grace us with their presence. "It's a common occurrence," we we were told). But it is the urbane corruption and the hypocrisy of this country that make me tremble with both fear and rage.<br />
<br />
Living in England in 2011, I should not be living in fear of my life, my family's life. I should not be driven to keeping my passports & valuables within reach or forced by fear to keep a knife under my bed. I need to have faith in the system and the people around me. <br />
<br />
Tonight I shall go to bed wishing for an Indian monsoon. A downpour of heavy rain, booming thunder and plenty of lightening and wash away this melancholy.<br />
<br />
Tonight I want to sleep safe again.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-12399384614202416512011-08-01T23:48:00.002+01:002011-08-01T23:55:12.645+01:00The Buckingham Palace is like a doll-house!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Every summer our tiny Victorian terraced house becomes like the Piccadilly Circus, home to Indian relatives touring London from around the world. Endless trips to Heathrow Airport, followed by all the tourist hot spots in London. Rows of suitcases around the house,queues outside the toilet, and no empty room in the house. Not that I mind.<br />
<br />
It's the time of the year, when my house is finally full of the sounds, noises and smells that I grew up with but seldom experience anymore here in my own house. Like the early morning high-pitched singing on Sunrise Radio, the loud dramatic music from Indian TV serials and the smell of butter, spicy omelette and Indian bread (parathas) for breakfast. Ah! Heaven.<br />
<br />
The other thing that is always remains the same, every time these visitors arrive is their response to this part of the world. "Oh my God! Everything is so tiny. So small. So very sweet."<br />
<br />
I remember the first time my parents arrived from India. My mother pursed her lips when she did a tour of the house. A very quick tour of the house. Her first words: "Don't worry darling, you won't remain this poor always. I'm sure you'll do better than this.At least you have a garden."<br />
<br />
"You should have thought of this before you arranged my marriage," I wanted to scream. No, I didn't. I wouldn't dare of course.<br />
<br />
And then there was this time when we went to the Buckingham Palace. "Do you call this a palace?" asked my father. "My college (where he was the head at the time) is bigger than this. This is a doll-house," he laughed.<br />
<br />
This evening watching The Secret Life of Buildings on Channel 4, it therefore came as no surprise when the presenter revealed that England is building some of the smallest houses in the Western world. Quite sad, I thought. How our neighbours around Europe are living in relatively desirable conditions, in this country things are looking pretty bleak. And to think that the Sterling is stronger than the Euro. And the programme not only explores the social impact of housing in Britain, but also the emotional and physical implications as well. We are all fucked!<br />
<br />
Maybe the reason why the first generation Asians settled in this country continue to show a rising tendency in depression and anxiety. I don't have any hard data, but see enough evidence around me to perhaps suggest that one of the factors that make some of us a bit depressed about living in this country is how we live, the houses we live in when compared to the big, airy homes that we come from and which are always full of family, friends and neighbours.<br />
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I meanwhile continue to live in my three-up three-down home. Sorry to disappoint, Mamma. <br />
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</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-46036522251603526262011-07-29T01:19:00.001+01:002013-10-28T23:24:50.064+00:00Who's ever heard of a Pinocchio play-date?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Crates of juicy sticky mangoes. Siestas on bare cool marble floors. Board-games 'tournaments' with Mamma and Papa. And that tower of note-books that had to be filled in with home-work exercises-- the same every year. Keep a diary in English and Hindi on how you spent your summer holidays. This is my enduring memory of the hot dusty days during my summer holidays growing up in India. And these are happy memories. Memories that always fill me with a nostalgia for the smells and sights of home.<br />
<br />
But summer holidays for my 5 year old in Britain are very different and not that simple.<br />
<br />
He gets bored rather easily, for a start. I can't seem to remember using that word at his age. So while we wait to go away for our summer holiday, queue up for hours at the air-port, endure the humiliation at the hands of budget airlines and feel embarrassed every time my husband refuses to try and speak a foreign language, I have to make an elaborate plan on how to entertain the five year old. And not allow the 40-year old to strangle the son, who insists on Daddy playing with him "all the time." My son's logic is simple. "I am a boy, Daddy is a boy, a big boy. We play together all the time."<br />
<br />
Swimming at the local pool is not enough. The days that I have to work, all hell breaks loose. "Too hot to go out to the park." "Been raining today, so can't play football outside." "Grandma tired in the heat, so can't have him around all day."<br />
<br />
Never mind, I say, taking in a deep breath. Let's organise a play date. Drive to Sainsbury's and pile the car with biscuit tins, chocolate bars, sweeties, synthetic sugary drinks. I do have to live up to the reputation of the Asian mummy. Always polite and always armed with a gift at the door of my son's play-dates.<br />
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All that is not enough anymore. I had to spend a few anxious hours coaching my son for his play-date tomorrow.<br />
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When his friends come to ours, out comes the Wii, chicken nuggets and chips and orange juice, and sometimes ice-lollies. And a big thank you when it is finally time to say goodbye.<br />
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Tomorrow however my son is going to a Pinocchio themed play-date.<br />
<br />
The mother will be teaching puppet making to the kids, followed by a story telling game that will encourage the kids to come up with exaggerated tales. Each child will be given a few toys, such as a dinosaur, a drum-kit, a transformer, and the child will then be "encouraged" to weave a story.<br />
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I sat down with my son today to teach him how to fabricate stories. There are after all prizes to be won.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-34624716320716298532011-07-26T23:52:00.001+01:002011-07-27T00:00:43.817+01:00Is kids' TV sexist? Ask my boy, he wants to be Atomic Betty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Children's TV is sexist. There is a lack of strong female characters. And broadcasters are obsessed with pink and princesses, thus harming the self confidence of young girls across the country. <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/childrens-television-lacks-female-role-models-says-mp-2319560.html">Says</a> Lib Dem MP Jo Swinson.<br />
<br />
The woman with an agenda. The one who has always tried to protect us against the patriarchal misogynist evil society we live in. Remember she was the one who stood up against air-brushing in glossy magazines? Something that we all want. A glossy title that shows us warts and all.<br />
<br />
I digress. Ms Swinson, the 'original campaigner' for real beauty cites a 2007 study which showed almost two-thrids of lead characters in UK children's TV were male. According to her this is what starts the "socialisation of inequality" and could "restrict girls' views of themselves and boys perceptions of girls too." She would like to force broadcasters to ensure sexual equality on screen. She should know. She doesn't have any kids. (Ok a cheap shot. C'mon this is a woman who got <a href="http://www.libdemvoice.org/hames-swinson-to-wed-20008.html">engaged on twitter</a>!)<br />
<br />
I guess I don't have authority on the subject either. I am a mother to a boy.<br />
<br />
A boy, who got a toy kitchen set for his second birthday because he asked for one, after watching endless series of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbeebies/bigcooklittlecook/">Big Cook Little Cook</a>. Granted the show has two male presenters (one of whom is a night time presenter for a sex show, my husband tells me!), but he has since graduated to <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbeebies/icancook/">I can cook</a>, presented by an ebullient Katy Ashworth and wants Mummy to turn into one. (No, not a sex show presenter. But turn into Katy).<br />
<br />
And while my house has now turned into a shrine for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-XmiicBriU">Ben 10,</a> we all have to watch <span id="goog_731363470"></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1W2e8v-fqfs">Peppa Pig every night before bed-time and sing the Bing Bong song. </a><span id="goog_731363471"></span><br />
<br />
But the reason I fear that the Lib Dem MP is chasing a few headlines is because of what my little boy said to me recently. Quite saddened by the fact that he would be leaving his favourite teacher Ms Shillingford behind in Reception when he graduates to Year 1 in September he finally decided what he wanted to be when he grew up. A teacher.<br />
<br />
"That means I will have to change my name, Mummy," he pronounced, after dashing all my hopes for his bright future as a doctor, lawyer, banker or the owner of a corner shop. For him his "pretty" Miss Shillingford is a superstar throughout the galaxy who can easily take on inter-gallactic super villains. Why else would he say: "My new name will be <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4hjW_xgnOM">Atomic Betty</a>."<br />
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"Are you sure darling? Do you not want to be <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93pD_APeDDI">Ben 10 </a>instead?"<br />
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His reply: "All the teachers in my school are girls. I think I will have to turn into Atomic Betty, Mummy."<br />
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</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-5959024794765419572011-07-19T23:55:00.000+01:002011-07-19T23:55:12.344+01:00I am no 'Tiger Mom', however.....I haven't read <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><i style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Hymn-Tiger-Mother-Chua/dp/1408812673/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1311113152&sr=8-1">Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother</a> </i>by Amy Chua, a proudly politically incorrect account of how to raise kids in the 'Chinese way.' Nor do I want to. I was born and raised in India and know how my own parents are mostly shocked and sometimes (quietly) horrified at how I raise my son, at the kind of independence that he gets at an age when he can just about read and write but is allowed to make decisions for himself. Or how he's allowed play-dates instead of private tuitions to help him get ready for the tough world outside. And why the naughty step and not a simple whack around the ear (did you no harm, I can always hear Papa say!) </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Mamma and Papa this will however make you proud (of me). My son's end of school term report (Class: reception) this week made me hugely proud. Straight As. In personal, social and emotional development; communication, language and literacy; problem solving, reasoning and numeracy; knowledge and understanding of the world; and physical development. Knowledge and understanding of the world? I am yet to get a 'D' in that, but here is my little boy who "uses all of his senses to explore and investigate new things and able to identify the things he likes and dislikes."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">But. Yes there is a big BUT. He got a B in creative development. MY son, and a B in creativity. He can even recite all the primary colours and mix them to create new colours. I then headed to the parent teacher meeting wanting some answers. Why a B and not an A? </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">He insists on drawing people with their arms sprouting out of their heads, and sometimes the moon under the sea-- came the reply. </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I kissed my brilliant boy. He is truly gifted, I announced to the teacher. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Ah well, was the response, followed by a long sigh. (and that look!)</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I have turned into a Tiger Mother, who never accepts a grade lower than an A. I actually topped that. I made sure the teacher knew that. I made her change the grade from B to A.</span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Year 1, here we come. We are more than ready for our spelling tests. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Mamma, Papa smile. I am no longer weak-willed or indulgent. </span></span><br />
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</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0Thornton Heath, Greater London CR7, UK51.3945722 -0.1101257999999916150.9661352 -1.0439637999999916 51.8230092 0.82371220000000833tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-66785836070309656742011-07-19T22:25:00.001+01:002011-07-20T11:54:15.075+01:00The fairy cakes were a success. Thank you everyone!No, I haven't been baking all this time. I was busy procrastinating. Hence no blog posts.<br />
<br />
The fairy cakes for my son's school fair were more than a success.<br />
And thank you to all my friends for some very sound advice.<br />
<br />
I shall reproduce a few, to anyone else in the same boat.<br />
<br />
Debbie asked me to go easy on my baking soda habit!<br />
<br />
Sabeena asked me to buy my cakes, bash them up a bit, sprinkle with icing sugar and then wrap in cellophane. "Home made? Of course."<br />
<br />
My friend Nameeta said: "Invest in some pre-mixed stuff. They are fool-proof and put some pre-mixed frosting on it and put LOTS to hide the flavour of your cake (if you are not too happy with the cake) and put tons of sprinkles. Kids will gobble it up in no time and you will be the coolest mum on the block."<br />
<br />
But this is what I went with. The recipe that lovely Aminah sent me.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">1. Pre- heat the oven to 180c</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">2. Line a 12 cup cake pan,with cup cake papers</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">3. Crack the eggs into a cup and beat lightly with a fork</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">4. Place all ingredients in a large bowl</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">5. Beat with an electric mixer for 2 minutes, until light and creamy</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">6. Divide the mixture evenly between the cake cases</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">7. Bake for 18-20 mins until risen and firm to touch</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">8. Allow to cool fully before icing</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Butter Cream Frosting</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">1. 5 oz (150g) butter softened</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">2. 8 oz (250g) confectioners (icing) sugar</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">3. 1 tsp vanilla</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">4. 2tsp hot water</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Method</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">1. Beat together the butter and the sugar with an electric beater</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">2. Once well combined, add the vanilla and water.Beat until smooth and creamy.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">3. Ice cup cakes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">4. Eat!!!</span><br />
<br />
And it bloody worked! There were only five left the next morning. Yes, I still had to go out and buy some cakes (thank you Sainsbury's). But what matters is that I am officially the best fairy-cake baker in Thornton Heath.<br />
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</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-52599508084047210872011-07-13T21:06:00.000+01:002013-10-30T19:36:24.297+00:00Please help, Marks & Sparks. It's the school summer fair<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">It's school summer fair and that means the cake stall. I'm feeling the pressure.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> The letter from the school stating that they will welcome "all kinds of cakes or biscuits" on Friday morning is staring at me somewhat menacingly. And I am petrified. </span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><strong>On most days I actually love baking. Baking with my son, that is. We have both spent many a wet afternoons covered in flour, mixing and whisking butter and milk, pounding at nuts and opening jars of glacé cherries or crystallised ginger. And all this while singing and dancing to The Police and Stereophonics on Absolute Radio. The cake then goes into the oven, my son sits on the kitchen floor absolutely fascinated by how the cake manages to rise and then he is back playing pirates. </strong></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><strong>My husband meanwhile hides upstairs in the spare room, all the while mumbling to himself about the sheer waste of ingredients and fuel. I have never had the courage to ask him to taste the fruits of our fun since the last time when he put a slice in his mouth and almost vomited, because it tasted of washing up liquid. I added a bit too much of baking powder in what was self-raising flour. And my son smells everything that he puts in his mouth, so he keeps away from any of my so-called triumphs. </strong></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><strong>Anyway back to the more immediate problem. Mums at my sons school are baking everything from lemon drizzle cake to walnut cakes to chocolate chip cookies to cakes with carrot icing. While I have been busy buying cookery books to help me back simple fairy cakes. Yes, leave out Victoria sponge, tea-loaves or fruit cakes, I can't even do fairy cakes right. It would help to have an extremely simple recipe that is so foolproof that even my son's nose approves. </strong></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><strong>Anyone out there, ready with some recipes for this hopeless cook?</strong></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">Tomorrow I am heading to </span></strong><a href="http://cellophane%20at%20the%20top%20and%20tie%20it%20flamboyantly%20with%20a%20ribbon%20or%20raffia./"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">M&S</span></strong></a><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: black;"> and pick some cakes. How hard can it be to wrap them up in cellophane, tie with some ribbon or raffia and pass it off as my own? (Mum, can you please help? Wrapping was never my forté).</span></strong></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-86903543805103894782011-07-12T21:55:00.000+01:002011-07-12T22:11:15.353+01:00Shopping at Sainsbury's will just not be the same again!Jamie Oliver introduced me to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Smflr5mjPk">nutmeg</a>, to the art of enjoying cooking, and the sport of sliding down bannisters while waiting for the Sunday roast, when I first arrived from India to this country. And he introduced me to Sainsbury's. He is now ending his partnership with the supermarket after 11 years. And I am already feeling nostalgic.<br />
<br />
When Jamie and Sainsbury's first tied the endorsement knot, he was a<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NnU0IA2JNMo"> fresh-faced TV chef zipping about on his scooter and playing drums</a>, and I was a new bride in a new country, with zero cooking skills (years of living with Indian parents in a household that had servants to cook & carry can do that to you). I can still remember waiting for my husband to come back from work every evening and cook us both dinner. Jamie Oliver helped me get over the years of fear that Papa had instilled in both his daughters about getting too close to the grill. And his appearance in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuafvgDZlEs&NR=1">Sainsbury's adverts</a> lead me to the supermarkets aisles with a sense of thrill and adventure.<br />
<br />
And to a 26 year old from a small Indian town, Jamie Oliver was kind of cool. To the extent that I spent one excruciatingly hot summer walking embarrassed alongside my husband, because we were both carrying Tesco bags and not the orange ones-- that announced that I was one of the many plebs only interested in discounts. (I'm grown up now!)<br />
<br />
And then he took on the food industry-- famously clashing with Sainsbury's over its alleged refusal to take part in a TV debate on battery bred chickens as part of his programme, Jamie's Fowl Dinners-- fought against Turkey Twizzlers in school dinners and employed disaffected youth in his restaurants. All of which helped the punters going into the supermarket feel part of a food revolution while doing their weekly shop.<br />
<br />
And as with any long term relationship, this one between the Naked Chef and Sainsbury's was giving out a whiff of stale air.<br />
<br />
Of course it started brilliantly. A champion of good food trying to get the nation behind healthy eating had to get our vote as a national hero. For him to sell us not just cheap deals from a supermarket, but interesting food ideas under the '<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5ChAXcSCQk&feature=related">Try Something New</a>' advertising strategy was a masterstroke. Created by the country's largest ad agency Abbott Mead Vickers.BBDO, the strategy worked wonders for the brand. (It needs to be remembered that when the supermarket decided to review its advertising out of AMV.BBDO there were rumours that the Naked Chef will be ditched. But the agency retained the advertising business, ditched 'making life taste better' slogan, Jamie Oliver at the same time became the food messiah and Sainsbury's started to address its many business problems including empty shelves, demotivates staff and untidy car parks).<br />
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But more recently, the ads have been getting too matey, sometimes preachy, and has been producing some rather glib messages from a tired looking Jamie Oliver. A lot of me-toos like the cheap-looking Aldi advert featuring Phil Vickery also does not help.<br />
<br />
I wait to see how Jamie Oliver will bow out of Sainsbury's advertising this Christmas.<br />
<br />
It will never be the same again. And please don't bring back <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nf0j3Oz6gGY">John Cleese</a>.<br />
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</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827128587927240393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2556038464596706464.post-68609954272197087962011-07-12T14:36:00.000+01:002013-10-28T23:14:53.403+00:00Mummy did you kill Peppa Pig?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Conversations about sex, death or relationships are never easy with kids. I don't happen to recall my own parents sitting down with me and helping me understand the myriad ways of life. Probably living in India, parents never needed to do any of that. Bollywood films provided a ready-made fodder for all of us to understand everything from birds and the bees to how 'baddies' always die and the 'goodies' always get the girl.<br />
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Having lived in London since 2000, I have realised that everything has to have a sombre note. Parents discuss serious issues with their children, and not just tell them to do stuff. And talking about feelings is very important. So while trying to learn and live in a Western world, I am also being constantly taught by by my five-year old (well almost five) son the right questions to ask. The hardest part is having the right answers to all his questions.<br />
<br />
Recently he's been obsessed with the issues around death. How many Peppa Pigs do we need to kill before producing a pack of sausages? Does someone kill chickens before we eat their meat, or do they die before we can cook them? Where does all the blood go? Yes, he wants to know everything about death, right down to the gory details.<br />
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I blame my husband, for letting our boy spend time killing the 'baddies' on his Wii; PSP and all the apps that my son has downloaded on my iPhone.<br />
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His school teacher however has managed to convince me that he's not alone. Phew! Apparently, one girl in his class lost her aunt recently and so the entire class is fascinated by the subject.<br />
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The dilemma that I have is how much does a five year old need to know about death?<br />
<br />
Last night before he went to bed, he asked me: "Dad, grandma and you are all very old." (clearly I was not to happy to be in the same bracket as my mother-in-law, but I was in an indulgent mood and let him carry on). "Does that mean that you are all going to die soon? I don't want any of you to die." I assured him that none of us were going to die.<br />
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"Good. I want you to be around for another week."<br />
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