Is this it?

I wonder when girls are created does God stamp a little ‘use by date’ on their bodies only parents can find? It seems so doesn’t it? As a Bengali girl this feels even more evident. We are the battery hens to our more organic farm raised counterparts. All this time spent being told to be virtuous and to never to bring the dreaded ‘S’ word...shame to their doorstep.

Whoever reads this, do not be fooled by the parents or any extended family. They want you to tow the company line. Be home by this hour, never hang out in the streets and never, NEVER mix with anyone that does not possess a vagina (brothers and fathers excluded).

So how do parents get to see this use by date? I mean really, where is it? Maybe it’s carved in our necks in the smallest, tiniest writing as I seem to never have seen it. Parents on the other hand seem to know and say the words that are like a death knell to girls everywhere “it’s time you get married, you’re not getting any younger”.

The question that seems to pop up in conversations with some of my friends is ‘is this it?’ Forget the big question of why we are we here; this is bigger and more important. We all take stock of our lives, and at the end of it all, we just sit there thinking what happened? As a kid, anything is possible, be an astronaut, a barrister, anything, now it’s more realistic if wonderment and joy hit me in the face when someone else actually does the hoovering up, without me nagging them! Break out the non alcoholic champagne and let loose!

I mean our parents have given up so much to emigrate here, living in a land with what as at first unfriendly white faces but why should we who have been born and raised here fight against the culture that we belong to? I mean where do we go? Not Bengali enough for Bangladesh and not white enough for Britain. The claim we have to any land is this no man’s land in the middle. Neither sides approach yet they seem to think they have a stake in it when it suits them.

Food for thought.

So here I am, touch typing like I’ve never used it before, oh but I have patience readers! I’m typing like a Neanderthal looking at the wheel for the first time. So rusty that I have to keep on looking down.

(This is an old thing that I wrote that I've recently found)

I  hate this, being the whiny fat girl. Shouted at my child like mother and then proceeded to go into my room to eat my feelings of disappointment and resentment in one foul swoop or should I say in one foul mouthful? At least heroin addiction has a certain acceptable chic look (thank you Kate Moss) whereas just being fat from eating too much just makes me look like a sad, lonely person who probably cums to the sound of samosas frying in oil. I don’t by the way; I haven’t reached that stage yet.

Is it unfufilment? I don’t know, maybe it is. Getting left behind is getting harder to bear now, as kids, friends are all on a level playing field. Then God decides to fuck with us and throw in a couple of life altering grenades and life is messy and muddy and some people never quite manage to dodge the grenades quickly enough.

Is this it? I look at my mum and I want to cry, is this it? Our parents are not only carers but physical manifestations of our future. That scares me so much, I want to run away screaming as fast as my chubby legs can take me. No to a life time of looking at the never ending pot of rice, no more! Eating takes the feeling away sometimes. Then comes the guilt; why did I eat so much, why fuck up my fool hardy plan of losing weight? Or the biggy YOU’RE A FAILURE! Boo you! If carrots were to taste like cake then it would be so much easier, well it would be a cake walk (boom, boom).

I ate samosas like they were filled with some sort of anti-fat filling while there’s a peeled Satsuma looking forlornly at me on a little plate which in turn is resting on the plate that I ate those not so healthy fried deliciousness. I’m listening to the mighty Eels ‘Beautiful Freak’. What an amazing song, it’s one of those kinds of songs that make you feel better and sad at the same time.

Today I found this little quote.

"Taught from infancy that beauty is woman's sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison."

Couldn't agree more Ms Mary Wollstonecraft! Now where's that slice of cake?

Me vs the Inspector

Well, this is nice. All this blank space to fill. So let me tell you what happened to me today. 

The day started out well, riding on the bus to my local shopping centre with my sister, did our shopping and ate some food and that was that. Not exciting huh? I would agree totally with you if it were not for the DUM! DUM! DUUUUUUUM! Ticket Inspector! (that is a lot of exclamation marks).

God has a funny way of slapping people with just enough bad luck to show them who's really in charge. Was sitting alongside my sister on the way home when all of a sudden the bus stopped, lo and behold like a lone ranger he approached my sister with the words that strike fear into anyone who is unlucky enough to travel in London via the bus "Tickets please". Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! run for cover! Duck and roll! Ring the alarm!

My sister was safe in the knowledge that she had tapped in, I on the other hand did not. Damn. I thought I could work the system and give him the performance of a life time. Meryl Streep could learn a thing or two from me.

Ticket Inspector: Tickets please

Me: Oh here

PAUSE

TI: It tells me you haven't paid

Me: But I tapped in, I really did. (The Oscar goes to Cake Fiend!)

GOES TO CHECK THE READER

TI: Nope, they're all working, you need to follow me

Me: All right...

TI: right, give me your name, address and date of birth

(At this point I consider using up what ever dignity I have and flirt my way out of trouble.)

TI: How old are you miss?

Me: 26 (in a sexy way)

My efforts are in vain as he issues me with a £25 fine and goes about his business. 

Lesson of the day? Don't try to flirt with Inspectors, this may actually increase your fine.