Murder, she wrote.

Long overdue, and hence I will keep it brief.

Two thoughts. One from a friend, "Most people aren't really happy with where they are, but aren't really unhappy enough to do anything about it. That's a bad place to be in. Don't fall into the trap"

Second from Gordon Ramsey on Hell's Kitchen, where he asks a team to select who to 'nominate for elimination' and he gives a very interesting piece of advice to the team - to get rid of the dead weight. "It doesn't matter whether you like or hate them", he says, "what is important that you get rid of stuff which is dead weight on the team."

What a brilliant thought. Usually it's the most difficult thing to do, because of the sheer number of things we carry with us as albatrosses around our neck: nostalgia, relationships, things, clothes which do not fit anymore, old pencil boxes, broken pens. It is hard to get rid of things we're sentimentally attached to, but sometimes you're left with little choice.

This blog has become just that: dead weight. I keep thinking I will write here more, but this space and the mood I've set here just prevents me from doing anything worthwhile with it. And I hardly see any point dragging it on forever.

It doesn't mean I have stopped writing, but I doubt if I'd be writing here anymore.

I guess that's that.

So have you killed a blog today?

The first date

The evening had been fantastic. The friend who set them up had been right about how much they had in common, though to others they looked like a very odd couple. She a fair brown woman, he a tanned white man.

Coming to this Indian restaurant was his idea. A common friend had tipped him about her foodlove, and what better time to experiment with Indian food than with an Indian woman. She chose an assortment of curries, letting her fingers do the talking, while he struggled with the unpronounceable names. Soon after, he started melting into a puddle of sweat. She poked fun as she saw him through different stages of red, blushing coyly at his miserable state.

They walked back home on that quiet winter night. When he stopped at her doorstep, her heart did too. He had this look of urgency in his eyes, will she invite him in?
And she did. She was nervous. His stomach rumbled.
As soon as the lights were flicked on, with a moment of quiet hesitation, he pooped the question: "Can I use your bathroom?"