Analogy

Sameet is an old friend of mine whose life I once saved during a trek (that's another story which I shall relate on another occasion) and who is in town these days. He called me up yesterday and we decided to meet at Kiva (which is a pub which I had heard of from many sources but had not visited till yesterday).

I settled in my seat there and we decided to ask the waiter for a pitcher of beer. The waiter informed us that they did not have draught beer, hence a pitcher of beer was not available either. He went on to give us additional, though unnecessary, information that they did in fact have pitchers of every cocktail available but, sadly, not of beer.

That, to me, is like going to the race course and being informed by the betting counter that I have available to me options of playing poker, Blackjack, Russian roulette, even the good old matka, but they don't really encourage people betting on horses.

Well, beggars can't be choosers, so I had to be satisfied with bottled beer.

Not a single person

In the words of legendary Freddie Mercury, I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me. Not even Google. Some moments ago I tried logging onto my Blogger account to modify the title of my previous post (not your business why, just read what I write, will ya?) and came across a flashy page telling me that I could switch over to Google blogger beta (or whatever is the correct technical name), in two easy steps. As happy as blogger can be in a country with free speech, I clicked the button marked "continue" (they were serious about two easy steps), only to be shown a page saying that I was not one of the selected few who could, in fact, switch to Google blogging tool, thank me so much, and that they personally recommended that I stopped writing and took up an avocation more suited to my abilities, like software programming. Dejected, humiliated and completely doubtful of my abilities, I retraced the first easy step.

Which made me realize how far ahead of his time Freddie boy was. Nobody loves me. Not a single person.

Delicate promise

I'll post something here tomorrow. I promise I will. If I don't, you can have my first born child (reminder to self to exchange a high-five with wife for coming up with a cunning way of not having to take care of our kid).

Tomorrow.

First born.

Watch this space. And send me your address where I should send the child.