I am a slave to simple pleasures of the flesh. A small bowl of curd rice with mango and a full night of uninterrupted sleep is all I need to be happy.
The forties has been weird in terms of my metabolism. Rice, the cereal of my life, even a few morsels of it, seems to expand in volume and stick permanently to my midsection and the cushion -side and therefore I had attempted to partly replace this staff-of-life with alien material such as wheat. Wheat is good, I don’t deny. But after two months of rice-challenged meals and the resulting serotonin shortage, I am all set to be locked in a granary of boiled rice for the rest of my life. Given that it is tender-mango season and I have pickled five kilos of the blessed stuff in my kitchen, to be accompanied in all stages of pickling with curd rice, the midsection can go to hell. So, in the near future, if you see someone with a planetary graitational pull around her, you have found me.
The past fortnight has been good on the zzz front, perhaps because of the pleasantly chilly nights, or the hormones behaving themselves for a change. Last night was the first warm night in a while, and with mosquitoes hovering around as well, I lost a few hours of sleep. The effect shows. I sat in stupor on the potty for a full fifteen minutes this morning, without doing my business before I realised that I really need to catch up on the winks.