Today I heard a song from my younger years.
Then I listened to it.

10 years vanished in 6 notes on a piano. I was back in a place and time when the grass was greener, the light was brighter, the taste was sweeter. The words wrapped around aural and neural channels in ways I can barely describe. The searing guitar solo reminded me of the pain the permanent branding of some memories causes.

But, all is not lost. It never is.

Let us not wait twenty four years to say hello.


^

For the record.

Saying : Put it where the sun don't shine
Meaning : Put it in England.


I've been invited to play cricket with a local club team this summer. I was sent a list of the 'fixtures', I was informed I would get a club t-shirt, I didn't even have to get any gear of my own - the club has sufficient shared kit. Understandably, I have been dreaming of getting streaks of green on the knees of my trousers, and hearing the ~crack~ of cherry on willow as I flawlessly execute a square cut through point.

But in frickin' England, the frickin' sun don't shine. It don't roll like that here.

Most of the matches have been scheduled on Monday evenings. For the past three weeks, Saturdays have been bright and sunny, Mondays have been gorgeous - Sundays have been as wet as Mamta Kulkarni's white sarees. This seems to be developing into a permanent sort of situation (again, like the sarees). Thusly, the first three matches of the season have been washed out (I don't know why they bother calling it a 'season' - summer in England lasts exactly all of three and a half days).
Consequently, I have seen no action and am getting extremely frustrated, which, for the record, has nothing to do with wet sarees.

You can't tell a guy he's going to get to play cricket the way God intended it to be played - in warm sunshine, on a green field, with everyone dressed in white, no crazy yelling and insulting, politeness in appealing and applause, no crazy ass crowds going into a frenzy, and a brown boy showing massa' how it's done - and then take it all away. It's not right. In fact, it's just not cricket!

But the weather don't care. It don't roll like that here.

Like I keep telling my British colleagues when they ask me why I'm still wearing a sweater when it's sunny out - it's all an illusion. Maya. Just to taunt me. Screw Mulder - I refuse to believe.

BUT!

Still my umbrella calls out to me.

[For the record, the umbrella because, apart from a fairly expensive (and way too heavy) electric guitar, the umbrella is the only thing I have at the moment of dimensions resembling a cricket bat. Something to swing around, to practise stance and footwork with. So what if I sometimes press the button by mistake and it opens out mid-cover drive, causing...uh, complications? As we learnt in 4th class, something is better than nothing.]

The umbrella calls, ironically, for some sun. I can't use no sun on Tuesdays, Thursdays, et cetera days. I only ask for sun on ONE day.

It's even in the NAME of the day, for frig's sake.


^

So, it has been suggested that I should return to writing.

Hmm.

Hmmmm.


^