Recently, I have been late for absolutely everything, except of course work. I love that about myself – hopelessly unable to do things I actually want to do, but turn up on that 14th floor like a metronome to work in a job I hate. How stupid. Letting down people I care about, not doing stuff that’s really important to me, missing shows that I paid a fortune to see.
Was supposed to see a show tonight I’d been looking forward to all week, was stupidly persuaded to join my sister at a barbecue in Kingston, and very predictably (in this country) someone punched the conductor at clapham junction, so the train was taken out of service. We got the next train and decided to get out at vauxhall to her the Victoria line. Of course they didn’t tell us the Victoria line was not running from vauxhall that weekend when we got off, so in the end we got a bus to Victoria and a taxi up to Holborn.
Anyway, even though I was very upset by the time we got there, the show was so much fun I soon forgot all about it – amazing dancers, beautiful shiny costumes, cheesy bollywood tunes. The show was called Merchants of Bollywood, and was a lovely little classic story about the old Indian dance traditions being supplanted by westernised group dances at the end of the 1970s. It was hosted by sadlers wells at the peacock theatre.
Maybe I just run on Indian time, that customary 15 minute delay seems to be my natural approach.
A year of technology work in Bombay would be great. I’ll see if my boss gives me a transfer.
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The resting writer 
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