I do not learn from my mistakes.
Did not want to go, dreaded past experience dictated, but had to nonetheless, social niceties insisted. A classic case of better sense prevails, but nonsense persuades.
As I sat down to the repast, washing down the tandoori chicken dipped in a lethal orange dye, tough as jute, and kebabs stiff and dark as pieces of ebony, chewing which made my ears ache, with a strange smelling juice, rotis best left unmentioned; decorum (be damned) demanded I praise the cook with every mouthful that choked me. Only to be helped with added misery.
And as they sit in my poor stomach like demons made of stone; sure to bring me nightmares as I stagger my way home; I concur with P.G Wodehouse that aunts aren't gentlemen, and that some are best left unvisited...
Dismiss gastronomic bliss. An after dinner peptic ulcer, anyone???
About the author
PritiJ has lived a life across cultures. She is an outspoken representative of her gender; still unsure whether she represents liberation, or equity, and finds humour, and inspiration for her poetry, in odd places.