Chalo ji! Now we’ve been put inside the red zone. So next time we visit London we have to go straight away into a hotel room and get locked up for two weeks. And that also not in some nice hotel like Carriages or Door Chester in Central London but in a cell in Premier Inn near Hounds Low. And oopar say instead of collecting 200 like Monopoly we have to pay for this favour out of our own pockets. Socho zara!
The only thing that was keeping me alive in this second year of Covid was the thought of summers in London. Lunch at Zooma. Shopping at Harvey Nickles. Facial at Vashaly. Tint at Treor Sorbet. Dinner at Anna’s Bells. Nothing much. Just my little, little khushis. But even those have been snapped away from me now. And poochho why? Because some of us stuppids were too busy having big, big weddings to care about Covid ka third spite. Bride had Covid, bride’s mother had Covid probably half the guests were also mareezes but we damn cared. Ub everyone, even us shareef, parha likha ones who behaved ourselves and stayed at home are being punished. I feel like going and giving tight slaps to everyone who had a big shaadi or attended one.
I tried to condole myself by saying kay chalo if I can’t go to London maybe I can go to Delhi. If we’re importing cottons and wheats vaghera from Indians it means we are doing sulah and soon boarders will be opening and I can hop over to Delhi and do some shopping at Khan Market and visit some designer boutiques and meet my rich Indian Punjoo friends for lunch. It will be hot and it won’t be London but at least it will be a chota sa change. But turns out Imran Khan’s farishtas even didn’t know about the agreement he’d signed with the Indians for their wheats and all and so instead of sulah it’s pukki kutti again with India and no one’s coming anywhere and no one’s going anywhere. Ever. Bus.
The only thing that was keeping me alive in this second year of Covid was the thought of summers in London. Lunch at Zooma. Shopping at Harvey Nickles. Facial at Vashaly. Tint at Treor Sorbet. Dinner at Anna’s Bells. Nothing much. Just my little, little khushis. But even those have been snapped away from me now. And poochho why? Because some of us stuppids were too busy having big, big weddings to care about Covid ka third spite. Bride had Covid, bride’s mother had Covid probably half the guests were also mareezes but we damn cared. Ub everyone, even us shareef, parha likha ones who behaved ourselves and stayed at home are being punished. I feel like going and giving tight slaps to everyone who had a big shaadi or attended one.
I tried to condole myself by saying kay chalo if I can’t go to London maybe I can go to Delhi. If we’re importing cottons and wheats vaghera from Indians it means we are doing sulah and soon boarders will be opening and I can hop over to Delhi and do some shopping at Khan Market and visit some designer boutiques and meet my rich Indian Punjoo friends for lunch. It will be hot and it won’t be London but at least it will be a chota sa change. But turns out Imran Khan’s farishtas even didn’t know about the agreement he’d signed with the Indians for their wheats and all and so instead of sulah it’s pukki kutti again with India and no one’s coming anywhere and no one’s going anywhere. Ever. Bus.