Dear All, this may well be my last entry before it’s taken away by what’s-her-name my er wife. She’s now in charge of most things. In charge of me, my trolls and I. She’s swept away the cobwebs, some of them quite persistent and a few very insistent, and a few quite resistant. She also found some redundant objet d’art in the shape of my friends who’d been gathering dust for years and I said, “oh please don’t dispose of them. They’ve been around for years. Just dust them off and put them back on the shelf where they belong”. She said, “I’m sorry but none of them is museum quality.”
Also, I’ve become an expert at nikahs – once with Jemima, twice with Reham and hopefully third time lucky. I hope you liked the photo shoot of me, my wife and I at our palatial home in the suburbs of Islamabad. What wonderful optics – me in a shining brocade sherwani, Reham in her frumpy, floor-length lehnga – and General Bobby and his wife sitting on the floor, reading the Quran and condoling with the bereaved of Peshawar on the very same day.
Sadly, we can’t go on honeymoon because honeymoons are haram. But we can certainly go on pilgrimage, but first we have to get flu shots. The wife’s insisting we get bird flu shots. “Go ahead”, I said, “I’ll get bloke flu shots”. She also wants us to get Ebola virus shots. Ebola is the panic du jour, the Kim Kardashian of viruses. I felt its symptoms the other day. “I feel agitated, I’m sweaty, my head hurts … I think I may have Ebola …”, I said worriedly to the wife. “More likely it’s a combo of mutton karahi and that horrid trip to Peshawar where we got booed”, she replied. She’s very brilliant and a great homemaker, and thrifty to boot. When the driver told her he’d filled up our 1999 Pajero with a tank full of petrol off the black market, she commended him, “Well done! Now you have a car worth less than the petrol in it!” She’s also very proper and hates four letter words like, “dust, wash, iron, cook”.
Also, I’ve become an expert at nikahs – once with Jemima, twice with Reham and hopefully third time lucky. I hope you liked the photo shoot of me, my wife and I at our palatial home in the suburbs of Islamabad. What wonderful optics – me in a shining brocade sherwani, Reham in her frumpy, floor-length lehnga – and General Bobby and his wife sitting on the floor, reading the Quran and condoling with the bereaved of Peshawar on the very same day.
Sadly, we can’t go on honeymoon because honeymoons are haram. But we can certainly go on pilgrimage, but first we have to get flu shots. The wife’s insisting we get bird flu shots. “Go ahead”, I said, “I’ll get bloke flu shots”. She also wants us to get Ebola virus shots. Ebola is the panic du jour, the Kim Kardashian of viruses. I felt its symptoms the other day. “I feel agitated, I’m sweaty, my head hurts … I think I may have Ebola …”, I said worriedly to the wife. “More likely it’s a combo of mutton karahi and that horrid trip to Peshawar where we got booed”, she replied. She’s very brilliant and a great homemaker, and thrifty to boot. When the driver told her he’d filled up our 1999 Pajero with a tank full of petrol off the black market, she commended him, “Well done! Now you have a car worth less than the petrol in it!” She’s also very proper and hates four letter words like, “dust, wash, iron, cook”.
Im the Dim