Oh right, shall I carry on with India then? JODPHUR - THE BLUE CITY.

At origin, this was essentially a travel blog - a retrospective travelog if you will.

It has over time metamorphosed into a travelog melged/intertwingled* with general observations and musings.

Today, let us move back to the intended purpose and inspiration - INDIA.

So, some details will be hazy but as my good friends Kayleigh and Katie always say, I have a ridiculously good memory so hopefully I will have remembered enough for this to be interesting. (Also, Faye, who actually kept a diary whilst we were there, has filled in the blanks.)

As our fantastic tour guide was such a legend (thanks Tucan Travel), he had a friend who had a friend who could take us to Jodphur in a privately air conditioned car. So? some might say. But let us hark back to the hellish journey we had to get to Pushkar. We had squidged into a dirty bus, heads back, catching flies, zipping down the highway. We had been left stranded on a dusty road, sun pelting down on our transluscent skin** - Karrimors on our poor spindly backs, baby Karrimors on our fronts, one dollar ray bans on our eyes and sweaty derrieres - hot as bitches. We had had to trust in a stranger to motorbike us one by one to our destination.

Now we had a private air-conditioned car with a driver. We were in the lap of luxury.

We said teary farewells to our group. Again. They were off to Udaipur - the Lake City. We were jealous. But when you only have two weeks off work, you have to move fast. And we had Jodphur, Jaisalmer and a 19 hour train journey to fit in before our flights.

The four hour car journey flew by like a dream. Mainly because I slept.

We arrived in Jodphur, were led to a back-street hotel, had a quick banana lassi and then got into our private TukTuk ready for our very quick tour of the city. We had an overnight train booked for that evening so it was to be a jam-packed. 

Jodphur is known as the Blue City. Here are some photos to show you why. Furthermore, I decided to wear a blue dress so that the sky, the dress and houses would bring out the colour of my eyes... (and take the attention off my dry skin chin***). It was stunning.****

  

Our top port of call was the Mehrangarh Fort which we tootled up to in our TukTuk. On the way we stopped at another beautiful temple. Now in the past, I said I was forted-out. This fort was different. It had an audio-guide. And the person who read the audio-guide was someone who sounded suspiciously like Prince Philip doing an Indian accent.

The views were breathtaking. Quite honestly, I don't think this post needs many words as the pictures are really enough.

Inside the fort were incredible artefacts. Here are some of the howdahs (seats you put on an elephant's back):

There are seven gates that guard Mehrangarh Fort. One gate had massive spikes to prevent elephants storming the fort. The pictures below are of the last gate and show the handprints of the ranis (Hindu Queens) who self-immolated on their husband, Maharaja Man Singh's funeral pyre in 1843. This custom is known as Sati and was a funeral practice which has ancient origins in the Hindu faith. As an act of devotion, the wives joined their husbands in death. Quite unbelievably, it wasn't until 1987 that the Indian Government passed the law to prevent Sati. In Jodphur, the last known case was 1953.

One bizarre room had Christmas baubles.

I had Henna and felt very cultural.

* ©


**Huge exaggeration. We were of course very tanned by this point and very much Bobby Ds.

*** Which now obviously you are going to look out for because I told you not to.

**** The city. Not my eyes.

And obviously not my chin.

Once Upon A Time...

'Once upon a time' is always a good start to a story. Apparently, it has been a stock phrase since around 1380. Usually, said stories end with 'and they lived happily ever after'.

Fairytales do always end in such an ideal manner. Good triumphs over evil, the baddy dies or gets locked away for a thousand years, the princes and princesses get married, a few fairies fly around and wave their magic wands and without fail, a moral flutters around with them.

Princesses are always very beautiful, have long golden hair* and sit in a tower waiting for a handsome prince (who appears to have come straight out of a l'Oreal advert) to come charging along on his noble white steed and rescue her, all the while swishing his glossy mane.**

If 'generic princess' had any of her wits about her, she might use her common sense and intelligence to get out of the tower herself. Quite frankly, she doesn't have much else to do and, some might say, she may be single-handedly responsible for causing inequality in the workplace. If a woman can't use her initiative to get out of a tower, what chance does she have in the City with excel spreadsheets and financial analysis and making cups of coffee and whatever else these banky types do?***

If 'generic prince' had any of his wits about him, he would get a hair cut, get a car with leather interiors (then 'generic princess' would have to wait less time, it would be far more comfortable on the journey homeward and furthermore, her hair wouldn't go frizzy in the rain), pop into the nearest clothes shop, dump his armour, (heavy, sweaty and likely to cause body odour) and get the good old polo-shirt, belt, jeans combo on.****

The baddies are always pot-ugly. Warts, pointy noses, cackles, naff clothes (that even C&A would have rejected) and no doubt a dollop of halitosis. My advice to 'generic baddy' would be to get an appointment at the orthodontist and/or dental hygienist, nip into Topshop for something in vogue on the high street, nip into Boots for some acne cream and maybe get some highlights and/or friends. Either that, or simply stop being a baddy, because magically when you do that, you become beautiful.

I am a bit traditional. I would very much like a prince on a cracking stallion (read big fuck-off swish car) to sweep me off my feet  (FYI I'm a size 5, just in case I lose my glass slipper on your stairs. I'd really hate for you to trawl across every house in London to find me*****), rescue me from a tower (um..the office?) and behave in an utterly chivalrous and gentleman-like manner (but not too goody-two-shoes: feel free to jump into the lake on a whim a la Mr Darcy). Said gentleman must open the door for me as a natural reflex, bestow jewels upon me, shower me with compliments (but look away to spare my blushes) and, last but not least, kiss my hand upon meeting me. He may also bow if he wishes. At the same time, I am also adamant that I will have a career and independence. Demanding? Moi?

Chivalry is dead. A phrase I hear a lot these days.

I assure you, it is not.

Only recently, a heavily tattooed man with a ginger beard, ear plugs, a satchel and a tall, skinny, extra shot, creme-brulee macchiato gave up his seat for me on the tube. Valiant and thoroughly unnecessary. As a young whipper-snapper who is neither pregnant, old or disabled, I had no more need for the chair than he did.

The conclusion is this: chivalry is well and truly alive on London transport.

I can safely say, this blog entry is absolutely random and irrelevant. I'm not sure what possessed me to write it. I better end it quickly and more importantly, conclusively...



And they lived happily ever after.******





*Although maybe that's artistic license and it's actually dirty blonde/rich mouse.
**The prince, not the horse. Although let us not discriminate. I don't doubt that the horse also has a very nice mane.
***I doubt the latter. That's probably a job for the intern.
****NB always a winner with me.
*****Bit odd that Cinderella story. Are we seriously meant to believe that nobody else in the Kingdom had the same size feet as her?
******Absolutely no idea who did. Again, decidedly irrelevant. I'll leave you to muse upon that. Just pretty damned good ending to a story. 

Part 2 - The last irrelevant post before I move back onto India. (this isn't a promise)

So it didn't quite go as planned.

More like this.

She stares out of the train window. Bleak landscape. Barren fields. Sky heavy with smog. The trees droop, tired with the nothingness that consumes them (aka Grantham). She stares. A single trickle of deep red blood escapes from her lip. Her teeth are stained scarlet. She stares. Her eyes are glazed. Stony. Dead.*

She gets on the tube. Her metallic saliva fills her perfect** mouth. She gets home. She bites on the gauze like they told her to. Ten minutes pass. The pearly white gauze is vermilion. She phones the helpline. They tell her to bite down on a gauze for half an hour. She has nearly run out. They tell her to bite down on a tea towel.

She bites on the gauze. Crimson.

She finds a clean (ish) tea towel and bites.

Her flatmate comes home. She takes a pen and scrawls:

I'm not allowed to talk for half an hour. ***

Mimi talks to her for half an hour. Blood on the tea towel.****

Claret red.

They get into the car. Mimi's dad drives.

She gets out. She touches the inside of her mouth. She stares at her finger. Sanguine. Darker now.

The A&E room is awash with disease. She seems to be the only one who can string a sentence together.*****

She overhears a conversation with head of triage and a drunk. (this is approximate)

Drunk: hkjhjf ajhfjhfalkj
Triage nurse: So what seems to be the problem?
Drunk: jskfhkjhgk olsijhgljhg (shows her his phone)
Triage nurse: So you have abdominal pains? Do you have pains in your stomach?
Drunk: You could say that. If you want to call it that. ******

She is called. The nurse pokes her mouths. It hurts. The blood has clotted. The nurse doesn't want to poke it lest it pops and starts bleeding all over again.

She must not eat or drink anything warm.
She must not eat or drink anything hot.
She must not brush her teeth.
She must not spit.
She must not rinse her mouth.
In fact, she must not eat.
She must only drink cold things.

She leaves. She gets lost on Herne Hill.
She is not amused.


*Except clearly not as she is writing this blogpost.
** Ha.
*** Practically unheard of.
****Good title for sub-rate crime novel. Or in fact, a Sophie Ellis-Bextor song.
***** Standard. Mummy Cotton didn't pay for Speech and Drama for nothing.
****** Not sure why she recounted this. It is dull and also probably not accurate. Gives you an idea of the type she mixes with on a Sunday.

The last irrelevant post before I move back onto India. (this isn't a promise)

Liquid food is rubbish.

When I don't eat properly I get low blood sugar. I feel like daddy on a Saturday lunchtime (when we steer well clear because if he hasn't had soup by 12, he will maim or possibly even kill.) except I'm not that bad, I just get a little bit edgy.

Food, or rather eating, is a source of distress to a lot of people, especially girls. I, for one, am very lucky as I have never really had a problem with eating. That is, unless you count eating everything and anything you want as a problem. As a bearer of an under active thyroid, I should, by rights, be fat. 

I don't see the point in going to a restaurant and not eating what I want. If I want a steak and chips, I will have just that. With peppercorn sauce. And a side salad. And a coke. A fat coke. Diet coke tastes of air and is, in my opinion, a fake drink.

This all has a point. Without the proper use of my teeth, I am having a nightmare. Yesterday in front of the rugby, everybody ate bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese and cucumber. We were starving... (especially me. I had eaten Heinz cream of tomato soup the night before and had quickly given up when I realised it was just glorified bean juice. Without the glory. Because it was foul. If I had wanted bean juice I would have bought beans.) So.. Everyone wolfed down their beautiful bagels. I had to deconstruct the sandwich (Greg Masterchef would have been proud). I nibbled the cucumber, I nibbled the salmon (which I had to rip up with my fingers), I nibbled the bagel. It took a good 20 minutes to eat. I was frustrated. I looked like a pig. Some of the people I was with had never met me before so probably just assumed that was how I ate. Mortifying, when will this family ever get a good reputation kind of situation.

Furthermore, I could feel the stitches were loose, as the string, which I'm sure should have been trimmed before I left the hospital, kept catching on my tongue.

Each sensation had to be eaten in 6 Nibbles. There's definitely a problem when a member of the crisp guzzling faction can't actually guzzle the crisps. I was a failure. I was ashamed. Walkers had finally beaten me. I couldn't even muster a Thai sweet chilli and a dip. 

The Cotton "drinks and nibbles" used to be on a Friday night. Vic and I would sit on the windowsill waiting for Daddy, brucecase in hand, to get back from work. He might have a whiskey, mummy a G&T and vic and I would have a lemon squash (with lemonade if we were lucky) and then we'd have crisps and dips. Fussypants vic obv wouldn't have the dip. Sometimes we had cucumber and carrot to dip too. Nowadays, when 'the sun's over the yardarm' or 'when the time has a 7 in it' (wise words from papa) we crack open a wine (each) and eat a good few bags of crisps, dip or no dip.

I am writing this on the train. I can taste metal. I wipe my my mouth. There is blood on my hand. I am a big fat mess. 

I feel like this could be the beginning of a crime novel...

She stares out of the train window. Bleak landscape. Barren fields. Sky heavy with smog. The trees droop, tired with the nothingness that consumes them.* She stares. A single trickle of deep red blood escapes from her lip. Her teeth are stained scarlet. She stares. Her eyes are glazed. Stony. Dead.

In a few minutes time this service will be terminating in London Kings Cross so... The end. 

*aka Grantham.

Sexy, sore and under sedation

I had my wisdom tooth removed yesterday.

My wisdom tooth has been mighty bothersome over the last couple of years so I recently pottered down to King's Dental Hospital (pottered is definitely not the right word to use here. It is in Denmark Hill, the back of beyond. You don't potter, you walk briskly, hand tightly clutched around bag, machette in pocket) to get an xray.

The xray confirmed the awful truth. My wisdom teeth, lazy buggers, had grown completely horizontally. On one side especially, this was a problem. Careful years of ugly train track braces, fitted by the vulgar Birgit Jensen, had been for nothing.* All my bottom teeth had been squidged into the middle. More to the point, even under the surface it was causing havoc and might have spread decay. Gross.

So Oliyademabe, the dental surgeon, was whipping them out. But I was a 'high risk patient' because the tooth was brushing the nerve. 'Philippa', said he, 'worst case scenario - you lose all feeling in your lip. Forever...'**

They don't do general anaesthetics for this anymore. They put you under sedation.

So I rolled*** up to the hospital with my escort. The operation requires you to bring an escort because apparently the side effects of sedation are memory loss, wooziness and as I later discovered, the inability to walk.

If you don't like needles, stop reading now. Or skip a sentence.

Oliyademabe, who I will here-forthwith refer to as Oli, tapped my hand to look for a vein. He popped the needle a good two inches up said vein and said, 'Now we wait for the drugs'. I said 'Please may I go to the toilet?' For an awful moment, I panicked that sedation may lead to lack of bladder control which would have been beyond embarrassing. Having said that, it was slightly embarrassing having to walk back out into reception, past the nervous patients, with a needle hanging out of my hand and blood in the receptacle. I then had to navigate going to the loo without the use of one hand, whilst adopting the ski position, that naturally it is vital to adopt when using public toilets with no seats.

Satisfied, and a little smug at my multi-talented coordination and hamstring muscles, I returned.

Oli said****,

'Yo, Phil. You ever been sedated?'
'No'
'Nah man. Ever been drugged.'
'Uh, like, no', retorted I
'Well it's exactly the same feeling. You are going to feel very relaxed. You will be conscious and do what I ask but you will probably have no memory of it. Now you are going to feel a cold feeling running all the way up your arm...'

I literally have no memory after that. Maybe I was asleep. I vaguely remember wincing at one point and opening my eyes. Next thing I knew I was being put into a wheelchair and wheeled away.

They asked me to walk and then when I couldn't they said I couldn't go home yet. They gave me a lot of instructions which I definitely didn't listen to (hence need for escort) and then they gave me 600mg ibuprofen tablets. That is a lot of drug in one tablet. Yesterday, I had some flashbacks to things I might have said. Firstly, when they said I couldn't brush my teeth for 24 hours: 'Ew, gross.' and secondly, I  asked whether I could take my tooth home with me. They said they had disposed of it and I said 'aaaaaaaawwwwwww' sulk sulk. If my mum had been there, this would no doubt have been a moment for

'When will this family ever get a good reputation?'

I learnt to walk again and so we went home.

Have I mentioned that I looked like a hamster? On one side of my face. Saggy, fat, sore jowl. Incredibly sexy.

My escort drove me back home and put me on the sofa with a wealth of film choices. I picked the easiest I could see, pressed play... and then woke up for the credits.

After a losing battle with a very delicious but evil soup, he dropped me home. Friends two and three took over caring for me duties. Friend three forgot my ailment and squeezed my face. I bled. Fun times.

I could hardly keep my eyes open. I ate a dinner of mashed potato. I had massive food envy for their chilli con carne.

They left. I felt delirious. My mouth was sore. I couldn't brush my teeth. I could taste blood. I was sexy, sore and under sedation. *****



*Not for my dad though. He always enjoyed taking us to the ageing Norwegian orthodontist who sat with her legs splayed and said 'Down't bayt me pelayse'
** Ok so let's not be dramatic but this is actually the gist of what he said. Apparently if the doc is cack-handed and bruises the nerve, this is a distinct possibility.
*** More accurate than pottered. My friend took me in his white car with blacked out windows.
**** Take the style of these conversations with a large pinch of salt. If I actually wrote down our conversations word for word, they would be dull indeed.
***** Note short sentences, often used in creative writing for dramatic effectiveness. Used here because I am tired. Oh and also, one of those things might not be true. I'm not sure which - bit delirious cos I'm sore and under sedation.,

Who 8 all the π? (see footnote)

Victoria Clare Cotton is my little sister. I have mentioned her many times in this blog, but now I shall devote this entire post to her. She is 23 this year. I am just 24. So close and yet so different.

So we all know what I look like.
- dirty blonde/rich mouse fine hair
- blue eyes
- petite in all respects
- not like Linda Barker

Vic is my opposite.
- brown curly wurly thick fuck-off hair
- brown eyes and glasses
- 6 foot
- also not like Linda Barker


I studied French at university. I loved English and drama and all things artsy at school* and the thought of an equation drove me to tears. Many tears. I would even go so far as to say that I am numerically dyslexic. Numexic.

Victoria is studying finance, accounting and management. She loves spreadsheets. This is not my opinion of her. We had a mini dinner party last night and she actually said the words 'I love spreadsheets'. I recall one time she said that the only books she likes to read are textbooks. She had to write an essay the other day and went to my mum in a tiz. She didn't know how to express herself. My mum said 'Don't panic, tell me what you're trying to say and I'll help you construct a sentence'. Victoria proceeded to give her a mathematical formula. My mum then got into a tiz and had to go and calm down with a biscuit.** The moral of this story is that Victoria reckons she can only express herself in numbers. This makes me feel sick.

We don't always see eye to eye (actually we don't ever see eye to eye, because her boobs are at my eye level) but we usually get on like a house on fire despite our differences.

I'm not sure why we are so different. We have exactly the same parentals. Mummy C (or Milf as my guy friends affectionately call her) has my blue eyes but has dark dark hair.*** Daddy C (affectionately Big D by aforementioned friends) has Vic's brown eyes and no hair.

Mix us all together and we could rule the world.

Big D (or daddy as I call him) used to have headphones in place of hair.

Genes eh. Recessive and dominant. That's all I remember from biology.
That and (to the tune of Frere Jacques - a fab way to remember GCSE science)...

The ray of light is refracted by the cornea
The ray of light is then
Further refractedbythelens
To create a clear image
On the retina
On the retina. On the retina.

(Science was also not my strong point.)

Anyway, moving on...
So Victoria used to look like Deidre Barlow when we were little. She had to wear those unfortunate NHS jam jar bottom glasses and she had a bit of a perm. Fortunately for her, she has blossomed into a grade A babe.

I'm far left and she is far right. At least we share the same beautiful smile.

We used to drive down to France every year in the car. A tedious journey. One year, we drove to Italy. We decided to make a club (If clubs can consist of two) called the Musical Tomatoes. She was 'mus' and I was 'ical'. Much to her irritation. I'm not sure what the club did. It was probably a time passer. One thing we did do in the car was a lot of singing. We sang the tune from the Disney version of Robin Hood. But I only let her sing it to 'la' and I was allowed to do ALL of the letters and words. 

Grade A bitch. Some might have said I was a bully.

Some might also say that Miss Butter-Wouldn't-Melt was a nasty piece of work at times. When Vic was about 6, the headteacher (a nun) brought my mum into school. A pupil in the year above me at school, and so a whole 3 years older than Victoria, had complained that Vic had told her: 'Shut your gob'.

'Obviously, Mrs Cotton', said Sister Catherine, 'I know Victoria would never have said such a thing, there must have been some sort of misunderstanding.'

Mummy C readily agreed. Vic readily denied.

And so she was completely let off the hook and the incident was forgotten.

We found out years later that Vic had indeed told that girl to shut her gob. 

Similarly I knocked a computer off a desk at school, aged 6. We were told we all had to stay behind after school until somebody stepped forward as the guilty party. I never did. They let us go home.

We both got away with it.

There is a moral to this story. 

The Cotton girls are never culpable as nobody believes we are capable of being anything other than angelic. 

More fool them.

This post is really a tribute to Victoria in a series of unrelated stories.

Here is a final snippet:

Every year we do a quiz at Christmas. One year, Victoria decided she wanted to be quizmaster. She can't have been much more than 4. 

Now I think this anecdote sums up Victoria - an enigma, a mathematician, a philosopher perhaps? 

The first question was this,

'How hard is a magazine?'

We were baffled. We still ponder the answer to this day. 

I shall leave you to muse upon it. Whilst looking at some photos of Victarria.****

My parents learnt from that day forward, that they had a genius on their hands.

She will work in the City. 

She will be successful. 

She will bring them the money when they are old and grey.

I will be a penniless writer. 

And take some of said money. 

I am her sister, after all.

My graduation. I had heels on. She was still taller than me. 

The day we explained to some Americans what chavs were.

This is not an accurate representation of our characters. 

5 inch heels and still a short arse in comparison

Sisterly love (although actually in a lot of photographs we have at home, Victoria is in the shadows / I am pushing her into the background so that I can have the limelight)

* Except actual art. I was godawful at that. One time in year 7 we had to do a storyboard about the day in the life of a stamp. My story was very accomplished if I do say so myself. The stamp was recycled into a sick bag on an aeroplane and then flew out of the window and then a dog ate the paper and then the stamp ended up in a pile of dog dirt. Highly amusing and creative. This was not the opinion of the art teacher. I got a D. (yeah, me. a D) And she wrote 'scruffy drawings and was this entirely necessary?'. When all's said and done, better to have a great story with dodgy illustrations than some boring cutesy picture of a stamp who has a dreadfully dull day. Clearly an attempt to try and stifle our imaginations. (Still haven't got over it obviously.)
** Classic Mummy Cotton.
*** One time when I was very little and my friend's mum was talking about my mum, I volunteered the information that 'mummy's hair is ma-hojany' (not a mispelling, that is how I pronounced it). Teach her to leave bottles of dye lying around. Some of my mum's pupils asked her why her hair had orange stripes. Another friend recently compared my mum to Mary Portas. I haven't told her yet. She would not appreciate it. Generally, I would say hair is a family failing.
**** To be said in a broad Manchester accent.

NB the title of this post is irrelevant. But I felt I had to get some maths in, and last night after a few glasses of wine, I thought it was particularly clever. In the broad light of day, it is neither clever nor relevant.

Sorry about that.