Jaisalmer: The Golden City

Health warning: grumpy and fat-cheeked.

I haven't written a blogpost for a couple of weeks.

It is mainly because I have been really grumpy.

The reason for my grumpiness is my face. Let us hark back to an entire month ago when I had my wisdom tooth removed. Now even though they removed my wisdom tooth, they left my wisdom very much in tact. So, I bestow upon you some very wise words, and they are these:

DO NOT GET YOUR WISDOM TOOTH REMOVED. EVER.

And here is for why.

For ease and stylistic purposes, I shall bullet point my reasons.

• I had to eat lukewarm soup and milkshakes for weeks. (It does not help that I like neither soup nor milkshakes.)
• I have now been back to the hospital five times. Each time they have agreed the huge gaping hole at the back of my mouth is 'not healing', poked and prodded it whilst I winced like a wince farm and sent me on my merry way to give it a few more weeks. Furthermore the hospital is in a shoddy location which involves using too much brainpower to work out the best route and sitting on lots of buses.
• I have a scar running up the inside of my mouth. Although I realise that nobody is truly bothered about the aesthetics of the inside my mouth, the fact is that if you touch anywhere along said atrocity, it hurts likes hellfire. Also, when all is said and done, it is gross.
• As Ness in Gavin and Stacey would say 'My breath is rank'. No seriously. I have a constant taste of metal in my mouth. I genuinely hope it isn't, but if people can smell what I can taste then my advice is to run for the hills.
• I can no longer open my mouth widely. The surgeon informed me I had a tiny mouth (rude). Perhaps he should take note that for the future that if he pokes me like that, I am likely to bite down on his finger.
• I have to syringe the gaping hole twice a day. It is not, what I call, fun.
• My face is like that of a lopsided hamster.

The moral is this, having a wisdom tooth extracted makes you gaunt, have a numb bum, feel bus sick several times a month, have an unruly scar, smell and last but not least, look like a fat rodent. At least I am now adept in DIY dental surgery.

As someone pointed out to me once (and on many occasions after that), I have fat cheeks. So having a swollen and tender jowl on one side on top of the fat-cheekedness makes me look, quite frankly, ridiculous. To top it all off, I have started to get two little frown lines between my eyebrows. I am, in short, a fat frowning mess.

I was looking over my facebook profile the other day, and I came across my 'likes' and 'dislikes'. Facebook was just becoming popular as I started university and I obviously felt the need to fill in everything they asked for. Anyway, they made me laugh (in as much as a grumpy, fat-cheeked rodent with a small unopening mouth can laugh) so I will share my 18 year-old profile. (Mainly because I am still grumpy and sore and sulking about my jaw and it is midnight and this takes minimal effort.)

I really don't like the pith on satsumas. (This is still true. My family despairs as I take about twenty minutes to eat a small satsuma because I pick it all off.)


I am small, I have blue eyes and my hair is either dirty blonde or rich mouse. (nothing's changed there then) I have a small gap between my front teeth (brace-induced). (I blame Birgit Jensen - the splay-legged Scandinavian orthodontist I have mentioned before)


I do not look like Linda Barker. (This is still absolutely the case. I have never and will never look like her.)


Likes:


I like peanut butter a lot. Smooth or crunchy. I also like marmite. I like trying new foods and travelling. I like escaping into books. I like Mr Darcy. I like cuddles, kisses, snuggling under a warm duvet, the smell of old books, being in a mobile home in a thunderstorm and you can hear the rain slamming onto the roof, sitting by an open fire with a glass of wine, the smell of garlic cooking, mussels, my friends, my family, musicals, goats cheese, pine nuts, speaking*, a crisp french accent, listening to classical music as i work, dancing crazily with my family, dancing like nobody's in the room, black labradors, a cold beer on a hot day, books and films about love and the war, frothy, milky coffee, walking bare foot on a windy beach, yummy prawns with the tails on, frosty days when the sun is shining and the sky is icy blue, holding hands, in BBC P&P when Elizabeth and Darcy stare at each other over the piano, raw carrots, tennis, roast dinners,the sound of a clarinet's lowest register, not being stressed.


Dislikes:


Lying, people holding their knife like a pen, bitchy girls, butter, coriander, snide remarks, french grammar, people preaching to me, cats, the way its hard to understand people's tone through email and text, conflict, people who always want to blame someone, the smell of petrol, the way you lose your tummy as you go over a hill quickly, being in the car when I'm not driving, orange peel and the pith on satsumas, Big Brother, dirty kitchens, washing up being left so that the stuff sticks to it, people who say 'like' every other word....

*speaking?? 

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.