Once more: meeting Maggie

Dear Reader,

A few weekends ago, Maggie Stiefvater came back to London for a book signing. It has been a while and she's come out with a couple of new books (3 to be exact) in the mean time. And so of course, I went to see her again (aside: if you  don't remember the last time, dear Reader, then just click here) to get the new ones signed too. Because it was such short notice, I wasn't able to coerce any of my friends to come with me (they're all busy with their fancy jobs or are preparing for exams) so I took my younger brother, Codename: Monkey, with me instead. I just want to take a moment now to say thanks to Waterstones for arranging the whole thing in their gorgeous store and for having such friendly staff, who took the picture below.

We talked a bit about her blog, writing and finding critique partners. I also gave her one of my favourite books as a gift (its the pink/purple book that can be seen in the picture above). It's Shelina Z. Janmohamed's autobiography, the only book I've read  recently that I think define's me as a person and what I believe in. Maggie really appreciated the gift and I hope she enjoys it as much as I did.

Maggie's latest book is Raven Boys, which I'm sure I've mentioned before on this blog. I didn't own a copy of it so buying that, and a few other books (I couldn't help it), was the first thing I did when I got there.

And this is what it looks like on the inside:

Anyway, since I was among the first few to get me books signed, I also received this little specially drawn and signed Raven:

I wasn't really sure what I was meant to do with it, so I turned it into a book mark, complete with red beads and a black-heart...

And then wrote the date of the signing on the back...

I haven't read Raven Boys yet. Let me know if you, dear reader, have and what you thought of it or if you plan to read it. If you have no idea what the Raven Boys is about, here's the trailer that Maggie Stiefvater made, I think it was last year.

After the signing, my sweet not-so-little Monkey gave me a treat for being the bestest, most nicest sister in the world (my words, not his). He had bought tickets so the two of us could go watch the new Oz: the Great and Powerful on the cinema within that shopping centre. It's a prequel to the Wizard of Oz, which had been one of my favourites as a child. Oz: the Great and Powerful was a surprisingly fun film and exceeded my expectation (though they weren't all that high to begin with), and I generally ended up having a great time. 

Nida

the Wise tooth of Misery

Dear Reader,

I'm not usually the sort of person who complains, especially about aches and pains (sorry, unintentional rhyme there). But I had to tell someone, so I thought why not you, dear reader.  

So it started off about 3 days ago. As the afternoon became evening, I began notice the inside of my right cheek kept getting caught between my teeth. This quickly went from irritating to painful and because I was deep within my writing zone, I couldn't be bothered to check it out in a mirror, let alone go downstairs and take a painkiller. I know, I know, my mistake. But to remedy the situation temporarily, I placed a small-but-handy piece of candied pineapple between my gum and my cheek. (Aside: my love of candied pineapples being the only thing I have in common with Professor Slughorn).



For a time it was perfect; my cheek was safe from my throbbing gums and every few minutes a got a burst of pineapply-sweetness in my mouth. (At this point you may point out dear reader that I could have easily used chewing gum, but to quote Johnny Depp's Willy Wonka "chewing gum is really gross, chewing gum I hate the most." This sums up quite well my feeling on that subject)

The pineapple pieces lasted me until dinner, by which time the inside of my mouth was completely coated in sweet stuff, to the point that it numbed all other pain. So I happily filled my bowl with rice and green-chickpeas and sat down to eat. The way my mum cooks it, usually this is one my favourite rice dishes, and one of the few foods I wouldn't mind a second helping of. But not this day.

I'd barely eaten five spoonfuls when I gave up. My entire lower jaw was tight, the right side of my face in agony, my right ear was ringing, I could hardly open my mouth wide enough to let a spoon, not to mention that the pointy, chickpeas were poking into my swollen gums. I felt like I was chewing on needles or raw pasta. Of course, my mum picked up on my sudden lack of appetite and asked me what was wrong.

I'm not ashamed to admit that at this moment I gushed, told her everything, just the way I did when I was five and had badly scrapped my knee. Its part of a mother's job description after all: to know exactly how to soothe her hurt child, no matter how old they get. I'm sure she would have sat me in her lap if we were not sitting at the dinner table and I wasn't too big for her. All that aside, she told me it was probably a wisdom tooth that was at the root of my pain.      

Now, when it comes to teeth, I've always been a bit of a late bloomer. For example, while all my friend's baby teeth fell out when they were 5, 6 or 7 years old, mine didn't begin to fall out until I was 10. And the last of my baby teeth had to be yanked out of my mouth by my dentist when I was 16. So, it only made sense I was quite surprised by this revelation. Even more surprised by it, in fact, than the day I woke up to find that Mount Everest had taken up residence on my chin. (Now that was one tenant I was more than happy to get rid off.) I'd always thought I'd get my wisdom teeth when I was in my 30's.

But my mum told me that the same thing happened to her when she was 23, slightly more than a year before I was born. The conversation then diverted on to topics that included how much my brothers and I had cried as teething babies, the tooth-fairy and did my early wisdom teeth mean that I had wisdom and my older brother's lack there of. The only thing of help that came out of it was the advice that I go and see my dentist about it.

And so, like a dutiful citizen that has complete faith in the NHS, I called my local dentist the very next morning and they gave me an appointment for the day after. It felt strange sitting there in the same, unchanged waiting room after so many years. The only real difference, I'm sad to say, was that the little aquarium with the sea horses was gone. (Aside: what's with dentist having aquarium in their waiting rooms? Is it some unwritten code?) I was surrounded by children and toddlers, with their hassled mama's and pushchairs. In an oddly sentimental moment, I could not helping thinking/hoping that that would be me one day.

Anyways, my dentist was really rather nice and showed me an X-ray of my teeth. It turns out that I have one wisdom tooth coming out on either side of my lower jaw. The pain is being caused by an ulcerated infection on my right gum and cheek, which probably would have been worse had I not been brushing properly. So, like most any other dentist, she told me to start brushing twice a day and then prescribed me with an antibiotic that had my name in it: metroNIDAzole, lol.

And what was the point of all this? I hear you ask. Well, I believe that all stories have a moral, if you look hard enough. But for this one, I'm not exactly sure what it might be. Maybe it should be that 'wisdom comes at a price'. Or maybe 'gaining wisdom is not always painless, but hopefully it is worth it'. Though I keep fingers-crossed as swallow another set of antibiotics and painkillers. ;-)  

Nida

"You cannot Afford to Ignore It"

Dear Reader,

As Ramadaan is fast approaching (Hurray!!), I just thought I'd share a video with you, dear reader, that I saw a few years ago. Subhanallah, it had a profound, almost life changing, effect on me. And all because I decided not to ignore It. Please watch, it'll only take a 3 minutes of your life. Thank you.   

Since watching this video, I have been making a slow but continuous effort to,Inshallah,memorise most of the Qur'an. But not just as it is, but with it's English meaning too. So that when I recite a Surah or ayah off-by-heart, I know exactly what I'm saying. And I think that, even if one does not know the Arabic language, it is at least better to read/learn a reliable translation of the Qur'an, in the language you are most comfortable with. 

The importance of this struck me most, during my recent visit to Pakistan, when I stayed a night in my grandfather's village. It is the custom of all the village girls, to come every morning and learn the Qur'an from my grandmother. As noble as this deed is, and I pray that she gets rewarded for it, I couldn't help but notice that these 15 or so girls (between the ages of 3-10 years old) were reciting the Qur'an as if they were sing-song nonsense-words, with many mispronunciations and no love/understanding of what they were doing. It was a thing they did because their mothers did it before them, because it was the custom, because they had to do it or they couldn't go out to play. 

This made me incredibly sad. When these girls grow up, what are they going to teach their children about Islam? If their husbands beat them and treat them badly, then say its permissible in Islam, they will have no way to fight back and tell them that it is not, because they do not know what the Qur'an or hadiths say. If someone with some standing in the community tells them that it's part of their religion to go and put flowers on the graves of their ancestors and pray to them. They will do it, unaware of how wrong that is. All because they do not know, for themselves, what the Qur'an or hadiths actually say.

And this isn't just a problem in that particular village. No. It's a cultural problem in the entirety of Pakistan, that arises from ignorance of the religion and ignoring the religion. 

But lets look at it this way. Say your signing a contract, whether its for a loan, a house, a job etc.... We always read the terms and conditions so that we know what is expected from either party. Just like that, the Qur'an is our contract with God (swt). And just like any other contract, it clearly states what is expected of us, what the benefits are for fulfilling the conditions and what will happen to us if we break the terms of the agreement. But this is the ultimate contract as it quite literally concerns our entire lives, where the rewards are extremely bountiful and the consequences dire.    

That is why we cannot afford to ignore it. And if we do not ignore it, we cannot afford to keep it to ourselves

Nida      

a Potter present

Dear Reader,

A little while ago, I received a very delayed birthday present through the post. (Aside: my birthday is in the middle of July, and it arrived some-time during August.) It wasn't some small card with money in it from my Aunt in Pakistan or anything like that. No. It was HUGE. I wish I had taken a picture of the actual box to show you. It came up to my waste. Within the cardboard box was another slightly smaller box. In the style of a Russian Nesting doll I kept opening, and smaller boxes kept emerging. Until finally, after seven layers of cardboard, packing and bubble-wrap (yey bubble-wrap!!!!), I came out with this:

Yes! it's a Harry Potter Box Set delivered by Owl Post.
Its a shame the photo doesn't do full justice to the beautiful details on the box.  

...in which was this...

Cool right!

The present was from my friend Codename: Pixie. You see, we've had this very long standing argument. She absolutely adores all the Harry Potter Books. Where as me ... well, when I was about 10 or 11, I attempted to read the first two books, didn't like them much at the time and gave up 1/2 way. Then of course, the movies began coming out and everyone went Potter-crazy. And, being the sort of person who hates following popular trends, I thought to myself that there was no way I was going to read the Potter books now.   

However, being my one of my oldest friends, and sharing my obsession with books, Pixie also knew that I cannot resist the seductive lure of a shiny, brand-new just-off-press/just-off-a-shop-shelf book. And so, by giving me this beautiful Harry Potter Box Set for my birthday, she had guaranteed that I would finally come around to reading those books.

I tried. Believe me. I tried to resist the smell of those crease-less books, the glittering gold on those perfectly flat covers, the fresh black ink on those thousands of unread pages. It was incredibly hard but I succeed, some-what. Long-story short, it's suffice to say that within a week of the end of Ramadan, I had finished the entire series.    

And now, I must admit that I have fallen in love with The Prisoner of Azkaban, The Half-Blood Prince and The Deathly Hallows. J.K. Rowling really is an amazing writer, which was something I didn't really appreciate when I was 10 years old. But, anything I might say now about her writing style or the characters or plots has probably been said and written a hundred, maybe a thousand, times overs already. So I won't won't bore you with repetition. ;-)     

Having newly immersed myself into the world of wizards and muggles, I would love to hear from you, dear reader, if you have read the Harry Potter books or even if you've only watched the movies, which one(s) your favourite(s) are, and what you like the most. Leave your intriguing and fascinating opinions in the comment section below. :-)

But now I must go and thoroughly enjoy my salad-filled SUBWAY sandwich.
Nida

a Conversation in Rhyme

Dear Reader,

My friend Codename: Pixie and I just had an eerily interesting conversation through text messages. Actually it's a conversation that's been going on for days now, switching from phone calls to text messages and back again. But when this conversation  became poetry, I know not. But there is a piece that I particularly like, that I have named Smile (©2011). The reasons and inspiration behind these poems is too long and complex to go into now. However, I have decided that I would like to share them with you, lucky Reader:

I started out like this... 

"Where is your smile, dear?

Has the sadness become too much to bear?

Has the burden of the last seven years,

Destroyed your youth in these final tears?

Where is your smile, dear?

The light in your eyes seems to disappear

Torn up your innocence it has, I fear

And left your soul in this horrid disrepair

Where is your smile, dear?

A bright sun has risen, the day is fair

There's hope for the future, don't despair

Will your smile ever come back, my dear?"

...and so Pixie's reply was her version of the poem...

  

"One day, your smile shall return, my friend.

Life is resilient, with ups and downs till it's end. 

One thing is certain,

For me your God's send

With whom I shall argue and laugh and pretend.

I will chase away all your unwanted fiends.

One day, for sure, your upside down smile will mend."

...to which my response was...

"You bring a smile to my face,

A giggle into my voice.

Tears leave their trace,

But I still have a choice.

I will love and laugh and enjoy my life,

And not dwell on past struggles and strife.

I know that there will always be things that I rue,

But there are just not enough hours in a day.

So as long as I have a friend like you,

A smile will never be too far away."

I hope you enjoyed that. I would love to write more and share more, however I need to go and do some emergency grocery shopping. 

Nida


ETA - I forgot to Thank Pixie for giving me the permission to post her poetry on my blog. So Thank you Pixie dearest.

a Goal celebration!

Dear Reader,

The day before yesterday was my graduation/convocation ceremony. It was overwhelming and inspiring.  

The day began quite early, 6am in fact, since we had to get to the Hall by 8:30am and it was about an hours drive from my house. But being Pakistani, we had to be late, and so we got there at just after 9am. As soon as I arrived however, I had no chance to say hello to my friends but was hurried off to the robing room to don my (incredibly expensive) academic dress. Part of me felt like a puffed up black pillow, while the other half felt like a Hogwarts-runway. Well, that was until I put on my mortarboard cap and looked in the mirror. It was then that it truly hit me that my undergraduate degree was actually over. I turned to my mother and saw that she had tears in her eyes. She was crying, silent tears of joy and pride. I just want to take this moment to say: I love you Mum.  

The Ceremony itself was quite interesting. Our principal spoke for about 15 mins, covering a range of topics from the increased tuition fees and the current state of the NHS, to the St. George's pride and wishing the graduates/alumni best of luck in the future. One of the things he said really stuck with me. He told us to remember the 4P's in the rest of our lives: to be Professional and Patient, to act without Prejudice, and always remember to Persevere. 

Then the awards and degrees presentation began. Me and my university friends clapped and whooped extra loud whenever one of us went up on stage. I think the loudest whoop was for the very sociable and lovable Arab friend of mine, whom I shall not name here. I'm told that there was a lot of whooping and clapping for me too but all I remember is that after hearing my name being called, I stepped on the stage in utter silence, my entire concentration focused on walking straight ahead without tripping up. Sound only returned to me when I was off the stage and heading back to me seat, but by then the clapping was for the next person in line. Having never been in this sort of a situation before, I suppose that was what stage-fright felt.  

The three hours after the ceremony ended, were spent in a hectic struggle to find my friends and take a million photographs with them. There are pictures of us in the hall, in the waiting area, with our families, with each other's families, in the queues, and of us friends flinging our hats, even one of my friend's mother looking quite lost. Thanks to Allah's mercy, the weather was bright and sunny and absolutely wonderful, to fit our moods. And so there are a myriad of pictures of us in the sun, on the stairs, by the ponds, in the ponds ... you get the picture.  

And in the end, as I walked through the car park doors, with my aching high-heeled-feet, it was not a sense of loss or ending that filled me, nor was it excitement, anticipation or anxiety. It was contentment and satisfaction at a job well done. You see, for so long my life had been geared towards this one goal: graduation. Since about half-way through secondary school everything I did, academically and extracurricularly, were for the purpose of getting into a good university, which Alhumdulillah I did. Once at university, everything was done into order to get great grades. These past years have been an emotional roller-coaster, requiring a 110% effort to just keep on top of things. And Alhumdulillah, thank God, I had a brilliant network of friends and family for support, who picked me up whenever I fell down, who kept on reminding me to not give up hope, that I could do it, that my goal was achievable. 

And now I have the grades, Alhumdulillah. For me, this ceremony was a celebration of achieving the goal that my life had been centred on for too many years to count. And not just my goal, but the goals of all the BSc, MBBS, MSc and PhD students at my university. It was a celebration of our efforts, hard work and perseverance, of everything we learnt (academically and personally) and of the life-long friendships we formed.         

I've heard some say that they felt a certain anguish, or a sense of confusion or doubt as to where they should head to next. But luckily that has not been the case with me. Being the obsessively organised person that I am, I always have a plan in place, several plans in fact, in case one should fail. I know that life has it's unexpected turns and twists, but I've found a way to adapt and mould my plans to whatever Allah (swt) wishes to throw in my path. And now I wait to begin to walk on my next plan, with my next goal ahead and insight. 

Wishing you, dear Reader, all the best with your own goals, 

Nida

P.S. - Sorry if the title of this post misled you as it has nothing to do with football :-P  

"episode V: The Cold Strikes Back" or "episode III: Revenge of the Frost"

Dear Reader,

It's bellow freezing here.

And it's snowing.

I hate it.

I normally don't mind watching the snow fall; as long as I'm inside with a hot mug of tea clasped in my hands. Other than that, I want absolutely nothing to do with snow, ever again. (Well, I think I can make an exception for the great joy of pelting my brothers with it.)

Anyway, I should be at university right now, helping my supervisor in the lab, doing my own research. But instead, I am once again wrapped up thoroughly in a blanket, with a horridly sniffly nose. And who is to blame for this whole escapade... well I'll let you figure that out for yourself.

It was a struggle to get up this morning, to leave my warm and comfortable bed for the icy wetness of the bathroom. But I finally managed to be up and out by 6am, just in time to pray the morning prayer (fajr). Then I took a lovely steamy shower, put on seven layers of clothing and 3 pairs of socks and went down for breakfast. As per my daily routine, after breakfast I walked to my local train station (a 20 mins walk by the way) to catch the 08:36 train.

The train station hangs precariously from a bridge, with train tracks scattered beneath and an equally precarious kebab shop on the opposite side of the road. The station extends three tentacles that become the outdoor platforms as they hit the ground and are splayed parallel between the train tracks. So there I am on the platform towards London, freezing my toes off. It's 9:17am. I keep looking down to check that I'm not actually standing bare foot on ice. The screen that's supposed to tell me when the next train will arrive has a jumble of nonsense words on it.      

When a train finally does arrive, it's packed to the brim, so much so, that people trying to get off the train can't find a way out. And of course all the hundred or so other freezing black/brown-clad commuters that where also imitating icicles on the platform, suddenly find motion and run to congest any door of the train they can find, therefore leaving little me without any hope of getting on this train.

Frustrated, I take the smart-phone-xperia-thing out my coat pocket but I can't get the stupid thing to unlock, because, of course, it's not going to work while I still have gloves on. So I take the frozen-twigs that where once fingers on my right hand, out of my glove and shakily find the app. with live travel information. At exactly that point, my ice-addled brain reminds me that there is a tube strike today. Brilliant brain, why couldn't you have told me that while I was still inside the house! ( Aside: sarcasm doesn't work well when it's only in your own head.)

At this point I gave up. I called my supervisor and let him know that there was no chance on this earth of me making into uni before 3 pm. To which he replied: "Oh, don't worry about it. I already e-mailed you this morning that you don't have to come in today if it's too much of a hassle." I thanked him with a politeness that I did not feel and then began trudging my way back out of the station.

20 minutes later, I arrived back home, shaking so badly that I could not get my keys in to the lock and so had to ring the bell instead. My marvellous mother, who had opened the door, immediately wrapped me in blankets and deposited my besides the cooker. After about an hour or so of defrosting in the kitchen, paying particular attention to my peripheral extremities, I tentatively came upstairs, opened my beloved laptop and began this scathing post on the weather.

In the end, I can blame neither the weather, the trains, the strike or my supervisor. It falls to entirely and wholly upon myself and my brain. *Sigh, cough, cough*

A word of warning dear Reader: before leaving your house this winter, make sure you check the weather and live travel information.                  

Nida 

P.S. - as pertains to the title of this post, well all I can say is that I only recently became a huge fan of the Star Wars Series. :-D    

A single Summary of my Summer

Dear Reader,

I must apologise for being so late. Anyway, with the beginning of September and university, the weather here in the UK also seemed to realise that Summer is over: the clouds have clung to the sky with great resolution to make my mornings misrable. Subhanallah. So I decided to post a single post that conviniently summerises my summer, rather than lots of long posts with plently of perfectly tedious details.

So first things first.Yes, it happened. I finally went to watch "Wicked: The Musical". As you might I know (if you don't then click here) I been wanting to watch this ever since I finshed reading Gregory Maguire's wickedly wonderful book. So as a treat, on the wednesday after my birthday, my friends took me to Apollo Theatre, Victoria (in London, U.K).

All I can say is that it was absolutely amazing/awesome. I've been to the theatre several times now, but being the first ever musical that I've ever seen, I was gob-smacked at the perfomers' stamina. They were singing and dancing and acting all at once; the actress who played Glinda (the Good Witch of the North) had no scruples in making a fool out of herself, just to make us laugh. It was truly wonderful. I don't want to give too much away, in case you might want to go out and watch it for yourself, but I have to admit I'm quite glad they didn't stick to Gregory Maguire's original ending. The ending of the book, though brilliant and worthy in it's own right, had left me feeling sad but thoughtful. That day I walked out of the Apollo Victoria, a huge grin on my face, laughter in my eyes and a lightness in my heart. I really owe my friends, Codenames: Pixie and Beauty, for such a wonderful day out.  

On a minor - but no less important - note, my two monkey-for-brothers were at a loss for what sort of present I'd like for my birthday (I mean having lived with them for some twenty-odd years now, you'd think they'd know me better) so they ended up giving me £130 worth of Debnehams' gift cards, which of course I didn't mind at all. So me and my  mum went on a little shopping spree. I ended up buying two bags, a frilly-peacock-print top, a practical-(but stylish)-grey-cardigan and brought my mum a lovely-but-classy pair of peach and white shoes. Aside: I felt sort-of selfish spending all that money on my self. We also popped into WH Smith on my insistence and I brought quite a number of books , one of which happened to be Linger, for which I shortly thereafter wrote a little review, right on this very blog.

Aside: of course I already owned Shiver, but I thought it would look nice in the photo 

So that was July. August brought with it lots of work and writing, but I granted five days of reprieve when I went to Snowdonia, north Wales, in a ginormous group of 15 people. (This group consisited of the five members my family. The rest were two sets of cousin-families, five members each as well - we seem to have a thing for the number five!) Here are some 'Life: as I see it' pictures from my trip, taken by me especially for you. Make sure you click on them to see them bigger!

A view of my lap during the car rides. (This bag is in fact one of the two that I bought at Debnehams)

Wales is absolutely littered every where by breathtakingly beautiful rivers and lakes.

                                                                                                                                       

As it turns out, most of the mountains and cliffs in the area we went to were made of slate!

I have to say, Snowdon is one of the most beautiful places in the U.K., and thats coming from a person who has traveled through every inch of the it (well, other than Scotland and Northern Island, that is). It was one heaven-of-a-Road-Trip, with the 15 of us all packed in to 3 cars, along with masses of food, clothes and plenty of play things (from cricket bats to Monopoly). We caravaned for a day or two, camped, picniced, went hiking and did so, so much in those few days. I could probably go on and on about the amazing time I had but I don't think it'll be too interesting for you, so here are just the key events: (these event didn't exactly happen in this order but they are in the order of most memorableness).

• I got my first ever driving lesson on this flat, spectacular, beach called Black Rock Sand (which sounds like a cool rock band name if you ask me):

• After about fourteen years, we finally beat my oldest cousin (codename: Ray-Man) in a game of Monopoly. It took six of us on one team against one of him.

• We went hiking along countless streams/rivers/lakes in Snowdonia...
• ...and then I badly injured my shoulder and knee after slipping off a rock and falling into the most sceneic river I've ever seen. I walked away from it partly in awe, mostly laughing, and didn't actually realise the seriousness of my injury until the day after. But don't worry over me, my dear reader, I'm perfectly fine now, with both arms still attached.

The big pointy rock on the right side, in the foreground, was the evil rock which I slipped off ;-) 

• We also drove around on the these minor A-roads that took us up and down and around the glorious sheep-covered mountains of Gwynedd. (Sometimes we were a bit more adventurous and followed random single-lane roads through desserted and mysterious forests and we once ended up finding a hall/hotel where my brother decided he will host his wedding someday - can't wait!).

Now I wish I had taken a picture of all the sheep!

• After a night's stay in Tremadog bay, we went walking around in this medieval ruined castle in Criccieth, which reminded me strongly of the legends of Kings Arthur.

That's our whole group minus 1 (the photographer) standing at the gate of the castle - ready to invade and conquer. Let's see if you can guess which one I am!

That's my little cousin, codename: Mini-Me, sitting in the place where archers use to sit, always on guard and ready to pierce arrow-holes through any invading army.   

• And finally, while we were half-way between London and Wales, we stopped at a fancy restaurant in Manchester for dinner, but most of us, including me, ended up getting food poisoning instead. Yet I still went into to work the next day (injured shoulder and all). My supervisor took one look at me and sent me straight to the on site walk-in-clinic. They, in turn, sent me packing home with instructions to take painkiller, drink plenty of water and have lots of bed-rest - I had no problem complying with that!

Nevertheless and on the whole, the bout of the 24-hour-vomiting-bug aside, I had a brilliant-but-busy shiny summer which, to tell the truth, is just how I like them to be.

I hope you enjoyed your Summer as much as I did. Let me know about all the thing that you got up to as well, in the comments section. Live life and take care,

Nida

Hell for Hair and Heavenly eyes

Dear Reader, 

(I must apologise; I've been attempting to write this post for the past week and a have, but can only really manage to do a bit at a time and so this *extremely* long post will have to count for this week and the last. - Sorry!) 

Okay, so I agree the title is a tiniest bit of an exaggeration. But if I relate recent events to you, maybe you'll find it in your hearts to sympathise with me on the horrible bits and join me in excitement with all the good bits. I'll leave it you to decide whether the horrible outweighs the good, or vice versa.   

So last Friday, the 9th of July 2010, at exactly 12:24pm, I entered my local hairdressers. It was my mum's (cough 22nd cough) birthday and we decided that it was time we both treated ourselves to new haircuts (I'd taken a day off work so we could spend time together). I hadn't been to that parlor in over a year and all the staff-faces were new. I was told the currently-pregnant-owner of the shop was taking a nap in one of the back rooms so this new girl will be cutting our hair. At the time I was in an excessively good mood so I thought "why not. Let the owner-who-normally-cuts-my-hair rest." Little had I known how bad that idea was. 

Being my mum's birthday, I let her go first. The girl mumbled something about feathers and layers and my mum just nodded. She didn't much care how her hair was cut, just that it was shorter. I indicated the ideal length and she began snipping away greedily. I sat back in one of the chairs and began reading 'Above the Snowline' - I should have paid more attention. By the time she was finished, my mum's hair resembled that of a 16 year old's rather than the dignified-regal look of a women with 3 grown up offspring. But I could tell she didn't mind. You see, she has a way of curling her hair which makes it look awesomely amazing and mature no matter what the cut (Lucky!). 

However, before I got my turn in the hot-seat another lady came in, probably in her mid to late 40s, with lusciously lengthy black hair. She asked for a simple trim or a straight cut. I was told it would only take five minutes so I let her go first, and turned my attention to my mum. Next thing I know, the mid-to-late-40's-lady is walking out the parlour with the same cut as my mum. Suspicion started to register in the frontal lobe of my brain. So I explained to the girl, several times with increasing slowness, exactly what kind of a hair cut I wanted before I sat down and released my hair to her grasp. I had to remove my all-important-glasses, so I couldn't quite make out what exactly she was doing behind my head, but that didn't mean I was deaf too. Again several times I heard my mum pleading with her to be reasonable. But she carried on chopping away mesmerised in her own bliss; nothing seemed to get through to her. I could, quite literally hear her pulling my hair out by the roots.

And then, to my further dismay, she brought out those horrid, nasty and absolutely despicable feathering scissors (image to the right-->). But before any of us could get a single syllable in she had already rammed it through half my hair. Told me my hair was far far to thick. Needs thinning she said. Well I'll show her a thinning! But of course I'm not an aggressive, argumentative sort and cannot bring myself to raise my voice in public. So I just sat there, fuming on the inside, sending icy glares into the mirror where I suppose her head would be. When I was permitted to wear my glasses again, the first thing I did was look in that mirror. Where my reflection should have been standing, there stood another clone of every other women who walked out of that parlor. And now, whenever I have the courage to open my hair and look in the mirror, it seems as if my hair sticks out at odd ends and angles, as if I were standing a cube which experimented with static  electricity.

(Aside: I'd like to Thank iStockphoto and Sangrea.net for letting me use their pictures, which depict so well how I felt inside that day) 

Anyway, on a happier note: I have two new pairs of designer glasses: 

You see, all my fancy frame-less glasses have come to some dire end, one way or another: basketballs in the face, great-big-squeezy-hug from lovable kid cousins, an "accidental" punch, being piled-on by lots of little children... and the list goes on. So recently I had taken to wearing my "back-up" glasses, which have an old-fashioned, heavy, black-steel frame. Now the problem with these ones is, not the weight of then funnily enough, but the fact that on one side the screw is extremely loose. I do have a mini key-chain-screwdriver to fix it, but the lens for my left eye likes to pop-out at the most inappropriate times. 


The worst one has to have been the one at the beginning of this academic year. I was sitting in a tutorial, surrounded by uber professional med-students and doctors, with Dr. A. Alberts as our tutor. Now I had just asked him quite an intelligent question (and was silently proud of myself for having thought it up) so he was gazing straight at me as he explained when POP! out falls the lens, right on to the table where everyone can see it. And even though my eyesight is really quite bad, I could tell (through my right lens) that Dr. Alberts was trying his very best not to laugh. If that's not humiliating, I don't know what is. I guess its a good thing then that I have the uncanny ability to laugh off everything, especially if it's related to myself.

But anyway, I  have two extremely funky glasses now that fit my sight perfectly. They have this neat little feature called "photosensitivity". For those who aren't feeling quite comprehensive right now, this is basically when the colour of the lens darkens with increasing light. So out in bright sunlight they become Sunglasses - cool right! I'm not exactly sure how the magicians in the experimental-optometry-labs achieved this effect - but I'm sure glad  they did. 

This appreciation dawned on me as I walked home last Monday. The evening sun was playing hide-and-seek with the the clouds and gracing me with it's warmth every now and then. The wind was playful but still gentle as I gazed at the sky over the roof tops and I realised that where the golden light kissed the cotton-wool clouds, they became segregated into a multitude of colours. I had never noticed that before, but my new glasses enabled me to pick out these curvy details. And now, from a distance, the trees lining the streets no longer looked like a splodges of green on brown sticks - as if drawn by a five-year-old. I could actually make out the individual leaves and the style of the bark. I could see the yellow burglar alarm on a house on the other end of the road. I felt pure joy at the details sights that I now saw. Ant all I thought was: "BRILLIANT!".   



And I shall have to leave you at that...



Nida