Okay, looks like India is ACTUALLY winning a Test match under Rahul Dravid. Not that it would subtract any bit from my irritation for men who are christened rahul, or surnamed dravid, or dubbed The Wall by fanatic fans, or all of them put together.
And now that I have made my link with Team India (that phrase calls for a toast from the galleria of cricket reporters) clear, I would better push towards newer territories. For, his 70-odd at Nottingham notwithstanding, I still feel Sourav Ganguly has lost the jigar and jasba for a fighting knock. Mistah, pls refer to earlier blog).
Newer territory of course means Harry Potter. No, I haven't become an overnight expert on Harry, or Potter, or JK, or Rowling. So here's a forward from a blog that landed on mailbox sometime late Sunday night; a time Subject was acutely busy getting peekay tight: “I read an article about this couple that will be leaving their wedding reception and going straight to the bookstore to get their copy of Harry Potter. Now, I'm no expert or anything, but I'm pretty sure that this is not what you're supposed to be doing on your wedding night."
Confession time: Saw this woman the other day. Could have fallen in love. Almost did. Right away. Then I saw a thick fat copy of Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows in (under?) her arm. And suddenly, her armpits began smelling, and she seemed a bit too loony to be walking around free for the safety of loonier creatures, and completely dys-political Me began colour-coding: Was she an underground, below-the-belt, illicit communist, tom-tomming a manifesto for the masses?
And just as suddenly I lost interest. So, miss in pink salwar suit carrying Potter copy tight under arms, if you happen to ever travel through and across this station on blogosphere, you know how Harry helps: It (He?) saved you, honey.
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