Tuesday 18^th December

An email from a very kind and long-suffering friend, who must be up for a prize for Best Grandmother Of The Year!!  (At her request she shall remain anonymous.)

A Painful Play in Two Acts.

Cast:   Grandmother (Nanny)

Daughter

Grandchildren aged 2,3,4,5

Act One

Scene:  Driving in car.

Grandchild aged 4, from back seat:  Mummy, Judith at child care is old, isn’t she?

Daughter:      Yes, she is.  Why do you ask?

Grandchild:    Because she has crinkly skin.  That means she’s going to die soon.

Daughter:      Well, sooner than someone who is young.

Grandchild:    Nanny has crinkly skin.  That means she’s going to die soon.

Act Two

Scene:  At home, grandmother and all four children.  Grandmother on floor bending over doing puzzle with grandchildren.  All four grandchildren leap upon grandmother’s back.

Grandmother:  Ouch.  That hurts.  You’re too heavy. Get off.  You’ll break my back.

Grandchild aged 5:  Yes, stop it. You’ll break Nanny’s neck.

Grandchildren get off grandmother’s back.

Grandchild aged 5:  Nanny, do you die if you break your neck?

Grandmother:  Well, people could die from a broken neck.

Grandchild aged 4:  That’s alright.  You’re going to die soon anyway.

All four grandchildren leap happily back onto grandmother’s back.

THE END!

(At least my little ones only want me to perform magic shows at 6.30am; they don’t expect me to be sanguine about my imminent death!  Or to be able to cope with four of them leaping upon my back all at once!)

India #45

Jabalpur was the city Pete and Vish had chosen for us to break our journey from Mumbai to Varanasi (ex-Benares).  We had two nights there, with the possibility of a tiny bit of sightseeing.  We looked in the Lonely Planet Guide and decided that Jackson’s Hotel was the go.  It was described as being dim and gloomy, very cheap, with large, cool, rooms.  Just the place for a bit of a rest.  The taxi driver knew exactly where Jackson’s was and deposited us, all weary (hollow-eyed ghouls yet again) from many hours in the train at what he said was Jackson’s.  We looked about wide-eyed.  Huge gateways, an imposing marble avenue leading to a large, gleaming, brand new hotel, obviously way out of our league.  Jackson’s had morphed, since our Lonely Planet Guide had been published, into the Narmada Jackson.  We were very hot and tired and sticky, and Pete said, “Come on, we’ll go and see how much the rooms are!”  Well we could see how much the rooms would be – not for the likes of us!  But he is ever the optimist, and a good negotiator and a few minutes later, there we were, very comfortably ensconced at bargain-basement prices. 

This hotel really was amazing.  We were paying about a quarter what other guests had to pay.  We knew this because the only other Westerner we saw in Jabalpur was a cross young woman with a middle-European accent who was scolding the manager as we were registering at the desk.  “I am paying US$130 for my room and there is a hideous noisy machine working day and night.  Also, I don’t have a window; how could I not have a window, for this price??”  Well we had windows, and noise-free rooms.  The manager, one would think, would have resented us for having negotiated such a low price for the rooms but no, he was just wonderful.  Nothing was too much trouble.  Young men in snazzy black and white rushed about finding coffee tables for us, delivering Kingfisher to our rooms.  Early on, the manager cottoned onto the fact that Vish looked like Osama Bin Laden in his visaphoto.  From then on, he would refer to the men as Mr Peter and Mr Osama.  He was really very funny.  “I think Mr Peter has gone to look for tonic water,” he would say, seriously.  “but Mr Osama is looking for a photo shop to get a new battery for his camera.”

We had had terrible trouble in Goa getting our clothes dry.  It was all very easy to get them wet… We washed everything all of the time, ofcourse, because we were travelling light and hardly had more than two changes of clothes each.  Vish and I had invested in a small packet of Surf powder – much better than trying to wash everything with small cakes of dubious hand soap.  So we got things clean-ish.  But everything was damp.  We hung things on clotheslines outside and they flapped around cheerily in the wind but never lost an ounce of moisture.  I had high hopes, at the Narmada Jackson, that there might be a clothesline available for guests, so I asked the manager.  Not a problem, he would send someone up immediately to solve my problem.  He was as good as his word.  A lovely very young boy came up and led me and my steaming damp piles of laundry to an empty hotel room.  Ummm…. Where was the clothes line?  “Right here!” he said triumphantly.  He put all of our washing on coat hangers, hung it from the curtains, bedhead, pelmets – drip drip drip, it really was VERY wet - then turned on the fans and closed the door.  They didn’t charge us anything at all for this service, and I think the moisture and steam from our washing would have done a lot of damage to the beautiful new room.  I made sure I found the same boy when it was time to collect the beautifully dry washing so that the right person would get a tip, but really it was all just part of the wonderful service at the hotel!

There wasn’t an internet facility at this big, glossy hotel, surprisingly.  I asked the reception manager, who led me to the elderly supervisor’s office.  “Come in!” he cried, “but I hope you don’t mind waiting just a minute while I make a few phone calls.”  I gave him a peppermint while I waited.  After about five minutes he vacated his desk, logged me on, and bid me make myself at home.  Every ten minutes or so he would come and make sure I was not hot or cold, that the light was not too bright or dim, etc.  “Please treat this like your very own home!” he said.  When I had finished, after about ninety minutes, I went to find him.  “How much do I owe you?”  He recoiled, offended.  “No, no!” he cried, “nothing at all!  My pleasure.  But you could give me another peppermint!”  This was so nice; EVERYONE in India wants and needs your money.  He could easily have asked me for 100 rupees and I would have handed it over more than willingly.