Early comedy notes - A slice of Mumbai on Flinders Street, Melbourne

I wrote these rough comedy notes about 2 years ago on a visit to Melbourne from England. Before England, I had lived in Australia for 5 years.

I was shocked to see that Flinders Street in Melbourne that owns the famous Flinders Train station and forms the core group of tourists with its lively shops, cafes & boutiques had become a little India of sorts, on one of its popular corners.

I first observed this when I saw a Hindustani youth peeking into an internet cafe and peering hard at me. His lightning eyes appeared to shoot balls of fire. I was greeted with a series of exaggerated winks and blinks. Other courtship gestures like the raising of eyebrows to outer space level, and grinning vampire teeth followed.

The pronounced Hindi accent spoken so loudly caught my astonishment and confused me in the middle of Melbourne. Hindi is my mother's language.

I rediscovered this slice of satire in my laptop. I was having a difficult time in my life and didn't realise till now that I was already sketching comedy. So here they are...my first rough notes.

No wonder when I asked the owner of a popular cafe if I could include him in my novel, he had looked at me anxiously and said yes, but only if I showed him my notes first. Ha-Ha!

I hope you will enjoy my preliminary comedy writing and tomorrow, I'll have an update on my writing submissions so far. Sorry all in caps as I lifted the lot straight out of Word.

In a nutshell, if my book is published, I think India is going to beat me. Give me a "big tight slap" or "one good wallop & send her (me) flying to Siberia" as is so often the classic script of exasperated Indian parents who threaten discipline on a wayward child.


Tea anyone?

My Diary Notes

A SLICE OF MUMBAI HAS COME TO FLINDERS STREET.

THE SCENE IS SET DIRECTLY ACROSS THE TRAIN STATION. FOR A CLOSE-UP LOOK, YOU WILL HAVE TO EYE THE END OF THE PAVEMENT WHERE GIRLS SELL ROASTED NUTS, A MUSICIAN BANGS ON A BROKEN GUITAR AND A BIG ISSUE VENDOR WAVES HIS MAGAZINES IN A VAIN HOPE SOMEONE NOTICES HIS FLOURESCENT GREEN OUTFIT.

NEARBY, ARE INTERNET CAFÉS, SPECIALIST AND HOBBY STORES A POPULAR ATM MACHINE, TRAVEL AGENCIES, AND INTERESTING WINDOW DISPLAYS THAT HOUSE BOHEMIAN SHOPS; SELLING FOR INSTANCE, YESTERDAYS’ HATS.

SOON YOUR EYE MAY DART TO ANOTHER ANGLE WHERE YOU COULD HAVE MISTAKEN A TRAFFIC LIGHT JUNCTION FOR THE GROUNDS OF A KASHMIRI COLLEGE HOUSE CONSIDERED COOL AND WHERE FRENCH AND ENGLISH, SPOKEN IN THAT SING-SONG GIRLISH ACCENT, LIKE A FAINT LITTLE SOPARANO, ROCKETING INTO SPACE AND SWINGING ON CAROUSELS, BEFORE PLUNGING INTO AN OCEAN OF UNIVERSAL UNDERSTANDING. IN SHORT, WHAT YOU CALL THE HINDI LANGUAGE.

OF LATE, THIS TINY JUNCTION HAS WORN ITS DESIGNER LABELS WITH PRIDE, BECOME HIP AND HAPPENING ALMOST OVERNIGHT FOR GROUPS OF SRI LANKAN AND HINDUSTANI STUDENTS THAT HOVER TOGETHER LIKE A PACK OF HOUSE-TRAINED WOLVES, WAITING FOR A SHARMILA TAGORE WITH FLYING SAREE, TO RIDE BY ON A VESPA.

SPOT ONE AND YOU CAN EXPECT A LOW WHISTLE, NUDGES, PRESLEY FLICKS, ANIMATED HAND GESTURES AND TOOTHPASTE GRINS. JUST LIKE WHAT YOU WOULD EXPECT TO SEE IN A BOLLYWOOD FILM. BUT THESE, LETME ASSURE YOU IS THE REAL THING. I MYSELF, HAVE BEEN SUBJECTED TO SILENTLY SPOKEN LOVE LETTERS ON THIS VERY ROAD.

ONE WOULD HAVE IMAGINED SUCH A POSSIBILITY IN ROME WHERE VESPAS RULE BY THE HUNDREDS BUT HERE ON FLINDERS STREET? FOR EXCITEMENT AND DRAMA, YOU ARE MORE LIKELY TO SPOT THE WATTLE PARK NO.70 TRAM ROLL AND RUMBLE ON BY; DISGRUNTLED AND GRUMBLNG.

INSTEAD, BOYS IN STURDY WINTER JACKETS FLICK THEIR SHAH RUKH KHAN (INDIAN HEARTHROB) HAIRSTYLES INTO SWINGING MOTION, COMB THEIR SIDEBURNS WITH EXAGGERATED HAND GESTURES AND PAT THEIR FRIENDS ON THE BACK IN TRANSLATION WHICH WOULD SAY “WHAT’S HAPPENING, GOOD OLD CHAP? AND EYE THE PRETTY GIRLS THAT GO BY – SLY WINKS ON THE READY.

FRIENDS LEAVE AND OTHERS COME LIKE A DIVALI OPEN HOUSE IN MALAYSIA. NAMASTE; SATSRIKAL; NAMASTE; SATRIKAL; HELLO, WELCOME, GOOD MORNING, GOODBYE, COME BACK AGAIN. JUST YESTERDAY,

I SPOTTED 3 LANKY CHAPS FRAGILE AND WITH BEANPOLE FINGERS HAVING A CHINESE WHERE I WAS, AT THE TINY DELI THAT SHOWS CRICKET ON TELEVISION. IN A FEW SECONDS WHILE STRUGGLING OVER NOODLES, THEY BECAME INSTANT MONSTERS. THE THREE STRANGERS REUNITED IN A SUDDEN FRIENDSHIP TO CURSE AND SWEAR THE BUMBLING CRICKET PLAYER. I COULDN’T TELL IF IT WAS INDIA OR SRI LANKA. “BUGGER THE OLD FOOL, ONE HEAVILY MOUSTACHED YOUTH CURSED IN THAT SING-SONG PANSY VOICE OF AN ENGLISH QUIVER. HE WAVED HIS FIST ANGRILY.

“HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING TO HIS GAME… STUPID”
THE SCREAM OF THE THREE BEANPOLES BECAME LOUD AND ANIMATED. THE NOODLES WERE NEVER FINISHED.

ANOTHER DAY WHEN I WAS IN JOLLY J’S.
HAVING A MUFFIN FOR TEA, A SKINNY YOUTH OF ENORMOUS HUNCHBACK PROPORTONS & CURLY OILED HAIR SO GREASY - ONE WONDERS IF IT HAD BEEN DUNKED INTO KEROSENE AND WEARING THE FATTEST OF BLACK-FRAMED SPECTACLES - HE TOOK IT UPON HIMSELF TO ORDER THE GENEROUS SLAP OF RICE AND CURRY SPECIAL AT AU$6.90.

HE THEN GREETED, M WHO OWNED THE PLACE AND WAS HIMSELF SRI LANKAN, PROFUSELY. “I HAVE BEEN TOLD SRI LANKAN FOOD WAS ESPECIALLY GOOD AND THEY HAVE THIS HABIT OF WANTING TO KEEP FEEDING YOU.”

M STAYED WEARY AND CAUTIOUS.

THE LAD'S VOICE THAT HONED POLISHED AND TUNED THAT ONE LINE INTO SUCH MAGNETIC RHYTHMS COMING FROM AN INDIAN ACCENT THAT COULD NOT BE REMOVED, YOU COULD HAVE THOUGHT HE WAS SINGING A CHORUS FROM THE LATEST HINDI COLLECTION OR AS A BACK-UP FOR NEW WAVE. HE NOW GRINNED SHYLY. “DO YOU HAVE ANY

RELATIVES IN SRI LANKA,” HE PRODDED MY OWNER FRIEND, M. “I AM MYSELF AM GOING IN TWO MONTHS. I AM GETTING MARRIED AND I WILL BE BRINGING BACK MY BRIDE TO SHOW YOU AND MY FRIENDS.”

AND ALL I COULD THINK OF WAS, GOODNESS, HE HAD SUNG A WHOLE CHORUS.

Alleluia...alleluia...

Early comedy notes - A slice of Mumbai on Flinders Street, Melbourne

I wrote these rough comedy notes about 2 years ago on a visit to Melbourne from England. Before England, I had lived in Australia for 5 years.

I was shocked to see that Flinders Street in Melbourne that owns the famous Flinders Train station and forms the core group of tourists with its lively shops, cafes & boutiques had become a little India of sorts, on one of its popular corners.

I first observed this when I saw a Hindustani youth peeking into an internet cafe and peering hard at me. His lightning eyes appeared to shoot balls of fire. I was greeted with a series of exaggerated winks and blinks. Other courtship gestures like the raising of eyebrows to outer space level, and grinning vampire teeth followed.

The pronounced Hindi accent spoken so loudly caught my astonishment and confused me in the middle of Melbourne. Hindi is my mother's language.

I rediscovered this slice of satire in my laptop. I was having a difficult time in my life and didn't realise till now that I was already sketching comedy. So here they are...my first rough notes.

No wonder when I asked the owner of a popular cafe if I could include him in my novel, he had looked at me anxiously and said yes, but only if I showed him my notes first. Ha-Ha!

I hope you will enjoy my preliminary comedy writing and tomorrow, I'll have an update on my writing submissions so far. Sorry all in caps as I lifted the lot straight out of Word.

In a nutshell, if my book is published, I think India is going to beat me. Give me a "big tight slap" or "one good wallop & send her (me) flying to Siberia" as is so often the classic script of exasperated Indian parents who threaten discipline on a wayward child.


Tea anyone?

My Diary Notes

A SLICE OF MUMBAI HAS COME TO FLINDERS STREET.

THE SCENE IS SET DIRECTLY ACROSS THE TRAIN STATION. FOR A CLOSE-UP LOOK, YOU WILL HAVE TO EYE THE END OF THE PAVEMENT WHERE GIRLS SELL ROASTED NUTS, A MUSICIAN BANGS ON A BROKEN GUITAR AND A BIG ISSUE VENDOR WAVES HIS MAGAZINES IN A VAIN HOPE SOMEONE NOTICES HIS FLOURESCENT GREEN OUTFIT.

NEARBY, ARE INTERNET CAFÉS, SPECIALIST AND HOBBY STORES A POPULAR ATM MACHINE, TRAVEL AGENCIES, AND INTERESTING WINDOW DISPLAYS THAT HOUSE BOHEMIAN SHOPS; SELLING FOR INSTANCE, YESTERDAYS’ HATS.

SOON YOUR EYE MAY DART TO ANOTHER ANGLE WHERE YOU COULD HAVE MISTAKEN A TRAFFIC LIGHT JUNCTION FOR THE GROUNDS OF A KASHMIRI COLLEGE HOUSE CONSIDERED COOL AND WHERE FRENCH AND ENGLISH, SPOKEN IN THAT SING-SONG GIRLISH ACCENT, LIKE A FAINT LITTLE SOPARANO, ROCKETING INTO SPACE AND SWINGING ON CAROUSELS, BEFORE PLUNGING INTO AN OCEAN OF UNIVERSAL UNDERSTANDING. IN SHORT, WHAT YOU CALL THE HINDI LANGUAGE.

OF LATE, THIS TINY JUNCTION HAS WORN ITS DESIGNER LABELS WITH PRIDE, BECOME HIP AND HAPPENING ALMOST OVERNIGHT FOR GROUPS OF SRI LANKAN AND HINDUSTANI STUDENTS THAT HOVER TOGETHER LIKE A PACK OF HOUSE-TRAINED WOLVES, WAITING FOR A SHARMILA TAGORE WITH FLYING SAREE, TO RIDE BY ON A VESPA.

SPOT ONE AND YOU CAN EXPECT A LOW WHISTLE, NUDGES, PRESLEY FLICKS, ANIMATED HAND GESTURES AND TOOTHPASTE GRINS. JUST LIKE WHAT YOU WOULD EXPECT TO SEE IN A BOLLYWOOD FILM. BUT THESE, LETME ASSURE YOU IS THE REAL THING. I MYSELF, HAVE BEEN SUBJECTED TO SILENTLY SPOKEN LOVE LETTERS ON THIS VERY ROAD.

ONE WOULD HAVE IMAGINED SUCH A POSSIBILITY IN ROME WHERE VESPAS RULE BY THE HUNDREDS BUT HERE ON FLINDERS STREET? FOR EXCITEMENT AND DRAMA, YOU ARE MORE LIKELY TO SPOT THE WATTLE PARK NO.70 TRAM ROLL AND RUMBLE ON BY; DISGRUNTLED AND GRUMBLNG.

INSTEAD, BOYS IN STURDY WINTER JACKETS FLICK THEIR SHAH RUKH KHAN (INDIAN HEARTHROB) HAIRSTYLES INTO SWINGING MOTION, COMB THEIR SIDEBURNS WITH EXAGGERATED HAND GESTURES AND PAT THEIR FRIENDS ON THE BACK IN TRANSLATION WHICH WOULD SAY “WHAT’S HAPPENING, GOOD OLD CHAP? AND EYE THE PRETTY GIRLS THAT GO BY – SLY WINKS ON THE READY.

FRIENDS LEAVE AND OTHERS COME LIKE A DIVALI OPEN HOUSE IN MALAYSIA. NAMASTE; SATSRIKAL; NAMASTE; SATRIKAL; HELLO, WELCOME, GOOD MORNING, GOODBYE, COME BACK AGAIN. JUST YESTERDAY,

I SPOTTED 3 LANKY CHAPS FRAGILE AND WITH BEANPOLE FINGERS HAVING A CHINESE WHERE I WAS, AT THE TINY DELI THAT SHOWS CRICKET ON TELEVISION. IN A FEW SECONDS WHILE STRUGGLING OVER NOODLES, THEY BECAME INSTANT MONSTERS. THE THREE STRANGERS REUNITED IN A SUDDEN FRIENDSHIP TO CURSE AND SWEAR THE BUMBLING CRICKET PLAYER. I COULDN’T TELL IF IT WAS INDIA OR SRI LANKA. “BUGGER THE OLD FOOL, ONE HEAVILY MOUSTACHED YOUTH CURSED IN THAT SING-SONG PANSY VOICE OF AN ENGLISH QUIVER. HE WAVED HIS FIST ANGRILY.

“HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING TO HIS GAME… STUPID”
THE SCREAM OF THE THREE BEANPOLES BECAME LOUD AND ANIMATED. THE NOODLES WERE NEVER FINISHED.

ANOTHER DAY WHEN I WAS IN JOLLY J’S.
HAVING A MUFFIN FOR TEA, A SKINNY YOUTH OF ENORMOUS HUNCHBACK PROPORTONS & CURLY OILED HAIR SO GREASY - ONE WONDERS IF IT HAD BEEN DUNKED INTO KEROSENE AND WEARING THE FATTEST OF BLACK-FRAMED SPECTACLES - HE TOOK IT UPON HIMSELF TO ORDER THE GENEROUS SLAP OF RICE AND CURRY SPECIAL AT AU$6.90.

HE THEN GREETED, M WHO OWNED THE PLACE AND WAS HIMSELF SRI LANKAN, PROFUSELY. “I HAVE BEEN TOLD SRI LANKAN FOOD WAS ESPECIALLY GOOD AND THEY HAVE THIS HABIT OF WANTING TO KEEP FEEDING YOU.”

M STAYED WEARY AND CAUTIOUS.

THE LAD'S VOICE THAT HONED POLISHED AND TUNED THAT ONE LINE INTO SUCH MAGNETIC RHYTHMS COMING FROM AN INDIAN ACCENT THAT COULD NOT BE REMOVED, YOU COULD HAVE THOUGHT HE WAS SINGING A CHORUS FROM THE LATEST HINDI COLLECTION OR AS A BACK-UP FOR NEW WAVE. HE NOW GRINNED SHYLY. “DO YOU HAVE ANY

RELATIVES IN SRI LANKA,” HE PRODDED MY OWNER FRIEND, M. “I AM MYSELF AM GOING IN TWO MONTHS. I AM GETTING MARRIED AND I WILL BE BRINGING BACK MY BRIDE TO SHOW YOU AND MY FRIENDS.”

AND ALL I COULD THINK OF WAS, GOODNESS, HE HAD SUNG A WHOLE CHORUS.

Alleluia...alleluia...

Early comedy notes - A slice of Mumbai on Flinders Street, Melbourne

I wrote these rough comedy notes about 2 years ago on a visit to Melbourne from England. Before England, I had lived in Australia for 5 years.

I was shocked to see that Flinders Street in Melbourne that owns the famous Flinders Train station and forms the core group of tourists with its lively shops, cafes & boutiques had become a little India of sorts, on one of its popular corners.

I first observed this when I saw a Hindustani youth peeking into an internet cafe and peering hard at me. His lightning eyes appeared to shoot balls of fire. I was greeted with a series of exaggerated winks and blinks. Other courtship gestures like the raising of eyebrows to outer space level, and grinning vampire teeth followed.

The pronounced Hindi accent spoken so loudly caught my astonishment and confused me in the middle of Melbourne. Hindi is my mother's language.

I rediscovered this slice of satire in my laptop. I was having a difficult time in my life and didn't realise till now that I was already sketching comedy. So here they are...my first rough notes.

No wonder when I asked the owner of a popular cafe if I could include him in my novel, he had looked at me anxiously and said yes, but only if I showed him my notes first. Ha-Ha!

I hope you will enjoy my preliminary comedy writing and tomorrow, I'll have an update on my writing submissions so far. Sorry all in caps as I lifted the lot straight out of Word.

In a nutshell, if my book is published, I think India is going to beat me. Give me a "big tight slap" or "one good wallop & send her (me) flying to Siberia" as is so often the classic script of exasperated Indian parents who threaten discipline on a wayward child.


Tea anyone?

My Diary Notes

A SLICE OF MUMBAI HAS COME TO FLINDERS STREET.

THE SCENE IS SET DIRECTLY ACROSS THE TRAIN STATION. FOR A CLOSE-UP LOOK, YOU WILL HAVE TO EYE THE END OF THE PAVEMENT WHERE GIRLS SELL ROASTED NUTS, A MUSICIAN BANGS ON A BROKEN GUITAR AND A BIG ISSUE VENDOR WAVES HIS MAGAZINES IN A VAIN HOPE SOMEONE NOTICES HIS FLOURESCENT GREEN OUTFIT.

NEARBY, ARE INTERNET CAFÉS, SPECIALIST AND HOBBY STORES A POPULAR ATM MACHINE, TRAVEL AGENCIES, AND INTERESTING WINDOW DISPLAYS THAT HOUSE BOHEMIAN SHOPS; SELLING FOR INSTANCE, YESTERDAYS’ HATS.

SOON YOUR EYE MAY DART TO ANOTHER ANGLE WHERE YOU COULD HAVE MISTAKEN A TRAFFIC LIGHT JUNCTION FOR THE GROUNDS OF A KASHMIRI COLLEGE HOUSE CONSIDERED COOL AND WHERE FRENCH AND ENGLISH, SPOKEN IN THAT SING-SONG GIRLISH ACCENT, LIKE A FAINT LITTLE SOPARANO, ROCKETING INTO SPACE AND SWINGING ON CAROUSELS, BEFORE PLUNGING INTO AN OCEAN OF UNIVERSAL UNDERSTANDING. IN SHORT, WHAT YOU CALL THE HINDI LANGUAGE.

OF LATE, THIS TINY JUNCTION HAS WORN ITS DESIGNER LABELS WITH PRIDE, BECOME HIP AND HAPPENING ALMOST OVERNIGHT FOR GROUPS OF SRI LANKAN AND HINDUSTANI STUDENTS THAT HOVER TOGETHER LIKE A PACK OF HOUSE-TRAINED WOLVES, WAITING FOR A SHARMILA TAGORE WITH FLYING SAREE, TO RIDE BY ON A VESPA.

SPOT ONE AND YOU CAN EXPECT A LOW WHISTLE, NUDGES, PRESLEY FLICKS, ANIMATED HAND GESTURES AND TOOTHPASTE GRINS. JUST LIKE WHAT YOU WOULD EXPECT TO SEE IN A BOLLYWOOD FILM. BUT THESE, LETME ASSURE YOU IS THE REAL THING. I MYSELF, HAVE BEEN SUBJECTED TO SILENTLY SPOKEN LOVE LETTERS ON THIS VERY ROAD.

ONE WOULD HAVE IMAGINED SUCH A POSSIBILITY IN ROME WHERE VESPAS RULE BY THE HUNDREDS BUT HERE ON FLINDERS STREET? FOR EXCITEMENT AND DRAMA, YOU ARE MORE LIKELY TO SPOT THE WATTLE PARK NO.70 TRAM ROLL AND RUMBLE ON BY; DISGRUNTLED AND GRUMBLNG.

INSTEAD, BOYS IN STURDY WINTER JACKETS FLICK THEIR SHAH RUKH KHAN (INDIAN HEARTHROB) HAIRSTYLES INTO SWINGING MOTION, COMB THEIR SIDEBURNS WITH EXAGGERATED HAND GESTURES AND PAT THEIR FRIENDS ON THE BACK IN TRANSLATION WHICH WOULD SAY “WHAT’S HAPPENING, GOOD OLD CHAP? AND EYE THE PRETTY GIRLS THAT GO BY – SLY WINKS ON THE READY.

FRIENDS LEAVE AND OTHERS COME LIKE A DIVALI OPEN HOUSE IN MALAYSIA. NAMASTE; SATSRIKAL; NAMASTE; SATRIKAL; HELLO, WELCOME, GOOD MORNING, GOODBYE, COME BACK AGAIN. JUST YESTERDAY,

I SPOTTED 3 LANKY CHAPS FRAGILE AND WITH BEANPOLE FINGERS HAVING A CHINESE WHERE I WAS, AT THE TINY DELI THAT SHOWS CRICKET ON TELEVISION. IN A FEW SECONDS WHILE STRUGGLING OVER NOODLES, THEY BECAME INSTANT MONSTERS. THE THREE STRANGERS REUNITED IN A SUDDEN FRIENDSHIP TO CURSE AND SWEAR THE BUMBLING CRICKET PLAYER. I COULDN’T TELL IF IT WAS INDIA OR SRI LANKA. “BUGGER THE OLD FOOL, ONE HEAVILY MOUSTACHED YOUTH CURSED IN THAT SING-SONG PANSY VOICE OF AN ENGLISH QUIVER. HE WAVED HIS FIST ANGRILY.

“HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING TO HIS GAME… STUPID”
THE SCREAM OF THE THREE BEANPOLES BECAME LOUD AND ANIMATED. THE NOODLES WERE NEVER FINISHED.

ANOTHER DAY WHEN I WAS IN JOLLY J’S.
HAVING A MUFFIN FOR TEA, A SKINNY YOUTH OF ENORMOUS HUNCHBACK PROPORTONS & CURLY OILED HAIR SO GREASY - ONE WONDERS IF IT HAD BEEN DUNKED INTO KEROSENE AND WEARING THE FATTEST OF BLACK-FRAMED SPECTACLES - HE TOOK IT UPON HIMSELF TO ORDER THE GENEROUS SLAP OF RICE AND CURRY SPECIAL AT AU$6.90.

HE THEN GREETED, M WHO OWNED THE PLACE AND WAS HIMSELF SRI LANKAN, PROFUSELY. “I HAVE BEEN TOLD SRI LANKAN FOOD WAS ESPECIALLY GOOD AND THEY HAVE THIS HABIT OF WANTING TO KEEP FEEDING YOU.”

M STAYED WEARY AND CAUTIOUS.

THE LAD'S VOICE THAT HONED POLISHED AND TUNED THAT ONE LINE INTO SUCH MAGNETIC RHYTHMS COMING FROM AN INDIAN ACCENT THAT COULD NOT BE REMOVED, YOU COULD HAVE THOUGHT HE WAS SINGING A CHORUS FROM THE LATEST HINDI COLLECTION OR AS A BACK-UP FOR NEW WAVE. HE NOW GRINNED SHYLY. “DO YOU HAVE ANY

RELATIVES IN SRI LANKA,” HE PRODDED MY OWNER FRIEND, M. “I AM MYSELF AM GOING IN TWO MONTHS. I AM GETTING MARRIED AND I WILL BE BRINGING BACK MY BRIDE TO SHOW YOU AND MY FRIENDS.”

AND ALL I COULD THINK OF WAS, GOODNESS, HE HAD SUNG A WHOLE CHORUS.

Alleluia...alleluia...

Light parody! (This poem which I wrote, was published two months ago on an American poetry portal)

THE HANDBAGS

by Susan Abraham


"Once before in Petaling Jaya,
I knew a rich round lady
who loved her knockers like they
were newborn babies.
A big fat one here and a lumpy
squishy one there,
was where she hid her ringgit money
in its suffocating lair.
And when in 1997, the Malaysan
recession halted progression
she looked not down but upwards
with a proud and regal frown.
She decided she would part with
her brassieres,
that looked like oddly twisted clowns,
It helped that they were prism colours,
customised, orange, brown.
Otherwise, she'd spank the lot
into a brazen crimson count.
Or create instead, voluptous...
sculptured mounds.
She handsomely sewed them all up
with one nipple for a needle, and
one nipple for a thimble
and then replaced the sore bits
with a couple of grotty pimples.
Her bras were transformed into
handbags...roomy, sporty, wider
and were grabbed for charity
by an unsuspecting flatty
lady.
Who stored her silicone
disposals from a chest that
screamed a clever artist con.
Without a new wardrobe, the
fat lady's balloon babies had
no fun.
They struggled and sighed and
mumbled and cried.
Wobbling like jelly on a scary
prison run.
Deflated, tired, dismayed and
crippled...
She took them all out shopping
and stole a secret tipple."


Picture by Fernando Botero

Light parody! (This poem which I wrote, was published two months ago on an American poetry portal)

THE HANDBAGS

by Susan Abraham


"Once before in Petaling Jaya,
I knew a rich round lady
who loved her knockers like they
were newborn babies.
A big fat one here and a lumpy
squishy one there,
was where she hid her ringgit money
in its suffocating lair.
And when in 1997, the Malaysan
recession halted progression
she looked not down but upwards
with a proud and regal frown.
She decided she would part with
her brassieres,
that looked like oddly twisted clowns,
It helped that they were prism colours,
customised, orange, brown.
Otherwise, she'd spank the lot
into a brazen crimson count.
Or create instead, voluptous...
sculptured mounds.
She handsomely sewed them all up
with one nipple for a needle, and
one nipple for a thimble
and then replaced the sore bits
with a couple of grotty pimples.
Her bras were transformed into
handbags...roomy, sporty, wider
and were grabbed for charity
by an unsuspecting flatty
lady.
Who stored her silicone
disposals from a chest that
screamed a clever artist con.
Without a new wardrobe, the
fat lady's balloon babies had
no fun.
They struggled and sighed and
mumbled and cried.
Wobbling like jelly on a scary
prison run.
Deflated, tired, dismayed and
crippled...
She took them all out shopping
and stole a secret tipple."


Picture by Fernando Botero

Light parody! (This poem which I wrote, was published two months ago on an American poetry portal)

THE HANDBAGS

by Susan Abraham


"Once before in Petaling Jaya,
I knew a rich round lady
who loved her knockers like they
were newborn babies.
A big fat one here and a lumpy
squishy one there,
was where she hid her ringgit money
in its suffocating lair.
And when in 1997, the Malaysan
recession halted progression
she looked not down but upwards
with a proud and regal frown.
She decided she would part with
her brassieres,
that looked like oddly twisted clowns,
It helped that they were prism colours,
customised, orange, brown.
Otherwise, she'd spank the lot
into a brazen crimson count.
Or create instead, voluptous...
sculptured mounds.
She handsomely sewed them all up
with one nipple for a needle, and
one nipple for a thimble
and then replaced the sore bits
with a couple of grotty pimples.
Her bras were transformed into
handbags...roomy, sporty, wider
and were grabbed for charity
by an unsuspecting flatty
lady.
Who stored her silicone
disposals from a chest that
screamed a clever artist con.
Without a new wardrobe, the
fat lady's balloon babies had
no fun.
They struggled and sighed and
mumbled and cried.
Wobbling like jelly on a scary
prison run.
Deflated, tired, dismayed and
crippled...
She took them all out shopping
and stole a secret tipple."


Picture by Fernando Botero

A true episode - Kovalam Beach South India Part 1

5 years ago, I lived on Kovalam Beach, South India for a month as a beachcomber. It proved a revival of flower power.

Several Europeans indulged in thereupeutic massages, sought the beach or meditated. Later, they went up to Goa. It was my accidental Woodstock.

One Sunday morning, a rackety bus stopped next to an unscruplous toothless lady, selling pineapples. A gang of skinny grinning Malayalee youths, dressed in dhotis scrambled out swiftly like powerful commandos on a mission.

Some splashed on Calvin Klein aftershaves. Others displayed an assortment of Hurry Baby,I Am Yours, tee-shirts. One had a tee-shirt that screamed in neon yellow, If You Don't Marry Me Now, I Will Die. He looked very much alive.

The electrifying Elvis Presley Brylcreem-greased hairstyle was back in vogue. Sparkly ultra-violet sunglasses glinted like diamonds. The youths tried to look like Madras movie stars. Fat moustaches, beards and eager roving eyes completed the noisy picture.

The men had opted for an all-expenses paid one-day sightseeing Kovalam Beach Tour package over the cinema. One had to pay for a film ticket. The beach had far more tempting scenes and was free.

They stopped curiously now, under the first parasol. All was silent. It was a large parasol that completely covered the bikini-clad woman. All bent forward for a closer look. A sea of bat faces peered down as far as the eye could go.

Suddenly, passers by were treated to a lady shouting obsenities. "You bloody idiots! GET OUT!" The youths seemed unmoved. There was a slight commotion. Why was she screaming? They appeared unmoved studying intently, the science of her beanpole torso. They had never seen anything quite like it.

A spokesman for the group explained with demonstrative gestures, the woman's long shiny legs. Like art students, the youths appeared in studious repose. They placed their chins in their palms reflectively. They slicked their Presley combs back nervously. Above all, they continued to study her shamelessly.

I mean, flesh jutting out of the skimpy bra and all that.

Now, they playacted philosophers. They nodded in unison. They hummed and haw-ed. Very impressive. Very impressive indeed!

It was an interesting prospect to be sure. One didn't alway get to see such modern exhibits in conservative Trivendrum. One saw other strange things.

Like how you could die on a busy road from being knocked by a hit-and-crawl bullock cart. Also, the irate buffalo may not hold an insurance policy. Or like how if you got into a taxi, you would find your bottom sinking majestically down as the seat slipped from under you lke a hammock.

If you complained, someone would heatedly challenge you to stop a taxi in Madras. Be warned that you could end up toppling into the biggest hole in the backseat and land in the middle of the road while the taxi driver drove away with his leftover vehicle.

In other words, better not take a taxi in South India if you've signed up for WeightWatchers or otherwise, send your farewell postcards first.

The lady continued to scream.

After 5-minutes, the undaunted youths carried on with their gallery stroll to the next parasol. The lady under the shade was fat and bouncy. Rolling flesh depicted mismatched arms and legs. Like a replayed scene, the second lady heaved herself up. After slipping a couple of times, she managed to stand up, her cellulite dancing like jelly. She waved drumstick arms,while muttering angrily. They looked like rolling pins.

Watching her boulder frame, the youths grinned, nudged each other and sniggered. This was a comedy portrait to be sure. The group's spokesman encouraged their exhibit stroll on to the third parasol. And so the tour of bikini-clad women went on and on.

As they walked, their sunglasses shone like laser beams picking up signals. They moved silently in robotic motion - left circle, right circle, 1, 2, 3, swingabout and turn. Thoroughly engrossed, they looked like ghosts haunting the beach. They could have easily been aliens from another planet observing the human condition.

By the time, they reached me, all were shocked. What an Indian woman? They half-suspected me to be Indian. They simply couldn't be sure. But one thing was certain. No good Indian girl from any respectable Indian family would
ie scantily-clad on the beach showing her navel, her thighs and her bare arms. Bringing the family name down! Shame on the mother! Shame on the father! Shame on the girl! DISGRACE ON THE WHOLE FAMILY!

I was certainly a controversial exhibit.

"Give her a skirt, a needle and a thread," one grumbled in Malayalam. Another youth looked like he would like to beat me up. One more turned lecherous. "Well,might as well..." kind of thing. Another lad swung me around like a doll. Soon I too, started screaming.

My pleas were slightly more creative. "Leave me alone, you bastards."

Feeling sickened, I continued to shout. "What, what..." they asked in Malayalam, not understanding a word I said in English. Why is this mad woman screaming?

I took advantage of their ignorance.

My vocabulary turned explicit and colourful.

S-T-U-P-I-D, I spat regally.

I screamed the loudest of all, until a few fishermen came to my aid.

The spokesman who wore bright purple sunglasses had styled himself to look like a Bollywood star. His spectacles shone like glass. They almost blinded me. "What, are u a mad woman, ah" he continued to question his intellectual discourse in Malayalam. He rolled his finger round his brain to show that I had lost it.

He told the fishermen that I was an embarassment to the Indian nation in general.

Soon, the men were shooed off. They accused me of ruining their excursion but after awhile dispersed in humiliation. The next row of parasols that greeted them would contain their heavily saree-clad mothers or wives. And this time, if the womenfolk ever got to hear about their morning adventure, the rolling pins would be for real.

A true episode - Kovalam Beach South India Part 1

5 years ago, I lived on Kovalam Beach, South India for a month as a beachcomber. It proved a revival of flower power.

Several Europeans indulged in thereupeutic massages, sought the beach or meditated. Later, they went up to Goa. It was my accidental Woodstock.

One Sunday morning, a rackety bus stopped next to an unscruplous toothless lady, selling pineapples. A gang of skinny grinning Malayalee youths, dressed in dhotis scrambled out swiftly like powerful commandos on a mission.

Some splashed on Calvin Klein aftershaves. Others displayed an assortment of Hurry Baby,I Am Yours, tee-shirts. One had a tee-shirt that screamed in neon yellow, If You Don't Marry Me Now, I Will Die. He looked very much alive.

The electrifying Elvis Presley Brylcreem-greased hairstyle was back in vogue. Sparkly ultra-violet sunglasses glinted like diamonds. The youths tried to look like Madras movie stars. Fat moustaches, beards and eager roving eyes completed the noisy picture.

The men had opted for an all-expenses paid one-day sightseeing Kovalam Beach Tour package over the cinema. One had to pay for a film ticket. The beach had far more tempting scenes and was free.

They stopped curiously now, under the first parasol. All was silent. It was a large parasol that completely covered the bikini-clad woman. All bent forward for a closer look. A sea of bat faces peered down as far as the eye could go.

Suddenly, passers by were treated to a lady shouting obsenities. "You bloody idiots! GET OUT!" The youths seemed unmoved. There was a slight commotion. Why was she screaming? They appeared unmoved studying intently, the science of her beanpole torso. They had never seen anything quite like it.

A spokesman for the group explained with demonstrative gestures, the woman's long shiny legs. Like art students, the youths appeared in studious repose. They placed their chins in their palms reflectively. They slicked their Presley combs back nervously. Above all, they continued to study her shamelessly.

I mean, flesh jutting out of the skimpy bra and all that.

Now, they playacted philosophers. They nodded in unison. They hummed and haw-ed. Very impressive. Very impressive indeed!

It was an interesting prospect to be sure. One didn't alway get to see such modern exhibits in conservative Trivendrum. One saw other strange things.

Like how you could die on a busy road from being knocked by a hit-and-crawl bullock cart. Also, the irate buffalo may not hold an insurance policy. Or like how if you got into a taxi, you would find your bottom sinking majestically down as the seat slipped from under you lke a hammock.

If you complained, someone would heatedly challenge you to stop a taxi in Madras. Be warned that you could end up toppling into the biggest hole in the backseat and land in the middle of the road while the taxi driver drove away with his leftover vehicle.

In other words, better not take a taxi in South India if you've signed up for WeightWatchers or otherwise, send your farewell postcards first.

The lady continued to scream.

After 5-minutes, the undaunted youths carried on with their gallery stroll to the next parasol. The lady under the shade was fat and bouncy. Rolling flesh depicted mismatched arms and legs. Like a replayed scene, the second lady heaved herself up. After slipping a couple of times, she managed to stand up, her cellulite dancing like jelly. She waved drumstick arms,while muttering angrily. They looked like rolling pins.

Watching her boulder frame, the youths grinned, nudged each other and sniggered. This was a comedy portrait to be sure. The group's spokesman encouraged their exhibit stroll on to the third parasol. And so the tour of bikini-clad women went on and on.

As they walked, their sunglasses shone like laser beams picking up signals. They moved silently in robotic motion - left circle, right circle, 1, 2, 3, swingabout and turn. Thoroughly engrossed, they looked like ghosts haunting the beach. They could have easily been aliens from another planet observing the human condition.

By the time, they reached me, all were shocked. What an Indian woman? They half-suspected me to be Indian. They simply couldn't be sure. But one thing was certain. No good Indian girl from any respectable Indian family would
ie scantily-clad on the beach showing her navel, her thighs and her bare arms. Bringing the family name down! Shame on the mother! Shame on the father! Shame on the girl! DISGRACE ON THE WHOLE FAMILY!

I was certainly a controversial exhibit.

"Give her a skirt, a needle and a thread," one grumbled in Malayalam. Another youth looked like he would like to beat me up. One more turned lecherous. "Well,might as well..." kind of thing. Another lad swung me around like a doll. Soon I too, started screaming.

My pleas were slightly more creative. "Leave me alone, you bastards."

Feeling sickened, I continued to shout. "What, what..." they asked in Malayalam, not understanding a word I said in English. Why is this mad woman screaming?

I took advantage of their ignorance.

My vocabulary turned explicit and colourful.

S-T-U-P-I-D, I spat regally.

I screamed the loudest of all, until a few fishermen came to my aid.

The spokesman who wore bright purple sunglasses had styled himself to look like a Bollywood star. His spectacles shone like glass. They almost blinded me. "What, are u a mad woman, ah" he continued to question his intellectual discourse in Malayalam. He rolled his finger round his brain to show that I had lost it.

He told the fishermen that I was an embarassment to the Indian nation in general.

Soon, the men were shooed off. They accused me of ruining their excursion but after awhile dispersed in humiliation. The next row of parasols that greeted them would contain their heavily saree-clad mothers or wives. And this time, if the womenfolk ever got to hear about their morning adventure, the rolling pins would be for real.

A true episode - Kovalam Beach South India Part 1

5 years ago, I lived on Kovalam Beach, South India for a month as a beachcomber. It proved a revival of flower power.

Several Europeans indulged in thereupeutic massages, sought the beach or meditated. Later, they went up to Goa. It was my accidental Woodstock.

One Sunday morning, a rackety bus stopped next to an unscruplous toothless lady, selling pineapples. A gang of skinny grinning Malayalee youths, dressed in dhotis scrambled out swiftly like powerful commandos on a mission.

Some splashed on Calvin Klein aftershaves. Others displayed an assortment of Hurry Baby,I Am Yours, tee-shirts. One had a tee-shirt that screamed in neon yellow, If You Don't Marry Me Now, I Will Die. He looked very much alive.

The electrifying Elvis Presley Brylcreem-greased hairstyle was back in vogue. Sparkly ultra-violet sunglasses glinted like diamonds. The youths tried to look like Madras movie stars. Fat moustaches, beards and eager roving eyes completed the noisy picture.

The men had opted for an all-expenses paid one-day sightseeing Kovalam Beach Tour package over the cinema. One had to pay for a film ticket. The beach had far more tempting scenes and was free.

They stopped curiously now, under the first parasol. All was silent. It was a large parasol that completely covered the bikini-clad woman. All bent forward for a closer look. A sea of bat faces peered down as far as the eye could go.

Suddenly, passers by were treated to a lady shouting obsenities. "You bloody idiots! GET OUT!" The youths seemed unmoved. There was a slight commotion. Why was she screaming? They appeared unmoved studying intently, the science of her beanpole torso. They had never seen anything quite like it.

A spokesman for the group explained with demonstrative gestures, the woman's long shiny legs. Like art students, the youths appeared in studious repose. They placed their chins in their palms reflectively. They slicked their Presley combs back nervously. Above all, they continued to study her shamelessly.

I mean, flesh jutting out of the skimpy bra and all that.

Now, they playacted philosophers. They nodded in unison. They hummed and haw-ed. Very impressive. Very impressive indeed!

It was an interesting prospect to be sure. One didn't alway get to see such modern exhibits in conservative Trivendrum. One saw other strange things.

Like how you could die on a busy road from being knocked by a hit-and-crawl bullock cart. Also, the irate buffalo may not hold an insurance policy. Or like how if you got into a taxi, you would find your bottom sinking majestically down as the seat slipped from under you lke a hammock.

If you complained, someone would heatedly challenge you to stop a taxi in Madras. Be warned that you could end up toppling into the biggest hole in the backseat and land in the middle of the road while the taxi driver drove away with his leftover vehicle.

In other words, better not take a taxi in South India if you've signed up for WeightWatchers or otherwise, send your farewell postcards first.

The lady continued to scream.

After 5-minutes, the undaunted youths carried on with their gallery stroll to the next parasol. The lady under the shade was fat and bouncy. Rolling flesh depicted mismatched arms and legs. Like a replayed scene, the second lady heaved herself up. After slipping a couple of times, she managed to stand up, her cellulite dancing like jelly. She waved drumstick arms,while muttering angrily. They looked like rolling pins.

Watching her boulder frame, the youths grinned, nudged each other and sniggered. This was a comedy portrait to be sure. The group's spokesman encouraged their exhibit stroll on to the third parasol. And so the tour of bikini-clad women went on and on.

As they walked, their sunglasses shone like laser beams picking up signals. They moved silently in robotic motion - left circle, right circle, 1, 2, 3, swingabout and turn. Thoroughly engrossed, they looked like ghosts haunting the beach. They could have easily been aliens from another planet observing the human condition.

By the time, they reached me, all were shocked. What an Indian woman? They half-suspected me to be Indian. They simply couldn't be sure. But one thing was certain. No good Indian girl from any respectable Indian family would
ie scantily-clad on the beach showing her navel, her thighs and her bare arms. Bringing the family name down! Shame on the mother! Shame on the father! Shame on the girl! DISGRACE ON THE WHOLE FAMILY!

I was certainly a controversial exhibit.

"Give her a skirt, a needle and a thread," one grumbled in Malayalam. Another youth looked like he would like to beat me up. One more turned lecherous. "Well,might as well..." kind of thing. Another lad swung me around like a doll. Soon I too, started screaming.

My pleas were slightly more creative. "Leave me alone, you bastards."

Feeling sickened, I continued to shout. "What, what..." they asked in Malayalam, not understanding a word I said in English. Why is this mad woman screaming?

I took advantage of their ignorance.

My vocabulary turned explicit and colourful.

S-T-U-P-I-D, I spat regally.

I screamed the loudest of all, until a few fishermen came to my aid.

The spokesman who wore bright purple sunglasses had styled himself to look like a Bollywood star. His spectacles shone like glass. They almost blinded me. "What, are u a mad woman, ah" he continued to question his intellectual discourse in Malayalam. He rolled his finger round his brain to show that I had lost it.

He told the fishermen that I was an embarassment to the Indian nation in general.

Soon, the men were shooed off. They accused me of ruining their excursion but after awhile dispersed in humiliation. The next row of parasols that greeted them would contain their heavily saree-clad mothers or wives. And this time, if the womenfolk ever got to hear about their morning adventure, the rolling pins would be for real.

Snippets of what may come

For my mismatched fame, please expect to read these snippets in the papers.

Snippet 1:

The Australian Times

Day 1

The writer of the memoir, The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham was assaulted early Sunday morning, on Glenforrie Road in Melbourne while walking along a deserted lane.

Believed to be an ambush, Abraham who has been warded for observation, remembers something 'heavy, black and knitting-needle sharp,' charging violently towards her, similiar to what she recalled to be an ill-fated bullfight in Seville or a sword-fighting battle in Shakespeare.

She also recalls a wicked, laugh and will identify the deafening cackle in an identity parade involving ancient ladies.

In this case, the line-up being sitting and not standing. The inability to exhibit side profiles lie due to obesity or osteoperosis which makes the entire head-turning episode impossible.

In the event, that the suspects attempt to make a slow motion 90 degrees turn, it would involve police time lasting from sunrise to midnight.

Witness reports record a nasty umbrella being slammed upon Abraham's head.

The assailant was said to represent a dusky complexion and anything evil between The Hunchback of Notre Dame and the dusty, rusty bride in Great Expectations.

It was hard to tell. She was so old she had no breasts left. All had been recalled to the heavens for a heavyduty recharge.

The strange woman who ran amok looked about 110. Abraham escaped with slight injuries. Police are continuing their investigations.


Day 2

92-year old Vellamah Mariamma Kochamma, with 2 eligible bachelor sons, one said to be holding an illustrious doctor's degree obtained from Madras, now about 75 years old and the other a pompous retired Ministry solicitor, aged 71 who was secretly gay, surrendered herself in the early hours to the Glonferrie Police Station for questioning.

A vivid pencil sketch of her skeletal portrait had appeared on the late night news.


Kochamma appeared with three cats and requested a breakfast of sardines.

She was dressed in a mini skirt, hobbled on a hickory and wore rouge for a fearful clownish appearance. She pleaded to show off her matchstick legs.

Kochamma confessed to her crime of assault with intention to kill.

Unfortunately, her umbrella , the sole evidence, could not serve to its fullest capacity. It was purchased in World War 1 and had retired from rainy day life.

Due to the impact of Abraham's head, the umbrella lay in a coma.

Kochamma issued a legal statement and a message to Abraham through her lawyers, Anthonygopal & Sons in Geelong. Of course, she understood that any evidence would be used against her in a court of law.


"You bloody fool! I only took you in because your father was my husband's friend. And my husband was related to your uncle's cousin's nephew's sister's brother-in-law's auntie's grand-nephew's distant stepmother's daughter.

I accompanied you to India. I felt pity for you. This is how you repay me. Writing about me falling from a boat in Kovalam Beach. Advertising my sarees to people. Only the cheap sarees you are talking about. Not the expensive ones. Wait and see! You will boil in hell. Also, if there are any prospective brides looking for respectable husbands earning good pension, please contact....."


Snippet 2:
Reported in The Zambian Times

Tanzanian Masai, Akimbo aka Alfonso Alberquerqe The Great, 30, sues author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham for breach of trust with view to marriage.

He is seeking £1,000,000 in damages for emotional duress and courtship expenses. He is also seeking 500 key chains in further damages.


Snippet 3
Reported in the Malaysian Times

The Periammah Lewis Sympathiser's Association boasting a membership of 500 buxomy shapes that strongly imply the female gender, in Petaling Jaya, Malaysia, is suing author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham for £10,000,000. The Association also requests for the book to be immediately banned. Mrs. Periammah Lewis was said to be recovering at her son's £1,000,000 bungalow in Singapore and could not be reached for comment.


Snippet 4
The Zanzibar Times

Valentino Rudolph the third who was believed to have accompanied Mrs. Periammah Lewis and author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham to the Zanzibar received fame on publication of the memoir. He has since resigned his job as chauffeur, self-proclaimed butler and alert bodyguard. Valentino is now the proud owner of the Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack. No donkeys, farmers and Vespa scooters allowed. Remembering her Everests, Valentino Rudolph the third also declared an undying love for Mrs. Periammah Lewis and has declared his wish to marry her. It is rumoured that Mrs. Lewis is considering implants.


Snippet 5

Sharuk recieved fame and became a Hollywood actor


Snippet 6

The old man with the snakish beard and white cap with his ramshackle stall in the Zanzibar, with 50 Made-in-London labels stuck to it, was offered free tickets on the sightseeing tour bus in England. He travelled to London with his 10th wife but disappeared somewhere in Tower Bridge and was never seen again.

Snippets of what may come

For my mismatched fame, please expect to read these snippets in the papers.

Snippet 1:

The Australian Times

Day 1

The writer of the memoir, The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham was assaulted early Sunday morning, on Glenforrie Road in Melbourne while walking along a deserted lane.

Believed to be an ambush, Abraham who has been warded for observation, remembers something 'heavy, black and knitting-needle sharp,' charging violently towards her, similiar to what she recalled to be an ill-fated bullfight in Seville or a sword-fighting battle in Shakespeare.

She also recalls a wicked, laugh and will identify the deafening cackle in an identity parade involving ancient ladies.

In this case, the line-up being sitting and not standing. The inability to exhibit side profiles lie due to obesity or osteoperosis which makes the entire head-turning episode impossible.

In the event, that the suspects attempt to make a slow motion 90 degrees turn, it would involve police time lasting from sunrise to midnight.

Witness reports record a nasty umbrella being slammed upon Abraham's head.

The assailant was said to represent a dusky complexion and anything evil between The Hunchback of Notre Dame and the dusty, rusty bride in Great Expectations.

It was hard to tell. She was so old she had no breasts left. All had been recalled to the heavens for a heavyduty recharge.

The strange woman who ran amok looked about 110. Abraham escaped with slight injuries. Police are continuing their investigations.


Day 2

92-year old Vellamah Mariamma Kochamma, with 2 eligible bachelor sons, one said to be holding an illustrious doctor's degree obtained from Madras, now about 75 years old and the other a pompous retired Ministry solicitor, aged 71 who was secretly gay, surrendered herself in the early hours to the Glonferrie Police Station for questioning.

A vivid pencil sketch of her skeletal portrait had appeared on the late night news.


Kochamma appeared with three cats and requested a breakfast of sardines.

She was dressed in a mini skirt, hobbled on a hickory and wore rouge for a fearful clownish appearance. She pleaded to show off her matchstick legs.

Kochamma confessed to her crime of assault with intention to kill.

Unfortunately, her umbrella , the sole evidence, could not serve to its fullest capacity. It was purchased in World War 1 and had retired from rainy day life.

Due to the impact of Abraham's head, the umbrella lay in a coma.

Kochamma issued a legal statement and a message to Abraham through her lawyers, Anthonygopal & Sons in Geelong. Of course, she understood that any evidence would be used against her in a court of law.


"You bloody fool! I only took you in because your father was my husband's friend. And my husband was related to your uncle's cousin's nephew's sister's brother-in-law's auntie's grand-nephew's distant stepmother's daughter.

I accompanied you to India. I felt pity for you. This is how you repay me. Writing about me falling from a boat in Kovalam Beach. Advertising my sarees to people. Only the cheap sarees you are talking about. Not the expensive ones. Wait and see! You will boil in hell. Also, if there are any prospective brides looking for respectable husbands earning good pension, please contact....."


Snippet 2:
Reported in The Zambian Times

Tanzanian Masai, Akimbo aka Alfonso Alberquerqe The Great, 30, sues author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham for breach of trust with view to marriage.

He is seeking £1,000,000 in damages for emotional duress and courtship expenses. He is also seeking 500 key chains in further damages.


Snippet 3
Reported in the Malaysian Times

The Periammah Lewis Sympathiser's Association boasting a membership of 500 buxomy shapes that strongly imply the female gender, in Petaling Jaya, Malaysia, is suing author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham for £10,000,000. The Association also requests for the book to be immediately banned. Mrs. Periammah Lewis was said to be recovering at her son's £1,000,000 bungalow in Singapore and could not be reached for comment.


Snippet 4
The Zanzibar Times

Valentino Rudolph the third who was believed to have accompanied Mrs. Periammah Lewis and author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham to the Zanzibar received fame on publication of the memoir. He has since resigned his job as chauffeur, self-proclaimed butler and alert bodyguard. Valentino is now the proud owner of the Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack. No donkeys, farmers and Vespa scooters allowed. Remembering her Everests, Valentino Rudolph the third also declared an undying love for Mrs. Periammah Lewis and has declared his wish to marry her. It is rumoured that Mrs. Lewis is considering implants.


Snippet 5

Sharuk recieved fame and became a Hollywood actor


Snippet 6

The old man with the snakish beard and white cap with his ramshackle stall in the Zanzibar, with 50 Made-in-London labels stuck to it, was offered free tickets on the sightseeing tour bus in England. He travelled to London with his 10th wife but disappeared somewhere in Tower Bridge and was never seen again.

Snippets of what may come

For my mismatched fame, please expect to read these snippets in the papers.

Snippet 1:

The Australian Times

Day 1

The writer of the memoir, The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham was assaulted early Sunday morning, on Glenforrie Road in Melbourne while walking along a deserted lane.

Believed to be an ambush, Abraham who has been warded for observation, remembers something 'heavy, black and knitting-needle sharp,' charging violently towards her, similiar to what she recalled to be an ill-fated bullfight in Seville or a sword-fighting battle in Shakespeare.

She also recalls a wicked, laugh and will identify the deafening cackle in an identity parade involving ancient ladies.

In this case, the line-up being sitting and not standing. The inability to exhibit side profiles lie due to obesity or osteoperosis which makes the entire head-turning episode impossible.

In the event, that the suspects attempt to make a slow motion 90 degrees turn, it would involve police time lasting from sunrise to midnight.

Witness reports record a nasty umbrella being slammed upon Abraham's head.

The assailant was said to represent a dusky complexion and anything evil between The Hunchback of Notre Dame and the dusty, rusty bride in Great Expectations.

It was hard to tell. She was so old she had no breasts left. All had been recalled to the heavens for a heavyduty recharge.

The strange woman who ran amok looked about 110. Abraham escaped with slight injuries. Police are continuing their investigations.


Day 2

92-year old Vellamah Mariamma Kochamma, with 2 eligible bachelor sons, one said to be holding an illustrious doctor's degree obtained from Madras, now about 75 years old and the other a pompous retired Ministry solicitor, aged 71 who was secretly gay, surrendered herself in the early hours to the Glonferrie Police Station for questioning.

A vivid pencil sketch of her skeletal portrait had appeared on the late night news.


Kochamma appeared with three cats and requested a breakfast of sardines.

She was dressed in a mini skirt, hobbled on a hickory and wore rouge for a fearful clownish appearance. She pleaded to show off her matchstick legs.

Kochamma confessed to her crime of assault with intention to kill.

Unfortunately, her umbrella , the sole evidence, could not serve to its fullest capacity. It was purchased in World War 1 and had retired from rainy day life.

Due to the impact of Abraham's head, the umbrella lay in a coma.

Kochamma issued a legal statement and a message to Abraham through her lawyers, Anthonygopal & Sons in Geelong. Of course, she understood that any evidence would be used against her in a court of law.


"You bloody fool! I only took you in because your father was my husband's friend. And my husband was related to your uncle's cousin's nephew's sister's brother-in-law's auntie's grand-nephew's distant stepmother's daughter.

I accompanied you to India. I felt pity for you. This is how you repay me. Writing about me falling from a boat in Kovalam Beach. Advertising my sarees to people. Only the cheap sarees you are talking about. Not the expensive ones. Wait and see! You will boil in hell. Also, if there are any prospective brides looking for respectable husbands earning good pension, please contact....."


Snippet 2:
Reported in The Zambian Times

Tanzanian Masai, Akimbo aka Alfonso Alberquerqe The Great, 30, sues author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham for breach of trust with view to marriage.

He is seeking £1,000,000 in damages for emotional duress and courtship expenses. He is also seeking 500 key chains in further damages.


Snippet 3
Reported in the Malaysian Times

The Periammah Lewis Sympathiser's Association boasting a membership of 500 buxomy shapes that strongly imply the female gender, in Petaling Jaya, Malaysia, is suing author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham for £10,000,000. The Association also requests for the book to be immediately banned. Mrs. Periammah Lewis was said to be recovering at her son's £1,000,000 bungalow in Singapore and could not be reached for comment.


Snippet 4
The Zanzibar Times

Valentino Rudolph the third who was believed to have accompanied Mrs. Periammah Lewis and author of The Dotty Old Ladies' Handbook to Speedy Travel, Susan Abraham to the Zanzibar received fame on publication of the memoir. He has since resigned his job as chauffeur, self-proclaimed butler and alert bodyguard. Valentino is now the proud owner of the Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack. No donkeys, farmers and Vespa scooters allowed. Remembering her Everests, Valentino Rudolph the third also declared an undying love for Mrs. Periammah Lewis and has declared his wish to marry her. It is rumoured that Mrs. Lewis is considering implants.


Snippet 5

Sharuk recieved fame and became a Hollywood actor


Snippet 6

The old man with the snakish beard and white cap with his ramshackle stall in the Zanzibar, with 50 Made-in-London labels stuck to it, was offered free tickets on the sightseeing tour bus in England. He travelled to London with his 10th wife but disappeared somewhere in Tower Bridge and was never seen again.