July 25th, 2009


I was talking to Samina-next-door's husband; he's a small businessman; he owns one of those open-all-hours, Asian mini-marts, I think.  He was telling me about the house he's building in Kashmir- and showed me pictures of it on his phone. And it's not a house, it's a palace- on a scale you'd need to be a multi-millionaire to build in Britain- four storeys high, with extensive grounds and gardens.  He said if we ever wanted to go and stay there it'd cost us the price of the air ticket, no more- and all our meals would be laid on for free. I don't suppose we'll take him up on it, but what an offer! 

That was a nasty metallic crunch at six o'clock in the morning. We went to the window and saw that a bright pink car had somehow managed to slam into the rubbish skip across the way. The rubbish skip was unharmed. A girl got out of the passenger seat and ran off down the road where another girl met her and hugged her. I'm afraid my good-neighbourly instincts are asleep at that hour and I watched it all quite dispassionately. Then I went back to bed.