London to Preston

I decided Neighbours could wait. But as much as I'd like to write a long post about how I tripped and impaled myself on about 12 occasions and all other London antics, I just got home. I have now been told that given my cousin is visiting tomorrow, I do actually have to spend all night cleaning the spare room. Despite the fact she isn't sleeping in there, and is in fact unlikely to enter it even once. Got to love parental logic. So I'll leave you with a short story about my journey home.

As far as my train journeys go, this was fairly uneventful. Nothing close to the level of ankle caressing or surprise kisses, I'm afraid. As soon as I sat down in my seat properly, I was asked if I could move and let an elderly gentleman sit with the rest of his family. Being the lovely person I am, I obliged. Cue one of the young children pointing at my nose and asking what was wrong. SO MUCH FOR THE MARK BEING LESS NOTICEABLE TODAY. How do you respond to 7 blank faces staring back at you after you explain you had a bit of a clumsy moment and somehow managed to hit your nose on a pub table as you were straightening up? I was very smooth about it and giggled nervously before running away to my new seat, where I spent the next 5 minutes mentally singing 'Jessica, the red-nosed retard, had a very ****** up life...' A song which was very kindly sung to me in bar last night.

The rest of the time passed in a flurry of Regina Spektor and repeating to myself that I would start this blog tonight. I listened to myself for once, wahey.

The taxi ride from the station was where it got interesting. It was an Asian blackcab driver, so I knew it would be eventful. He started with the usual inquiry if I was Indian (but not a stewed) and then proceeded to ask if my dad would be okay with me dating a Pakistani Muslim. Um, what? I braced myself for a marriage proposal on behalf of a second cousin from Lahore so I could provide a visa. But in a roundabout way, of course, which also implied I was a great catch and would be a wonderful addition to any family. Page one of the playbook of Asian taxi drivers in Preston. Alas, it did not come. Instead I was subjected to a lecture about how I must have a super liberal father given how suggestively I apparently dress, and how he wondered if this extended to dating Muslims. I love how taxi drivers think driving you fifteen minutes up the road gives them licence to probe into your private affairs.

I was then told how if I were his daughter, I'd neither be allowed to dress as I do, nor 'roam the streets at night'. It's 10:30, Mr. Taxi Driver, plenty of time left of the night to pray for atonement. Now I have to take a moment to thank him for giving me a rare moment where I was thankful for the father I currently have.

The taxi ride ended perfectly with him pulling up outside my house and realising it was 'Mr. Walia's' house. Cut to him laughing and saying he was surprised I wasn't pregnant yet. He clearly knows my dad's girlfriend's family, then. No tip for him, surprisingly. I took this as my cue to leave and escaped to the safe confines of my bedroom.