It's hard to teach a dinosaur a new trick.

I had started writing this post some time back but then decided to abandon it. No, not because of lack of inspiration or because I got stuck. It’s just that I don’t like the idea of voluntary confession. Yeah, yeah, I know, by definition, confessions are voluntary...but you know what I mean so I won’t tie myself up in knots trying to explain. Anyway, midway through the post, I realised that putting it up would mean handing everyone more sticks to beat me with. And, a stick, you’ll agree, can hardly be considered the motivation a man needs to update his blog. Like everybody else, I think leg pulling is great fun but, usually, I find the exercise is more enjoyable if the leg in question is not my own. And so, with nary a second thought, the post was abandoned.

But then, time hangs heavy...very, very heavy and, what the hell, there isn’t much else to do. Like Beckett said, “Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful!” All the loose ends are tied up, everything is in order but now we must wait for another couple of weeks for the channel to give us the letter and the formal go-ahead for the series. And, so we continue to wait for our Godot, who, I think, is more deserving of the stick. And, up the wrong end too!

These boring, in-between periods, when you’re waiting for something to happen, can either drive the life out of you or force you to do things that you’ll quickly ascribe to temporary insanity when confronted at a later stage. I think that’s what I’m going to do too...go ahead right now and, if questioned on specifics later, plead innocence on grounds of having written the piece under the influence of utter boredom.

A good excuse in place, I guess, I can now happily toss caution out of the window and proceed...

Thanks to long distances, busy lives and rising prices of vegetables, I don’t get to meet my friends very often these days. But, when we do meet, it isn’t unusual for the conversation to, sometimes, find its way round to some of my...er, how should I put it...ways. In the middle of a perfectly decent conversation, some smart Alec always manages to find a way to steer it to my way of doing certain things. To say that it happens each time would be a gross exaggeration and unfair to those louts I call friends. About seven times out of ten is more like it.

By general consensus, then, I have a few quirks. And, I humbly submit that I suffer from a mild case of OCD. (Okay, just a tad, and I mean taddest, bit more than mild!) But, it’s nothing even close to what Jack Nicholson’s character had in As Good As It Gets or what Tony Shalhoub had in the TV series Monk. Or even what Courtney Cox had in Friends. Not even remotely close. (What Jack Nicholson and Tony Shalhoub’s characters had? Had makes it sound like a damned disease.) Anyway, the post is only marginally about the OCD...but mainly about some other things. For instance...

...if you accidentally knocked something over in my house...as in, knocked it away from where it’s meant to be...I’ll have a tough time trying to concentrate on what you’re saying till I’ve fixed what you’ve undone. On account of this, therefore, much fun has been had at my expense. And, I might add, many things have been deliberately knocked off from where they’re supposed to be.

...like most of you, I also line my dustbin with a plastic bag or sheet. But, I think, that’s where the similarity probably ends. Because, a lot of what goes into the bin in my house, goes wrapped in another plastic bag!

...my alleged OCD flares up when I’m staying on my own, when I’m the master of my own universe.

...I like to run through the entire lot of my socks, handkerchiefs and boxers before I use the said items again. Meaning, I will not wear a pair of socks again until I’ve worn every other pair I have. And so also with boxers, etc. However, jeans, tees and shirts are exempt from this rule.

...spoons, knives and forks follow the socks and boxers rule.

...in response to a simple, harmless question once, I was able to come up with the exact number of pots and plants I have. I realised I could do this by recalling each one’s precise placement in my courtyard. And, believe me, I have a few.

...when washing with soap, I have to wash my hands three times. No, wait, that’s my mad nephew. I’m okay on this one...I have to wash only twice.

... with one exception, I’ve never been happy sharing my soap with anyone and, usually, do my best to avoid it. In fact, when staying the night at friends’ houses or visiting friends in other cities, just as I would carry my toothbrush, etc., I would always carry my own soap. Now, under duress and diminishing ability to stand up to the withering looks that these matters of personal choice elicit, I’m no more the tiger I used to be and, alas, have reluctantly surrendered to the ways of the world.

...until four months ago, I was taking Homeopathy medicine for a dental problem. (Looks like I’m not much of a tiger when it comes to...many things.)

...when I used to buy a pair of jeans in my growing years, the first thing I would do after getting home was to wash it and make it look like it’d been worn a few times. Obviously, I don’t do that any longer. Now I just buy jeans that look old. Nah, just kidding...I don’t always do that.

...when I’m making my rice at night, which is about 3-4 nights a week, and the whistle on the pressure cooker blows, the thought that the cooker is going to explode passes my mind at least once.

...after a bath, I don’t dry my hair with a towel...not even in the bitterly cold winter months. I let it dry in its own sweet time.

...it’s almost nine months now since I last had my hair cut. But, because I usually wear my hair really short, it hasn’t grown that long. In the coming week, however, it’ll all go.

...when I have no plan to buy, I don’t much like going into bookshops and music stores. Not even to look around. I think it leads to unnecessary frustration.

...I swear I have some hidden, inner weirdo magnet because I attract all sorts of strange people. I don’t feel safe even at home because, sooner or later, they find me here too.

...for a very long time in college, I would insist that Sting’s full (assumed) name is Keith Sting.

When you’re in the middle of something, have you ever had the feeling that it isn’t going too well? Well, I’m getting that feeling just now. So, without further ado, I think I’ll stop now. But, as compensation, I hope the powers that be will allow me to lead a sinful life, in perpetuity, without having to worry about the consequences. And, without having to answer any awkward questions either.