Author: farookchaudhry

5 min read.

This interesting incident happened quite a while ago when I was the mayor of my paradisal town. I had an invitation from the Mayor of a European town to pay a visit with my wife, the mayoress. The mayors from some other countries were invited too, including the one from Russia.

We were received at the airport by a local councillor, aged about fifty plus. According to him, he was assigned the job of being our aide during the duration of our visit. He drove us to the town which was about forty-five miles from the airport. Enroute to the town, he gave us a running commentary about the surrounding sites which could not be more apt.  We were provided accommodation in a small hotel which was run by an Englishman and his wife. It was on a hilltop with spectacular views over the surrounding hills.

In the evening, all the delegates from different countries were invited at the townhall’s banquet hall for a sumptuous dinner. The Russian mayor, accompanied by his deputy, two councillors, one officer, and an interpreter were there too. He sat next to me. He spoke some English and could communicate comfortably without the interpreter’s assistance.

The mayor, a genteel mannered and loquacious talker, was overly pleased to meet me when I told him that I was from the UK. He suggested that I should visit his town as well. He added that he would send an invitation for the visit. I expressed my thanks.

During the cordial conversation, I asked him about Putin. He moved close to my ear and whispered:

“We mind our business, and he minds his”.

I did not repeat his name thereafter.

Next day was Monday, and the main functions were held at a place which was about twenty-five miles from the town. We were driven to the town by the councillor, our aide.

We were there before ten am. There was a hectic schedule. During the lunch break, I noticed that the Russian mayor was not present. The Deputy mayor and four other delegates were there and participated in the proceedings quite briskly. I did not bother to enquire about the mayor’s absence. I guessed that he might be tired after a long journey.

At about 4 pm we were driven back to our hotel by the councillor.

On the second day again we reached the place before 10 am and there were more activities. I observed that not only the Russian mayor was not there his deputy was absent too.

Again, I did not try to find out the reasons for their absence.

On Wednesday only three members of the Russian delegation showed up.

On Thursday there were two.

On Friday, the last day of the functions, only the interpreter could be seen.

I was full of suspicion about their conspicuous absences. I discussed it with the secretary. He was concerned too and said that he would try to find out the reason. He spoke to the interpreter, who hemmed and hawed before he unbosomed the cause.

Guess the reason for their disappearance one by one until only the interpreter was left.

I will reveal it at the end of this story.

I am sickened when I watch on TV and read in the papers about the grisly scenes of the miseries inflicted by gory Putin and his gorier generals on the Ukrainian civilians, including the children and women in their homes, shelters, and hospitals. As it stands, there is no end of their bestiality in sight.

I compare Putin and his enforcers with the Morlocks in the science fiction novella by H.G. Wells published in 1895 and turned into movies in 1960 and 2002. Morlocks are the weird creatures, with eyes, hand, legs etc. like humans, but are cannibals. The humans they prey on are docile and compliant without whinging. In return they are provided sustenance. They have no will nor any intelligence to fight the Morlocks.

With the exception of a few thousands, Russia’s 145m people have no brains to oppose the President nor his ruthless generals and corrupt oligarchs. They know only the submission. They may be conscripted and sent to Syria or Ukraine to throw chemical weapons indiscriminately on children, women, and elderly people. They are commanded to perform the deadliest jobs in the history of mankind.

It is reported that Russia has recruited thousands of volunteer fighters from Syria.  The Syrians would not fight in Ukraine. They would have relished to do so had there been some Sunnis in the country. Putin could fabricate that lie as a bait.   

The whole world is crying foul of Putin’s invasion, but he does not budge an inch because he is not human. There is a South Asian adage that when a jackal’s end approaches he runs towards the city. Putin attacked Ukraine, and I will wager that his end is nigh.

Coming back to the titled story, the Russian mayor could not come because he would get drunk after several shots of vodka, even during the breakfast. With the passage of every day other members of his entourage followed fervently in his footsteps. Only person who did not get sozzled and attended punctually all the sessions was the interpreter.

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Ps: Next story will be published at 11 am on Sunday April 3 2022. It is titled:

Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe is angered by the delay in her release from the Iranian prison. There’s other side of the coin.

2 min read.

In my post of 14 November 2021, I wrote that dogs would be brought from Afghanistan by charter flights. I did not mention stray dogs, which had already been brought to the country by air. In all there were 173 dogs and cats which were airlifted to the UK from Afghanistan.

 I doubt it if anyone would impugn my view that both the PM and his latest wife are animal lovers. Occasionally, we see on TV the PM in the company of their dog Dilyn, who is a white, male Jack Russell cross and was born in 2018. It is alleged that it was their love for animals which led the PM to give permission to bring the animals from Afghanistan after the Taleban took over the country. It was a simple matter because the Taleban, who do not care for humans, would not hesitate to kill the dogs. If they could not feed the fellow humans, it would be nigh on impossible to cater for the dogs’ needs. Indubitably, they would die like a dog.

Thus, under the circumstances, if the PM allowed the stray dogs to be air lifted to the UK by a charter flight, there was nothing wrong with it. The hoo-ha caused by the media was unwarranted. He and his wife should be awarded honours for this gesture on its own.

But I have one serious complaint.

On frequent occasions, I have watched on the TV the plight of donkeys in many parts of the world including Afghanistan. Either they are carrying heavy loads of stuff or pulling an overloaded cart using all their energy which they could muster. Sometimes, they transport their owners on their back from place to place. Sooner than later, they get old before their time and are abandoned. Their deaths are unpleasant and demeaning.

These donkeys deserve to be brought to the UK by air, even at the taxpayers’ expense.

The question is: Where should they be accommodated?

The answer is that it is not the headache of the PM or his wife. The civil servants stationed in 10 Downing Street have carte blanche to deal with such issues. The PM has complete confidence in them. He does not give a flying toss if they do their jobs when they are partying. They can even authorise that the donkeys might roam in the vast gardens of the PM’s official residence in Buckinghamshire, known as Chequers, which is about 1500 acres in extent.

 A few donkeys might be accommodated at the rear garden of 10 Downing Street, where a working meeting took place on 20 May 2020 during the pandemic, attended by the PM and his wife. Due to the media furore in recent weeks and days, which unjustifiably branded it as a Party, I doubt it if any further party initiative is pencilled in the PM’s diary to be held in the back garden.

 The civil servants can be advised by the PM and his wife to ameliorate the plight of the animals in Afghanistan. But the officers should be charier. One of the hypotheses is that despite the fact that they have permission in writing by the PM, he could say that he never had a hand in it. He might use the word ‘rhubarb’ or its synonym. I bet he would move heaven and earth to avoid eating crow.

3 min read

It was in December 2019 the Prime Minister won the general elections with a landslide majority. Naturally, he must have thought that the credit went to him. The ground reality was quite different. For example, I voted for him though I was and still am a member of the Labour Party. I refer to a clip in the TV sitcom Fawlty Towers, where Mrs Fawlty placed a statue on the front desk saying that it would look after the hotel in her absence better than Mr Fawlty. Thus, I would never have voted for Mr Corbyn, and there were millions more like me.

Unfortunately, in recent weeks the Prime Minister’s popularity has been nosediving. The revelation of a booze Party arranged by the Prime Minister’s principal private secretary on 20th May 2020, when he invited 100 people (40 turned up), triggered a public backlash against him. There have been more revelations since of the partying spree in 10 Downing Street when whole of the UK was in a lockdown due to pandemic. It appears that not only under the PM’s watch but with his blessings 10 Downing Street was turned into a pub.

In my candid opinion, though he deserved better treatment, but the naive and haughty people around him, who were completely disconnected with the voters, let him down miserably. Chickens have come home to roost.

As it stands, in less than two years the PM appears to be on a ventilator again, this time on a political one which might not save him from a sudden political death. Some of his former friends and now arch-enemies, have surreptitiously put a notice on his bed DNR (do not resuscitate).

He has apologised, but his ruthless enemies want his scalp. In my opinion, without allowing the grass to grow under his feet, he should resign forthwith. But before that, he should dismiss his advisors who undisputedly reflected otiose behaviour, and under no circumstances should be moved to plum jobs. According to a report, the principal private secretary, who was the ring-leader in the saga of 20th May 2020, might be given an ambassadorial post. He exhibited scant regards for the rules made by the Parliament. It would be an affront to the voters whom he treated flippantly.

After submitting his resignation, Boris Johnson may stand again to be the leader of the Conservative Party. Meanwhile an interim government could be formed. He might believe that once he resigns, his chance of becoming the leader of the Conservative Party again would be on a wing and a prayer. So be it, he has no other option.

Finally, I say to him with due deference:

“Please, stop to be a henpecked husband. Try to be a man.”

8 min read.

Our Secretary of State for Home affairs, Priti Patel, who is in the Job for the last more than two years, is doing extremely well. In this blog, I ill say that she spares no effort to respect and preserve the human rights of the people migrating to the UK by crossing the English Channel illegally in small, medium and big boats.

I like to call these migrants as boaters. They are rich enough to afford thousands of pounds to reach France in the first place. Then they pay a lot more to smugglers who arrange boats in which they embark on a journey of only nine miles of the distance to come to Dover. The total distance is eighteen miles, but they are supposed to cross the first nine. From there it is the obligation of our Border Force under our Secretary of State to lead them to the British shores without a scratch. The arrival should be in conformity with their human rights. At the final furlong, the boaters do not suppress a triumphant smile when they see so many uniformed officers to receive them ardently. Even on their arrival recently to attend COP26 summit, President Jo Biden and the first lady did not have as good the reception as these boaters get.

The uniformed officers don them in blankets, carry and cuddle their babies close, including the ones born en route. They are then taken to the reception centres and serve sumptuous meals, prepared keeping in view of their religious sensitivities.

The effervescent young people are medically examined and for any sign of an illness, even if minor one, they have an immediate access to a doctor. They are provided hospital treatment if so required. [So far as the British taxpayers are concerned, they wait for hours for an ambulance to arrive, and once driven to the spaces outside the A & E Department, they lie in pain for hours, which sometimes proves fatal.

The highly paid immigration officers assist them to submit asylum claims. They conduct preliminary interviews. Though they know it that the claims are concocted they take it very seriously. Paramount consideration is to avoid even a tiny breach of their human rights.

The asylum seekers are then accommodated in a four-star hotel at the taxpayers’ expense, while in all the towns and cities of the UK, British homeless continue to live an inhuman and degrading life. It looks that human rights are not applicable to them.

After a few months, the immigration officers would conduct the substative interview. Again, an interpreter would be engaged on hourly basis. The interviewer would note the migrant’s story to a tee.

The boaters’ stories vary from country to country, but the nub of their claims is fear of a breach of their human rights. Sometimes they claim that they are gay, which is prohibited in their country of origin. A couple with a daughter would submit that they fear persecution at the hands of the grandparents who would force them to have their daughter to undergo FGM (Female Genital Mutation).

Hereinbelow, I put it briefly a story of a migrant, which is hundred percent fictional.

The boater is from Iran and purported to be telling his story coyly:

“I’m gay and had a relationship with my pal. One day, I’s caught red handed with my mate by my father, who’s a senior officer with the Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps. He warned me that if I didn’t leave the country, he’d have no option but to report me to his superior officer. I could be hanged for the offence”.

The officer’s point was pooh-poohed, when it was suggested to the boater that he could have continued his relationship discreetly.

When honorifically asked by the interviewer about his friend, he confirmed with a simpering smile:

“He’s warned too. He’s in France in a hotel, and hopefully will join me before long.”

He was further queried:

“Who paid for the journey?”

“Our respective parents,” he averred.

“You’ve a wife and two children,”, the officer timidly expressed his doubts about the boater’s sexuality.

The migrant drawled in reply:

“She knows I’m a bi-sexual and she has compromised.”

Later the wife is interviewed, who corroborated the husband’s story.

The interview would last for several hours. It is written down as well as tape-recorded.

As the claim is very serious because the claimants human rights are at stake, the decision would span across multiple pages, albeit in small print.

The boater and his family might remain into a four-star hotel or could get an independent accommodation. The rent and the utility bills would be paid by the taxpayers, and generous living allowance would be handed out as well. By then he must have started working in car washing industry, blatantly disregarding the rule prohibiting him to work.

Eventually, after several years, the Secretary of State would write a letter to the boater, who since his arrival fathered a few more children, that his claim rights have been exhausted. The case is then put on ice.

Curiously, even if the boater’s stay in the country is no longer legal, the dysfunctional Universal Credit would not stop the benefits, including the housing allowance, while British citizens beseech the government in vain to continue paying them £20 a week,

In the final letter the boater is asked to leave the country. By that time, the illegal migrant knows very well that the hollow threat is not worth the paper it is written on. In a jocular mood he bins it.

By the end of this week more than 24,000 boaters have arrived in the UK this year. I can wager that not one of them would be deported. Even the hardened criminals would stay put. While our Secretary of State for the Home Department, now and then, makes announcements condemning the smugglers in tandem with the warnings to the potential boaters that the short stretch of the journey is extremely dangerous, conspicuously she observes radio silence about the removal figures. The reason is that there are none.

The question is why the boaters are not allowed to enter and remain in the UK in the first place. That would save millions of pounds. It is here that our Secretary of State’s policy is pellucidly clear. Beside showing great deference to human rights, she deserves credit for that too.

If the boaters are granted leave to remain straightaway, I am sure half of Syrian population would come to the UK, three-quarter of the Iranians should be here, and all the Afghans would like to come, including the Taliban and ISIS-K fighters. The Taliban would claim fear of persecution at the hands of the ISIS-K and vice versa. Former military employees could fear for the breach of their human rights. Half of the population i.e., women genuinely fear persecution. The interpreters and LGBTs are the British media’s, and the government’s favourite to be allowed in. It looks that the number of interpreters and their dependants surpasses the number of soldiers who served in Afghanistan.

So all the Afghans with their families, including parents, grandparents and great grandparents on wheelchairs, should be here, and back home in the vast and beautiful country, where natural resources are in abundance, only stray dogs would be roaming about. Funnily, domestic dogs, including hunting dogs, guard dogs and pet dogs, would be brought to the UK by charter flights by the animal enthusiasts.

Thus, the credit goes to our Home Secretary who is putting her foot down against mass migration.

Not only the Secretary of State makes repeated announcements that the short journey to Dover is very parlous, she is also joined by the free media and the lefties. The fact is they know it very well that it is the safest, the shortest and relishing but expensive journey undertaken by happier, healthier, and wealthier young men and women with or without children. During the Channel journey the persons wo die are fewer than the motorists who are victims of fatal accidents on the smart motorways. In 2019, 15 motorists died and many were injured.

It is within the domain of the immigration officers that the claims put forward by the claimants in the disguise of human rights violations have not the slightest grain of truth.

There is no opposition to the government’s ajar door policy about illegal migration. Both the Labour and the Liberal Democrats give more support to the migrants, legal or illegal, than the conservatives.

We need urgently a fourth political Party.

6 min read.

After the completion of my studies and then the pupillage in London, I moved to West Africa. Thereafter I practised law in South Asia, and finally returned to the United Kingdom. All these years, I have lived in several houses/flats, some official and some owned by me. I believe that if your next-door person, whom you run into casually in the morning, in the evening and more often at the week- ends, is not neighbourly, your life would be miserable. Some years ago, our neighbour on the right, a widower, moved to the nursing home and the house was let to two men in their thirties. Whenever my wife strolled into our back garden, their huge dog would bark furiously at her and tried to jump the five-foot fence. Strangely, if I happened to be in the garden, the dog would wag his tail to convey submission and excitement. Probably, he was misogynist.

 When I complained to the new occupants of the house, it went in one ear and out the other. We cheered when after a few months the house was bought by our present neighbours, and they moved in. They are wonderful people.

In South Asian city, I lived in a detached house with my wife and two children. During our memorable stay there, a few interesting incidents happened, and I share just two with the readers.

On our left the house was rented to an officer working for a quango. He with his family lived on the ground floor, while the first-floor apartment was let to a young woman.

In our house, we had a big lawn in the front with flower beds on the sides. There were papaya trees on one side of the drive next to the six-foot-high common wall. Instead of jogging out in the streets or driving to a park, I would do it in our own lawn.

 The High Court hours were 8 am to 1.30 pm. On my way back, I would pick up the children from their different schools. In the late afternoon, the wife would take our son to the school for games. Normally, the lawyers go to their chambers in the evening, see the clients, and prepare the cases fixed for hearing the next day. They return home at about nine or ten pm.

I would do the 40-minute running in the late afternoon when it was slightly cooler. I used to do it when I was in West Africa. I would run in an idyllic setting at the bottom of the hills.

In my lawn, I jogged anti-clockwise. It was my diurnal occurrence.

In the first-floor apartment on our left, a new renter, a young woman, had checked in.

One afternoon, while jogging, I saw her briefly from a certain angle standing near the railings. She appeared to be enjoying mild breeze and the sight of the guava orchard. She looked at me and unexpectedly gave a broad smile, which I could see from a distance.

 I do not think it was my fault. If a woman looks at a man with a smile, it is incumbent on the recipient to respond impromptu. 

My instinct commanded me to wave her in return.

The young woman turned out to be slender, graceful, and quite pretty. Awesomesauce!

 As my jogging routine was set in stone. Every day she waved and gave me a smile. In return, I would raise my arm. I was in my late thirties and the woman looked in mid-twenties. Furthermore, as I had too much on my plate right then, I could not imagine in my wildest dreams that a young and beautiful woman would develop her fervid feelings towards me. I rejected the possibility of any loving advances by her as namby-pamby nonsense. I did not belong to her ilk. Though, I am not an angel, but I thought that I would be making an idiot of me if I encouraged the affair d’amour. But as the time passed, quite unwittingly, I reciprocated her gestures without realising any ramifications. 

 Things were moving apace.

I had growing consternation. I thought of different options, including the one that instead of jogging in our lawn, I should drive to the park. But to do it at home was very convenient. I hummed and hawed.

 Eventually, I found the easiest way to truncate the phony matter. Guess, what I did?

 The answer is at the end of the second story.

The families on our right and on the ground floor on our left were extremely nice. Not only they, the rest of the neighbours in the street were quite good as well. There were no houses in the front but a guava orchard.

In our backyard we had servant quarters, in which our woman cook and her grown up son lived. We shared the eight- foot- high back wall with the rear garden of another house. I had heard adverse gossips from the neighbourhood about the occupant of that house but never met him.

One Sunday afternoon, our gate bell rang, and I walked to meet the visitor. Without asking me, he entered through the mini door of the metal gate and addressing me by my first name, informed me that he was the owner of the house in our back. He grumbled:

“I’ve a serious complaint against your young servant. He stands on a stool on your side of the back wall and tries to allure my young female servant. He should stop it.”

He was a man in his late forties with hard boiled egghead, fatty, and of medium height. I did not appreciate the complaint nor the manner of its reporting. The truth is that I am a cool-minded person, but I must admit that my response to the visitor was to some extent disproportionate. I said fumingly:

“Firstly, you must’ve read my nameplate fixed on the gate’s left pillar. It shows that I’ve a title of doctor. You should have addressed me by using the title.

“Secondly, If I were you, instead of the route you followed to come to me i.e., getting out of your house, trekking to the end of the street, turning right and then again right, and walking down to my house, I should have turned left at the end of your street, and would have reached the Police Station sooner than the time you wasted to come to me to lodge the frivolous complaint.   The boy is grown-up and I presume so is your female servant, and it is prudent not to poke my nose in their affairs, and so should you. This is my candid advice.

“Finally, I’m lucky I share my back wall with you. Had you been my neighbour on the right or left, I would have sold the house and moved elsewhere.”

He shook his head in disgust and stalked off mutteringly.

We lived in that house for a few years thereafter, but never heard of him, nor received any complaint about any matter.

Coming back to the dilemma I had about the young woman who lived on the first floor of the house on our left, the answer is:

I lifted the weight from my chest when instead of jogging anti-clockwise, I started clockwise. Thereafter, I scarcely saw her smiling and waving.

 I had real rush of relief when a few months later she moved out of the rented accommodation.

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5 min read.

My wife has two younger sisters named Sheerin and Nasreen. They are working as teachers in Lahore. Though real sisters, but they look very dissimilar to each other.

My wife, 5’ 8’’ tall, is little bit corpulent. She has a round face. According to our dentist, she has a super set of teeth. The adopted colour of her hair is dark brown, which completely contrasted her with her sisters.

Sheerin is slight and delicate looking, and taller than her siblings. Her face is oblong-shaped. She has Chinese hair with shiny look.  She has stentorian voice. She would not mind, if I make some candid comments about her teeth but her older sister might not appreciate it. Thus, I say this with some diffidence that her teeth albeit not crooked but are not straight either. The fact is that they are not as good as of her sisters. Another conspicuous distinction between her and her sisters is that she always keeps her chin up. Very rarely you would see her moaning about anything.

Nasreen, the third one, is shorter in height than her older sisters.

It may be safely said that the three sisters, who are completely unlike in their outward looks, have only one common thing among them i.e., they are of South Asian ethnicity. So am I.  

 Normally, they visit us every summer, but sometimes biennially. They stay with us for about seven weeks. The occurrences which I am going to recount took place quite a few years ago. We had moved the house, and sisters-in-law were coming there for the first time.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and our son went to the airport to pick up his aunties. As they were coming from the place where during that time of the year the temperature is about 45C, after arriving in our paradisal town, they breathed cool air and felt refreshed.

We are very lucky we have very neighbourly residents around us.

On our left, the neighbour is called John, who was retired and lived with his wife in the property for many years. (They have since sold their house and moved to a bungalow ).

On our right, the couple are now in their seventies. Before the pandemic, they would go to Europe for long holidays. The husband is called Michael and the wife’s name is Jenny.

In the house next to Michael, we have a younger neighbour. His name is Danny and is in his forties.  He runs a shop in the shopping precinct to which we can walk through a narrow lane leading to the main road. On one side of the lane there are listed houses. He has two dogs, and he walks them regularly twice a day. Sometimes, he visited me to discuss some local issues. His wife has a job in the town. They have one daughter, who is now in the University.

Mark lives with his wife in the house in our front. He was not of the retirement age and still is not, but for some reasons he has not been working full time. He owns rented properties. His wife works for the Local Authority.

Coming back to Sheerin, my middle sister-in-law, she got up early next morning and went out for a walk. Her meandering took her to the main road and the shopping precinct. Danny, who had just opened his shop, saw Sheerin. The encounter appeared to be fortuitous. Addressing her, he said:

“Good morning, Mrs Chaudhry.”

Sheerin did not try to correct him, and whispered insouciantly:

“Good morning”.

Danny continued:

“Look Mrs Chaudhry, the Local Authority is wasting the tax-payers money by erecting the speed breakers in our streets. You hardly see any traffic here.”

Sheerin listened to him with rapt attention and concurred with him smiling surreptitiously. After a bit, she said bye and left.

A couple of hours later, our cleaner, who had started working for us a few months before, rang the bell. Sheerin opened the door. The cleaner entered, and after saying good morning, she asked:

“Mrs Chaudhry, should I start from upstairs or downstairs?”

Sheerin turned her face slightly to the side and chuckled:

“You may start from upstairs.”

 When she reached upstairs, she saw the wife and looked askance at her.

At about twelve noon, our gardeners came. As I mentioned in my previous post, we had two gardeners, one in his sixties and the second one in his twenties.

Sheerin went out of the house for a stroll. The senior gardener saw her and said:

“Good afternoon, Mrs Chaudhry, how’re you?”

Sheerin replied:

“Good afternoon, I’m fine.”

The senior gardener continued:

“Mrs Chaudhry, your lupins are being eaten by ants. Please use diluted Fairy Liquid to get rid of them.”

Sheerin replied with a straight face that she would.

The gardener advised her further:

“Please don’t bin the used teabags. Use them to feed the flower plants. It does not matter much if you don’t open them.”

Thanking him, Sheerin responded:

“We didn’t know about it. We used to throw them in the food bin.”

Next morning, I left for work, and so did the wife.  After breakfast, the sisters-in-law went to the town centre for shopping. They were already familiar with the buses and the town centre. After lunch, they returned.

Jenny, our neighbour on the right, rang the bell holding a big packet under her oxter.

Sheerin opened the door. The neighbour, addressing her by my wife’s first name, said:

“As no one was at your house, the postman delivered the packet to us.”

Sheerin responded:

“Thank you very much for receiving the packet on our behalf”.

I could easily conclude that we, the South Asians, all look the same.

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Ps: The next interesting story will be posted at 11 am on Sunday 17 October 2021: It is titled: In my life so far, I’ve had mostly excellent neighbours.

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Part two

4 min read.

All the three amusing happenings are pre-Covid-19. 

I visited my Bank branch to cancel a standing order. I met an officer, who ushered me to the closest cubicle. 

He was in his forties, had a brown short- rounded beard with some grey streaks.

While he was searching for my account on his computer, he advised me that it was better to have an on- line account. It was very convenient and saved time.

I informed him:

“No, I don’t have a passing fancy for an on-line account. I’m working part-time and my wife has taken the retirement. We’ve enough time at our disposal. Quite often, we visit the town centre after lunch to have coffee at Tim Hortons. Now and then, we have lunch there. If we need cash, we use your machine inside the Bank, rather than the one in the street. For other transactions, I visit the branch and get the thing done with some chit-chat.

“Furthermore, I’m wary of the scams, which some on-line account-holders are subjected to”.

I abruptly asked him:

“You don’t appear to be a Banker. You look like a TV presenter.”

He smiled blandly and said:

“My brother is the one”.

I had tooth ache. Quite a few years ago my dentist had advised me that I should get rid of my wobbly tooth. I had declined, but as I was experiencing an excruciating pain, it looked it should be extracted. I was given an appointment for the next day. But it was not with my dentist, but with a different one, who had never examined me before.

After the job was done, I asked him the question tout de suite:

“You don’t look a Dentist or a Doctor. You appear to be a Classic Western Movie actor”.

He had a burst of deep loud heart laughter. The dental nurse standing nearby giggled.

He told me:

“I had a partly funded place in a school of the Arts in New York. But my grandfather did not like it and convinced my parents and me to be a dentist, instead”.

Our gardener announced his retirement and gave us sufficient notice to find a replacement. A family friend gave me the telephone number of a gardener and suggested that, though he and his junior had plenty of work, he might agree to take one more client. We had a meeting with the senior gardener, called Mark, who agreed to tend to our garden.

Mark, who had stentorian voice, was in his early sixties and the junior one, called Bob, was in his mid- twenties.  

 Sometimes, the younger one’s father, an oldster, would also come. He had the professional knowledge of gardening.

Before long, they turned it rather a dreamlike garden.

[Mark will also figure prominently in my interesting blog in the coming months. It will be titled: We, the South Asians, all look the same.]

One day when I was at home during their gardening , addressing Mark, I said:

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure”, he replied honorifically.

“You bear no resemblance with a gardener. You look like an accountant, rather”, I politely opined.

Giving me a coy smile, he said:

“Yes doctor, you’re right”.

He explained:

“All my life, I’ve been a certified accountant, and my wife is still working in the firm. But I found bliss in gardening. So, I changed the profession.”

He continued:

“But Doctor, how did you guess it?”

“The way you calculated the remuneration at our first meeting, it gave me a clue that you might be an accountant”.

They worked for us for a few years. But Mark’s health was deteriorating with speed and the younger one could not cope with the work on his own. He preferred to keep fewer clients near his house.

 We were looking for a new gardener again, who would maintain our garden, as well as our son’s, whose house is about six-minute drive from ours’.

 We have a friend who runs a convenience store, in the locality. When I briefed him about the problem, he promised to speak to his gardener, an ex-army man, who had served overseas as well.

He agreed to take care of both the gardens for the asking price.

Suddenly, he stopped coming. I rang up my friend to find out the reason. The friend enquired from him, and conveyed to me the real reasons verbatim:

“Senior Mrs Chaudhry belittled me by issuing orders the way the company sergeant major used to do when I’s in the service. I’m no longer in the army.

“Junior Mrs Chaudhry could not make up her mind. Sometimes, saying cut that branch, and next moment don’t do it. Also, I felt devalued when she considered me a removal man”.

I was amused, but the comments left both my wife and the daughter-in-law fuming. They rejected the reasons vehemently.

We were on the lookout again for a new gardener.

@drch100

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Ps: Next post will be published at11 am on Sunday 12 September 2021. It will be titled: We, the South Asians, all look the same.

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4 min read.

A few weeks back, unlike the dismal weather for months, the BBC made the forecast that the high pressure would be in-charge. In consequence, it was a balmy 22C at noon on a Sunday. I was ensconced in a chair in the front garden and my wife was loitering around. Suddenly we saw a gentleman passing through, who looked to be in his mid-fifties. He greeted us, and in return I said:

“Good afternoon”.

I told my wife:

“We’ve been living in this area for the last nearly twenty-one years, but strangely enough, there are some faces which we still don’t recognise. I never saw this gentleman before. He might be a new mover.”

A couple of minutes later, I saw Margaret pulling her two giant dogs. She lives in one of the houses in a side street further down. We know her very well for the last few years, a single mother with two children in their late teens.

 We exchanged greetings, and I realised that the gentleman must be her partner. I had heard from the village gossipers that she had a partner but did not see him before.

Next day, I received a text message from Margaret about something. After the reply, I added:

“I saw the gentleman yesterday a few paces ahead of you. He must be your partner. I bet that he belonged to a profession which involved discipline. He might be an ex-army officer”.

Guess, what she said in her return text message!

“He is a retired army major.”

Our drainage was blocked. I looked at the local weekly newspaper and searched for a drainage man’s contact number. I found one and rang the number. He said that he would be coming to our house after the lunch break.

He was a tall man, in his mid- fifties, bald-pated with completely grey moustaches, and stubble beard. He courteously told me that he would charge £90 plus VAT, and it should not take long to finish the job satisfactorily. He further informed me that he comes to our town from a place about thirty miles away because there was more work here and people pay generously.

His assistant did the work while he was giving him directions.

The job was finished in about thirty minutes. Before I made the payment and received the receipt, I asked him:

“If you don’t mind, I like to ask something”.

“Not at all”, he replied gently.

I enquired:

“From your appearance and conversation, you don’t appear to be a drainage man. You look a person belonging to a profession involving brain rather than manual work. Though I never met your family, but they seem to be educated as well.”

“Doctor, you could not be more right,” he answered.

Guess, what was his profession!

He informed me:

“I’m a qualified Barrister. I worked for the government and for some years rubbed along quite well. Then I’d some issues with them and on principle, I resigned. I set up this business. I’ve other people working for me as well. At the end of the day, I earn, after paying the workers’ wages and other outgoings, far more than what I’s getting from the government”.

About his family, he told me that his both the sons were studying medicine at the universities and his wife was a teacher.

 We decided to redecorate our house and were looking for someone with good reference. Unlike the Prime Minister’s latest wife, who aspired to have an an extremely expensive decoration of their flat at 11 Downing Street, which according to her standards was probably pigsty, we intended to do it moderately. Though, the PM was in straitened circumstances, the wife was likely to move heaven and earth to achieve her goal. [See post dated 14th March 2021]. She even put her husband’s job in jeopardy. The fact is that in 10 Downing Street in general, and in the couple’s household in particular, she rules the roost.

We found the decorator and the price was agreed. He was in his early forties, slightly obese, soft-spoken with London accent.

Before he could leave, I said:

“Can I ask you one personal question, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind”, he replied in a well-bred manner.

I suggested:

“From your appearance and conversation, you look to be a civil servant, not a decorator”.

Guess, what he said nonchalantly!

“No doctor, I’m not. But I was born and grew up in a family where my father was a senior civil servant”.

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Ps: Part 2 of the story about some other guesses will be posted at 11 am on Sunday July 11, 2021.

5-min read.

In the last few weeks, there have been the news about the Prime Minister’s expenditure on the refurbishment of his Downing Street flat above Number 11. In my March post, I wrote about his financial plight, and suggested that we should do the crowdfunding. My misgivings mentioned in my post have since been borne out to be true.

Personally, I do not think that our uxorious Prime Minister did anything wrong morally or legally by borrowing £58,000 or more from a friend to furnish his flat to please his young wife, and later returning it to the lender. It was just a slip up and not an offence worth his scalp. The media hyperbolized it. I think the issue will taper off sooner than later.

 But beside that another news is more important i.e., 39 sub-postmasters, who with about 700 more, were wrongly convicted of false accounting and theft several years ago, have been acquitted by the Court of Appeal. The Post Office Limited wasted huge sums of money on spurious prosecutions. The exoneration took many years. It is trite law that ‘justice delayed is justice denied’. One committed suicide, some passed away bearing the shock of being wrongly branded as stealers, and some were left down-and outs after they had to reimburse up to £40,000. It had happened due to the faulty computer system Horizon imported from Japan by the Post Office twenty-two years ago.  The screams of the innocent employees were muzzled. They endured inexplicable hardships. Some of the bosses who supervised the gross injustice caused to innocent sub-postmasters are still around at plum posts. A few were awarded honours.

These sub-postmasters and mistresses served the public selflessly and it was beyond their wildest dreams to steal from the tills.

Due to the publicity by the media, one positive aspect has emerged i.e., their ex-bosses can expect that the chickens are coming home to roost.

The story I am going to narrate is about our sub-postmaster who runs the post office in our neighbourhood.

He is of South Asian ethnicity. He is called Karim.

He bought the post office about ten years ago. He, with his wife and two young children, live in the flat upstairs. The wife, though a qualified sub-postmistress, is looking after the children but would be seen at the counter now and then. Sometimes, you see another local woman in her early forties, who serves at the second counter.

Karim is in his mid-thirties, 5′ 10” tall, and medium built. He, spruced up and normally wearing a cravat, would welcome every customer. Depending on the number of people in the queue, he would honorifically strike up a conversation. 

Since the lockdown, I have not been visiting him. Our helper runs errands to the post office. The incident which I am about to narrate happened before the pandemic.

One afternoon, I went to the post office and noticed the employed sub-postmistress was on duty. As it was the summertime, I thought that Karim might have gone on holidays. I did not enquire about him.

Next week, I visited the post office again and he was not there then either. I was sure that he must have gone for holidays.

I asked the lady:

“Has the boss gone on holidays?”

She, straight- faced, said:

“No, he’ll be here in a few minutes. He has gone in to fetch a cup of tea.”

I added:

“As he was not at the counter on my two consecutive visits, I was of the impression he might’ve gone for holidays.”

“No, he doesn’t like holidays”, she chucklingly clarified.

“Very strange! Who doesn’t like holidays? I opined.

I added:

“It looks he’s earning reasonable money, and I’m sure he can go for holidays which might not be exotic.”

She reiterated her earlier response:

“He doesn’t like holidays.”

While we were still talking, he emerged.

I said:

“As I did not see you on two occasions, I thought that you were on holidays.”

“No, doctor. I don’t like holidays.”

As the queue was building up at both the counters, I abandoned the conversation, and left the post office.

Next week, I visited again. This time he was alone, and it was not a busy time. I mentioned holidays again. He said:

“Doctor, the word holiday does not exist in my dictionary.”

I suggested:

“If someone buys one week Canary Islands cruise tickets for you, your wife, and both the children, will you accept it?”

“No, no doctor, you misconceived the matter. It is not a question of affordability. The fact of the matter is that I derive far more pleasure while serving here at the counter, rather than sitting at the swimming pool on board a stupendous ship.”

He was right. There are thousands of sub-postmasters and mistresses who are serving the public honestly and diligently.

It is a fact that it is easy to catch small fish in a barrel.

The big fish who embezzled millions of pounds during the pandemic are difficult to catch. But the small ones like the sub-postmasters and mistresses are shown no mercy.

I like to share another example of a small fish who has recently been punished for a trifling offence.

 It saddened and sickened me when I read about an NHS podiatrist nurse who has been meted out quite disproportionate punishment for tiny lapse on her part.

While making a home visit to a patient to cut her toenails, she received £15. Though she had been working for the hospital for 18 years but has been struck off the register for dishonesty by the Health and Care Professions Tribunal Service.

The punishment could not be harsher. According to the Tribunal, it received no assurance that she would not repeat her dishonest conduct. I doubt it if she said that. It must be a speculation on their part. My advice is that she should challenge the extremely unreasonable decision on appeal.

@drch100

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Ps: Next short story will be posted on Sunday June 13 2021 at 11 am. It is titled: My guesses were not too wrong.

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Before I had the first dose of the BioNTech, Pfizer vaccine, the government had already announced that the second jab should be administered twelve weeks after the first one. The decision was indubitably contrary to the recommendations made by the manufacturers. Also, Dr Ugur Sahin, one of the two inventors, had made a pellucid statement that the maximum gap between the two doses could be six weeks. But the government did not give a fig about their opinions. Their decision was set in stone. Eventually, everyone, including the powerful media gave it up, and there was no mention of the need to have a reduced gap between the two jabs. There was even a suggestion that one jab provided sufficient protection. But it was rejected straightaway.

Recently, they have budged an inch. The guidance was issued to the effect that one might get the second vaccine a week earlier i.e., in the eleventh week.

To bring the virus under control, the Prime Minister’s advisors are working like a dog. I am sure, they would be awarded generously. The ones with knighthoods or having no awards, would be elevated to the House of Lords. If someone already holds a peerage, he or she might get a plum job either at the United Nations or with the World Health Organisation.

The Labour Party is barking up the wrong tree by demanding an immediate public enquiry about the spread of Covid-19 infection. It is not prudent to agitate for an enquiry when the people are still dying, albeit not in large numbers, and there is an imminent danger of a third wave.

The government’s record has not been laudable.

When everybody was clamouring to get hold of the Personal Protective Equipment (PPE), they did not deem it essential. The consequence of that was that many consultants, junior doctors, GPs and Nurses sadly died. Eventually, when it arrived, the bulk of it turned out to be fake.

In many countries of the world, face masks were worn, but last summer I heard it myself, at the Downing Street press conference, a suggestion that the science was not clear about its benefits. This was surely a common-sense matter. Due to their shilly-shallying, probably we were the last country in the world making the masks de rigueur.

We are at the top of the list with the highest number of deaths in the world. Italy is at number two.

Economically, our fall was the worst since the last 300 years.

Successive lockdowns inflicted immeasurable misery on the people. Majority of them have been cooping up for the last more than a year.

The children’s loss of education is tremendous.

Finally, it is a bitter truth that the venture of test and trace was allocated £37 billion. According to a report by the House of Common’s Public Accounts Committee, there is still no evidence of its effectiveness; and it is not clear whether its contribution to reducing infection level can justify “unimaginable” costs.

One may ask: What worse could we expect? The worst has already come. As stated supra, we are already at the top of the death list.

Only aspect of the matter, where the credit goes to the Prime Minister is for his breakneck pace of vaccination. He had placed timely orders for the vaccine in bulk with different manufacturers. Surely, it was done at his initiative, and he is justified to speak about it braggingly.

European Commission President Dr Ursula von der Leyen considered the issue of ordering the vaccine flippantly. Hardly a day passes when she does not make throwaway comments scapegoating the UK. It would have been better had she faced up to her lackadaisical approach to deal with the pandemic. She should have adroitly accepted her preposterous omission not to order and pay for the vaccine in time and of sufficient quantity. She should have resigned from her job.

In the UK, we hope that the recent lull in infections is not ephemeral. But we know that last summer infections petered out as well. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was seen serving the meal without a mask in a restaurant. It proved to be a mirage.The next wave came with a vengeance.

Before I conclude, I narrate an interesting incident.

Mr friend got an invitation for the first dose of the Pfizer jab. He took with him his wife who was a few weeks behind him to receive the vaccine. It was in the late afternoon when he reported at the vaccine centre. On his turn he informed the head of the centre that he would like to have one half of the jab and the other half to be given to his wife.

He added:

“I’m not asking for any favour. I’ve the right to get one full dose. But I prefer the remaining half to be given to my wife.”

He was advised:

“You can have a full jab, and you may come back with your wife before the closing time. There’s every probability that some doses are left unused, and your wife would get one.”

The wife got the jab.

Concluding the titled post, I booked my second jab. The earliest date available was a week later i.e., on the first day of the 12th week since the first dose. I was worried because the EU was threatening to block the vaccine export to the UK. Thankfully, the threat like many before turned out to be hollow one.

I got the vaccine. As in the case of the first jab, there was not any reaction whatsoever. I did not feel a thing.

The good question is:

Should I feel safe?

I doubt it. The sword of Damocles is still hanging over head. According to the advisors even two jabs of any available vaccine might not be effective to control the foreign variants.

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