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     8 min read

In this post I cite a few more instances which demonstrate that the appearance of age may be deceptive.

 During the lockdown, my evening routine was that I liked the ten o’clock Sky News, ITV News or BBC News. Thereafter, I would watch press review on the Sky. At 11 pm, before going to bed, I would have a snack. But gradually, I abandoned the habit of watching the press review. I observed that the teenagers had just about monopolised the slot. Of course, sometimes senior reviewers do appear on the programme, and I enjoyed watching them, but their appearances were sporadic at best.

Another issue about the programme is that the female reviewers wore the best make up on the market and clothe in rich garments as if they were going to/coming from a fashion parade, while men appeared with open button shirts or T- shirts/vests, as if they had been to a picnic or returning from the gym.

I told my daughter, who is a columnist for a national daily newspaper, my predicament. I mentioned to her the names of some of the reviewers, whom I deemed quite young.

When she told me the truth, my mouth fell open in surprise:

The journalists were in fact all in their 40s, and had been editors of the newspapers. One had three children, while another was the author of numerous well-known non-fiction titles.

Until recent years, and before I had reduced my law practice to advisory work only, I would travel to different cities/towns in the UK. I commuted by train. One day a colleague advised me that as I was above sixty, I should buy a senior railcard, which would cost £30 and save me 1/3 on rail fares for a whole year. Before I travelled next time, after showing the proof of my age, I purchased a Railcard from the railway station’s ticket office.

I used it whenever I travelled by train, including trips to London, visits to our daughter in the South West and going to Southampton for onward cruise holidays.

After my wife turned sixty and before embarking on a journey to visit our daughter, we bought a senior railcard for her and boarded the train. After the first stop, a portly railway guard bobbed up and, punching the passengers’ tickets one by one, reached us. My wife had the possession of both the tickets and the railcards. She passed them over to him. He hastily glanced at my card, moved his glasses slightly downwards and peeped at me. Then, with glasses up, he checked the wife’s ticket and the railcard, lowered the glasses again and peered at her. He stood still. I asked him whether there was any problem. He replied:

“If you don’t mind, I would like to see the proof of your wife’s age.”

“Why?”, I sought clarification.

He explained:

“You know it is quite common that people use others’ railcards. Your wife does not look sixty or above.”

I said:

“She is grandmother of four.”

The guard added:

“I’m sorry. I’ve seen grandmothers of under 40 years of age”.

My wife, while pleased as Punch, tried to suppress her smile. To stop me further arguing with the guard, she shushed me with a forefinger to the lips. She retrieved her driving license from the handbag.  The guard moved his glasses up, examined it, thanked us and left apologising for the inconvenience.

The next occurrence took place quite a few years ago i.e. before our daughter and her husband with their twins (boy and girl) had moved from our town to the South West.

 They had a house about five- minute walk from ours. The twins were enrolled in a Nursery not far from our houses. Every Friday, I would pick them up in the afternoon.

 I went to collect them.

I parked the car in the car park and walked past the nursery gate and waited outside the classroom. The nursery nurse came out, saw me, and announced to her colleague:

“Janet, the twins’ great grandfather is here to collect them”.

I was thunderstruck and said brusquely:

“Do I look like a great grandfather?”.

She burst out laughing and explained:

“No. No, I was just kidding”.

“Your jokey comments were not a good style of kidding,” I complained.

She elucidated:

“The truth is that now and then we hold an informed conversation over lunch about you.  Always you come smartly dressed.  You are friendlier. More importantly, you show great respect to us.”

“Thank you very much for the compliments”, I concluded.

Later in the evening, I was not sure whether I should recount the trifling incident to my wife. For years she did not appreciate even cursory mention of any female stranger of any age. But, as stated in an earlier story [My wife “Suffered” from Glossophobia, Part 2, dated 7^th March 2020] I had a serious problem of not keeping things close to my chest.

Thus, I decided to mention to my wife the throwaway comments made by the Nursery Nurse in full.

 She jumped on the story. Guess what she said?

“You must be trying to allure the nursery nurses. Do you think that in your wildest dream there is a supporting chance of your success?

 She continued:

“Come rain or shine, you love flirtation, irrespective of the ages of the girls. Henceforth, I’ll be picking up the twins every Friday.”

I wished I should not have mentioned the incident to her, but the ship had sailed.

In my post repeated recently, The Naked Woman [R], I had mentioned that I used to attend biannual appointments with the renal specialists in the neighbouring town’s NHS Hospital. After my consultant had retired, I was seen by different specialists. This interesting event is about one of those attendances.

I was sitting in the corner of the outpatient renal department waiting area, just twiddling my thumb. Suddenly, I was all agog when I saw a young svelte woman. She was of South Asian ethnicity. She was wearing slightly above knee beautiful skirt. Her hairs in front were combed down over the fore and was carrying just a handbag.

I saw her and her face looked familiar. Different speculations reeled through my mind.

 “She might be a student. But the students of medicine reflect haggard looks. She   was not a junior doctor either. They looked preoccupied and wear stethoscopes. She could not be a patient. Had she been a patient, she should have reported to the receptionist. But the young woman had just said good morning to her and breezed past her, instead. She could not be a visitor, because it was not a visiting hour”.

Finally, I surmised: 

“She is very pretty and could be a Bollywood movie star. But why a movie star is visiting the outpatient renal unit?”.

The occurrence had taken place quite some time ago. Had it happened in recent months, I would have guessed that she was Miss England, who is a junior doctor and of Indian ethnicity.

Still confused and pondering, I was called and led to the consultation room.

I was surprised when I saw that the beautiful woman, I had just seen was not a Bollywood star, but was the consultant nephrologist, who had examined me once before. She was, using the words of the Prime Minister, a world beating specialist in her field.

I was not sure whether I should tell her my earlier dilemma about her identity. I thought if I told her verbatim, she might not appreciate it. But I could not exercise restraint either and revealed to her the detail.

 She laughed and said that she would tell it to her husband.

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                                                           By Dr. F. Chaudhry

15 min read.

[Though the website (readmyshortstoryforfree.com) contains mostly humorous and entertaining short fiction stories, the titled story was the first one posted on 6^th January 2020 with serious contents. It is republished today.] 

I was hardly five-year-old when India was granted independence and partitioned. I had three siblings, two sisters and one brother. I was the youngest. We migrated to the Pakistan side of the Punjab province and settled down in a small town of Batpur, which was 127 miles from the provincial capital. We were lucky to have a terrace house of a reasonable size in the town and 31 acres of cropland about four miles away. This was the maximum the refugees were entitled to get in that district. The rest of the entitlement could be allotted in a different district. But, as my father, a reclusive man, did not like to bribe rehabilitation officers nor did he ask someone influential to help him, we had to be content with what we were given. (It took nine more years before we got the rest of the arable land about eighty miles from the town).

Before long, I started going to a primary school run by the local authority, which was in a building converted from the Sikhs’ worship place called Gurdwara. It was just a few minutes’ walk from our house.

I still cast my mind back to the period when I was in the primary school. Sometimes, our class was held under the shade of a big oriental jujube fruit tree. One could see that a tiny goldish ripe fruit was hanging low or dropped near you. For a five or six- year old child it was an irresistible temptation to pluck it or pick it up and put it in his watering mouth. But you would not dare to touch it let alone eat it. Any attempt to do that would entail instant punishment, which could be to sit upright on the brick floor, bend the body forward, raise the bottom, position your both the arms under the legs and hold your ears with the hands.  It was one of the harshest corporal punishment which was in vogue at that time and probably still is extant.

 When I was in the last year, we were given a classroom. It had three windows with iron bars from which we could peep outside. Our teacher, 5’ 4’’ tall with Balbo beard and wearing a tailed turban, was also a refugee.  His son was in the same class, who was treated without any favour. Rather, he was meted out more than normal share of the punishment.

Our teacher had a goat which he or his son would bring with them but kept it outside in the street securely tied with the window bar. One of the pupils would do the goat-sitting on the windowsill.

I remember vividly a man with grey beard, called Ahmadu, would come to our house to see my father. He was much older than my father. He was known to our family back from India where he used to run a grocery shop in a village a few miles from our place. My father and Ahmadu would indulge in nostalgic and abiding memories.  During summer, my father would ask me or my brother to bring yogurt drink for Ahmadu. In winter he would be served tea which he would slurp. Sometimes, my father would insist him to stay for the supper. During the crop season my father would send my brother to ask Ahmadu to pick up grain from our house. Mostly, I would accompany my brother. On some occasions my father would pay cash to him. Whenever we visited him, he would ask us to come in, but my brother always declined.

During and after the partition, Ahmadu did not have a run of good luck. There was killing spree on both sides of the border. His wife was killed on their way to the new country. Most of the relatives and fellow villagers were killed too. He and his sixteen-year-old daughter miraculously survived by playing possum. He lost his money and jewellery.

In the new country, Ahmadu could only get a mud house in the outskirts of the town. He had a donkey and would sell grocery in the villages around the town. His daughter’s name was Shanoo, which literally meant glamour. Back in India she had passed her secondary school examination and intended to go to a college in the town near their village.

Of all the woes which Ahmadu had, the worst to boot was that his daughter who, during the migration ordeal, had witnessed the horrific scenes, including the murders of her mother and many relatives, was so much traumatised that she was no longer in her sound state of mind. She would be near normal for a few days and then back to the condition when she would coop up in her room, sit idly with icy stare and speak sparingly. If she did talk it would be about her mother.   In the town or in the district, there was not any specialist doctor to treat her. The nearest place he could take her was the provincial capital, which he could not afford. He had compromised with the fait accompli. It was his kismet, he believed.

Things were moving apace. I was permitted to go alone to Ahmadu’s house to run the errands. On one occasion my mother gave me some clothes to be delivered to Shanoo, which were worn only once. I knocked on the rickety door. Ahmadu opened it and asked me to enter. I went in for the first time. Shanoo was sitting on a cot.  Her father introducing me told her my name. She looked at me and asked:

“Do you mind if I call you just Little?”

“Not at all. You can call me by whatever name you like,” I answered tenderly.

Then she noticed a packet under my axilla, and asked:

“Little, have you brought something for me?”

“Yes Shanoo, I ‘ve brought a dress for you,” I replied softly.

I handed the packet over to her. She opened it, saw the dress, and went tonto. She threw it on the dusty floor and blustered:

“Little, tell your mummy I don’t like used clothes. In fact, I don’t like to wear any clothes.”

After a minute or two her feelings simmered down a bit, she went to her room and bolted it from inside.

My mother bought new clothes and I took them to Shanoo next time. After looking at it, she was euphoric. She went inside the room and wore them. She had beatific smile on her face and looked very pretty.

With the passage of time, Shanoo was getting prettier. The central parts of her cheeks, which deeply dimpled, looked as if the blood would seep through them any moment.  She had refulgent eyes. Her long hairs, often unkept, had turned into crimson colour due to some chemical reaction with the dust. Her upper lip was slightly exposed.

I was in my last year at the primary school. During my visits to Shanoo’s house she would talk to me in a friendly manner.  

On one occasion she asked me:

“Little, in which class are you studying?”

After I told her she added:

“You know back in India I’s a student as well. I’d completed my secondary school education and I’s about to go to the college”.

It looked that there was nothing wrong with her.

 After having quite sensible conversation, she relapsed and drawled:

“I’m sorry, I’ve to go and get ready. My mother might be coming home soon.”

 She entered her room and became quiescent.

Ahmadu said:

“This’s what she does. Sometimes, for weeks she talks sensible things. Back in India she was a bubbly girl. I prayed for her recovery, but of no avail. I have given it up. In fact, I am losing my faith in prayers. To be honest I am turning into an atheist. I do not say it public. You know many people here are fanatics.”

More years passed.  There was no improvement in Shanoo’s condition, rather it deteriorated.  There was a couple next door, who had three young children. They were poor as well. The husband would go to the forest about two miles away and collect wood fuel to be sold in the town. His wife, a compassionate woman, would help Shanoo, who now and then would go berserk.

I moved to the high school, which was about fifteen- minute walk from our house on the other side of the town. It was also run by the local authority. The children from our side of the town would avoid passing through the main bazaar. Instead, we would take short cuts through the side- streets.

One day when I was coming back from the school, I saw Shanoo, with tousled hairs and completely naked, squirreling around in a side- street. Some pack of noisy children were frolicking around her. I pushed them aside.  I went close to her and shouted:

“Shanoo “.

On seeing me, she stood stock-still for a few seconds, hung back against the wall, gaped at me stonily and got out of trance state in a trice. She cowered in shame, bent forward, and doing a facepalm murmured:

“Little, what’ve I done?”

A woman from the house nearby gave me a bed sheet. I donned her with it and rushed pell-mell to her house. She was blubbering like a baby.

Ahmadu told me that when she had a bout of relapse, she would not listen to me nor the neighbourly woman.  She would repeatedly say that she was going to fetch her mother.

I told my parents the incident. They were sad and subdued.

As it was a small town, people sympathised both Ahmadu and Shanoo. But they were helpless. Even if they had collected money by crowdfunding, it was not easy to take her to the provincial capital for treatment.

 The children stopped booing her.

 Occasionally during summer, when completely naked, instead of going straight to the side streets, she would turn left and saunter to the canal close to her house. It flowed by the southern side of the town. Sometimes, after swimming she would get out on the other side of the canal and sprawled on the sward.  A few meters from the edge of the canal there was the grand trunk road. Though, in between the canal and the road there were bushes and trees, but due to some blank spots the motorists could gaze at her and bemused.  

Ahmadu was getting frailer with speed.

I passed my secondary school examination and got admission in the college, which was twenty -seven miles from our town.  I lived in the boarding house and would come home almost every weekend.

Due to some tests, I did not return home until the Xmas vacations. My father broke two devastating news.

 Ahmadu had died, and from her appearance it looked that Shanoo was pregnant.

In the country which was created in the name of the religion someone had raped Shanoo. No one would dare to claim responsibility for the hugely bestial act, fearing stoning to death by the mob. The news got around in the town. The woman next door had taken over the responsibility to look after Shanoo. Beside my father, there were more people who contributed to her looking after.  From thence she was effectively restrained from venturing out even if properly dressed let alone naked.

On the other side of the town, there was a couple in their sixties and had no child. The man was a respectable and munificent businessman. They were not refugees but were early settlers. Those people were called locals. Just out of blue, the man offered to adopt Shanoo as his daughter.  He had a big house. His wife came and persuaded Shanoo to accompany her to their house. The couple engaged two maids, who would monitor her all the time. They would make it sure that she would wear proper clothes and would not tear them off. She would eat well on time.

She gave birth to a healthy boy. He was named Hasan.

Shanoo was taken to the provincial capital for treatment. By regular visits to the consultant, there was let up in her mental illness. She started talking to her baby-son and was able to feed him.

Our family were devastated when my mother died of breast cancer aged about fifty. My father was fifty-five. After a year or so, people suggested to him to marry again. He bluntly refused. He had monomania on the issue of facilitating his children’s education.  My brother did M.Sc. (Economics) and got a job as a lecturer in a college. I was sent to London for further studies. Under the country’s State Bank rules, the maximum my father could remit to me was £50 per month, which was reasonable to meet my needs at the time. My brother joined me later to do Ph.D.

 During vacations, I went home and enquired from my father about Shanoo and her adoptive parents. I was told that her son was still young when a new Sunni mosque was built in the town. A hate preacher was recruited, who by incendiary rhetoric caused deadly conflict between Sunnis and Shias. As Shanoo’s adoptive parents were Shias, they feared imminent danger. They sold the business and relocated to the provincial capital. Had they stayed a little longer, the whole family could be wiped out. The hate preacher was killed too. But by that time hardly any known Shias were left in the town. No one would know the new address of Shanoo’s adoptive parents. Some people in the town suspected that the adoptive father had hired a killer to murder the hate preacher.

After finishing my studies in London, I got married and went to West Africa. My father visited us a few times. Later, I worked in Pakistan. After my father died at the age of 76, I returned to England with my wife and two children.

I settled down in Lancashire.               

After more than fifteen years in the UK, I was diagnosed with a kidney problem.  I was referred to a consultant nephrologist, under whose treatment I remained for years. During this time, I was given a bespoke treatment by the National Health Service.

My visits to the hospital’s outpatient renal unit were interesting, but as these are not germane to the titled story, I skip them. One visit, which was eventful and its omission from narration would render this story patently incomplete, is submitted here.

 I was waiting for my turn. The consultant came out of the consultation room and announced my name. I had been examined by him once before. He was in his early fifties,

about 6’ tall, medium built and soft spoken. From his looks and accent, I had surmised that he was from the Indian sub-continent.    

He had since grown a short- boxed beard. He shook my hand and we entered the room where there were two girls which I could conjecture were medical students. The consultant asked my permission to allow the girls to watch the consultation. Before he could start, I told him

“I’m sorry I struggled to recognise you.”

Swiping his right hand across his beard, he said:

“Yes, I’ve since grown beard.”

I replied:

“That’s very good. You look smarter, slimmer and more importantly younger.”

Before he could reply, addressing the girls, I asked them:

“What do you think?”

Both nodded their heads grinning gleefully.

I added:

“Recently, two universities have published a research paper making a finding that women like bearded men more than the beardless ones.”

He said:

“Thank you.”

Due to my convivial and candid comments about his beard, he appeared to be friendlier rather than formal and at the spur of the moment asked me:

“Originally which country you come from?”

Giving my detailed answer, I said:

“I was born in India, grew up in a small town 127 miles from the provincial capital in Pakistan and educated in London. My wife was born in Pakistan, my son in West Africa and my daughter in England.”

 He said:

“It’s fascinating. You’re an international family.’

He added:

‘What’s the name of the town where you grew up?”

“Batpur”, I replied.

On hearing the name, he looked startled.

It did not take long to find out that he was Hasan son of Shanoo, who was alive and well. She was living with him, his wife and three children. His adoptive grandfather’s surname was Shamsi, which I remembered very well. He told me that they had died after he had qualified as a doctor. They left reasonable inheritance for him and his mother.

He wrote on my file that henceforth he was no longer my lead Consultant. Instead, we were friends. He gave me his telephone number and invited me and my wife to his house for dinner.

I was raring to see Shanoo after so many years.

Shanoo was still well. She was over the moon to see me and embraced me with both the arms. She had lines on her face, but still looked glamourous and younger than her age. She remembered the town and her late biological father. She could jog some faint memories of me after I told her that she would call me Little. She knew and so did Dr. Shamsi that they were adopted many years ago. I did not rake up memories of the forgotten and unpleasant years in the town when she had naked stints in the side streets. But it looked that both the mother and son were apprised by their late grandparents of the unpleasant past.

After a few weeks, Dr. Shamsi with his mother and wife returned the visit. I had retrieved an old photograph of Shanoo’s late father with my father. I had made a framed copy for her. She was very pleased.

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Part 1

7 min read.

My General Practitioner (GP) referred me to the Consultant Plastic and Reconstruction Surgeon in the city’s National Health Service (NHS) Hospital for a procedure. After a couple of weeks, I got a letter of appointment on behalf of the head of the department. The hospital was about one- hour drive from our house. My wife accompanied me to attend the consultation. At the main reception, I presented the letter of appointment and was guided to the relevant outpatient department. After reaching there, I showed the letter again, and was advised to have seats in the waiting area. Also, I was primed for a wait longer than normal, as the doctor concerned had to attend an emergency.

After about two hours, a nurse guided us to one of the consultation rooms. In the room, beside the nurse, who had ushered us in, there were two doctors, one male and one female. The male doctor, physically and facially, looked about 26/27, and I conjectured that he would be a trainee specialist, in common parlance described as a registrar. The second doctor, a slight young woman, could be a junior doctor. The male doctor introduced him to me by telling his name, which I could not catch. I was asked to sit on a chair and the nurse facilitated the wife to sit on a seat close by.

As it was my first appointment, I was under the impression that I might be seen by a registrar, who would order the blood tests and the CT scan etc.

Without mincing the words, the doctor said:

“I’m sure that the tests would be fine. If I see you in two weeks’ time, we will fix the date for a four- hour operation with general anaesthetic. You’ll stay in the hospital for five days, including the first night in the intensive care unit (ICU).”

On a second thought, he gave me the tentative date for the procedure in the last week of September.

I did not expect that a four-hour operation, with general anaesthetic, would be performed by a registrar. I looked at the junior doctor gloomily, she gave me a qualifier smile.

My blood ran cold, it scared me so much. My experience of getting a treatment from a registrar was not good. Just a couple of years before, a senior registrar had prescribed me wrong medication, and in consequence, I had to spend a week in the hospital. It is a long story and I will narrate it some other time.

We had planned to have lunch on our way back in a restaurant in the city centre. I was hardly able to converse, let alone stop for a treat.

 I decided to have the procedure as a private patient.

Enquiries were made. The procedure would be done in the same hospital, but the ward would be different. An appointment was made with the consultant anaesthetist on the following Monday and with a senior consultant surgeon on Tuesday. I was directed to come to the private wing of the hospital.

I saw the anaesthetist on Monday. From his accent he appeared to be Scottish. He assured me not to worry. I was quite happy with his briefing and paid him his fee by cheque.

Next day our son also accompanied us. We were welcomed by the receptionist. As usual, she offered us coffee, which we politely declined. After a few minutes, the door of the consultation room, which was not far from the reception area, opened and the consultant emerged.

Guess what?

I will reveal the answer at the end of another interesting event which took place at the same venue.

I had the operation, which was successful, and it was the third day of my convalescence. To fetch a glass of water, I strolled to the water cooler situated quite opposite to the reception desk. The loquacious receptionist, who happened to be South-Asian, spontaneously struck-up a conversation with me:

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, much better. Thank you for asking.”, I replied, genteelly.

“What do you do for living?”, she enquired further.

After I told her my profession, she asked:

“What family do you have?”

I apprised her:

“I have a wife, two children and five grandchildren.”

“What about you?”, I probed.

“I’ve just one boy aged 7.”

“Oh, I see. You may get more.”

 “No. You don’t know Hasan……”

Interrupting her, I conceded:

“No. I don’t know Hasan. I never met him.”

She continued:

“He’s utterly against having a large family. He thinks the family is complete. His views have been further strengthened since he heard Prince Harry that, to avoid overwhelming the planet, they would have one child only. He’s a fan of the Prince.” 

As Hasan had deeply entrenched view against having a large family, I volte faced and opined:

“If he is happy with one child, there are many people in the world who are quite content with that. President Clinton has only one daughter. In China for many years people had one child only. Even now when the one-child policy has been relaxed, they prefer to have one child.”

To conclude the discussion, I asked quippingly:

“Are you happy to have one child? Your husband should give due respect to your wishes as well.”

She brayed with laughter, and clarified:

“No. No. I’m talking about my son having one child i.e. my grandchild.”

I felt embarrassed:

“To be honest, you don’t look a grandmother.”

 She was flattered and commented:

“No, I’m fifty-nine. My husband is an accountant and he will be taking retirement next year. Beside our son, we have two daughters. One is a teacher and the other one is an optometrist.”

By that time, I was heedless of the presence of a senior nurse standing abreast to me listening to our conversation very attentively.

The receptionist pointed out:

“She’s another grandmother. She looks much younger than me.”

“I’m sure the hospital is looking after you very well. Its employees don’t age”, I concluded.

Coming back to the earlier part of the story when the consultant came out of the room to take us in for consultation.

My wife and I were totally flabbergasted when the consultant turned out to be the same doctor, whom we had naively thought the other day that he was a registrar. He turned out to be a consultant surgeon of international repute, was aged about 45, author of several books and had been delivering lectures in many countries of the world.

To cut the long story short, he offered me to operate the following Saturday. But added that the day after the procedure he would go on holidays for three weeks, and in his absence his colleagues would look after me. I expressed my misgivings about the care in his absence. He then offered me the same date as before to perform the operation on the NHS. I agreed. He informed me that the consultant anaesthetist would be a woman, not the one I had seen a day before.

[The anaesthetist consultant never cashed the cheque].

 Everything went very well. In the evening, the consultant came to see me in the ICU. He met the members of the family and briefed them on the outcome of the procedure. On the second day, I was transferred to the ward. The consultant anaesthetist, a genial person, came to examine me. She was quite satisfied with the recovery. I asked her:

“During the procedure did I behave well?”

“Yes, you acted accordingly and slept like a baby.”

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By Dr. F. Chaudhry

5 min read.

Before I dwell upon the titled subject, I better, albeit briefly, update the latest situation of the conflict between Dominic Cummings, the Prime Minister’s Chief advisor (DC) and the Media Chiefs. This subject was a hot topic of conversation in the UK for a couple of weeks and was considered in my previous post, dated 30.05.2020.

The bull was slightly injured, and was seen limping for a short while, but appears to have recovered. The pride of lions retreated in a helter-skelter fashion. One lioness, who had joined the pride’s onslaught at a later stage, has been more seriously affected. The bull carried her between the horns and tossed her more than two-metre away i.e. beyond the social distance. Ostensibly, she does not appear to be hurt. The injury could be latent for some weeks or months and might surface later.

The BBC’s Newsnight presenter Emily Maitlis had joined the serious conflict at a later stage and commented about the Prime Minister’s Chief Advisor’s trip to Durham during the lockdown. She broadcasted that he had ‘broken the rule, and ‘the country can see that…’ Also, she made some throwaway comments about the PM’s statement in the House of Commons.

 The BBC received almost 24,000 complaints against her comments. According to Andrew Marr, a respected BBC interviewer, she had crossed the lines and broke the BBC’s impartiality rules. He said that before his every programme:

“I sit down with my editor and go through every phrase, every adjective, every syllable that I say.”

 She did not appear on the Newsnight for one week. She is paid by the taxpayers’ money more than a quarter of a million pounds a year. The process to renew the BBC’s Charter will start during the present Parliament. In hindsight, I may say that its bosses may expect that ‘the chickens are coming home to roost’.

My advice to DC is that he should not be complaisant. He has failed to trounce his opponents and managed to scrap through this battle.  This time their fight was inopportune. At present they are quiescent. They are biding their time and would attack again probably after the virus is gone. Indubitably, there is no let up on it. He has won the battle, but the war is not over yet.

In recent days and weeks more lockdown restrictions have been eased. But for the time being the barbers’ shops/salons remain shut. It appears that with effect from 4^th July they would be allowed to work provided they observe the social distance restrictions. This is something which puzzles me. The good question is:

 How could they cut hair while keeping the two-metre social distance?

In China, the barbers had invented something, which I may call as Barbers’ Personal Equipment (BPE), which they used to cut the customers hair during the lockdown. Our barbers can import them from China and get some training virtually. But, as the time is short, the outcome might be the same as the debacle of the PPE import.

I have a suggestion.

Very recently, I heard a briefer at the Downing Street daily coronavirus conference, that two-metre distance could be shortened if you stand back to back or laterally.  In such a posture a customer’s hair can be easily cut without passing any infection. The virus moves forward and is not capable to negotiate a turn, let alone a sharp U-turn.  It is more so when both the customer and the barber are wearing face masks.

It may be argued that the problem remains about the front hair.

In some cases, it will not be an issue. For example, Mr Mat Hancock, Secretary of State for Health and Social care does not have front hair-his lock starts from the middle of the head. To cut his hair, shunning his front, is just a piece of cake. Similarly, some coronavirus scientific and medical advisors hardly have any hair in the front. The Prime Minister’s hair can be trimmed from the rear very easily.  There might be some difficulty to cut the hair of Mr Rishi Sunak, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He can wait little more until the restrictions are further relaxed. He is in favour of further reduction in the social distance.

Before I conclude I wish to mention the latest situation of my hair. The fact of the matter is that I could not wait any longer. It was nearly six months since I had left my locks unshorn. I read in the paper that a newspaper columnist cut her husband’s hair twice with a kitchen scissor. I showed the paper to my wife, and we decided to go ahead to have my haircut. I had managed to get a hair trimmer as well.

I sat calmly on a chair upright. My wife started the job. According to her, she had seen my barber cutting my hair several times. She was confident that it would be a bespoke haircut.

To put it briefly, after the completion, I looked in the mirror and this was what I found.

My sideburns had disappeared right far beyond my outer ears. My eyebrows were clean shaved. Some hair on my occiput appeared to be untouched and were protruding. To be honest, I looked an alien.

In the evening when my youngest seven-year-old grandchild  saw my hairdo during the video chat, he looked askance and shouted:

“Mummy, who’s this funny looking man?”

Next day when I stepped outside my house to move the bins, I saw a bewildered look on the face of my neighbour on the opposite side of the street before he could answer belatedly my waving.

8 min read.

In recent days, the heinous enemy i.e. Covid-19 appears to be on the wane, particularly in London, South West of England, and Northern Ireland. With the passage of each day there are fewer cases of the infection. The hospital admissions and deaths are tailing off. The virus will be decimated, and it is fervently believed that it will be sooner rather than later. The public have been co-operative, many frontline staff paid ultimate price while working tirelessly. The chief scientists, chief political advisors, and chief political reporters contributed significantly. When I say chief, I include deputy chiefs as well. The politicians made the decisions on the advice of the advisors. The media raised fingers if there was any slackening in the implementation of the decisions. For the success achieved thus far the credit goes to all of them. 

Unfortunately, in recent days and weeks a war has broken out between the Prime Minister’s Chief Advisor ( Mr Dominic Cummings) and the media Chiefs. It cannot be gainsaid that the invisible enemy has not yet been completely crushed. There is every possibility that another peak might return before an effective vaccine is discovered. The war between the Chiefs is ill-timed and ill-advised.

For convenience sake, I have divided these Chiefs into two groups. The attackers counted in the first group, include: political correspondents for the TV Channels and the reporters for the national newspapers.

The complaints are against Mr Dominic Cummings, whom, henceforth, I will call as the Defending Chief or simply the DC, which are his name initials as well. The details of the allegations against him are very much in the public domain. But, as this post might be read within and outside the UK, these may be succinctly stated.

 On the morning of 28^th March, the DC was at work in 10 Downing Street when he received a phone call from his wife stating that she had the virus symptoms. He was seen in the Downing Street running to his house. He feared that he would catch the virus soon as well. To protect their four-year- old child, they travelled to Durham 260 miles away. There his parents lived in one property and his sister and two nieces, aged 17 and 20 in the adjacent dwelling.  He and his wife cooped up a few hundred metres away. He caught the virus the next day. A few days earlier the country was placed in a lockdown. His nieces looked after the child during their isolation. It was also alleged that he was seen away from his house. After recovering, he drove thirty miles to check whether his eyesight had not been adversely affected by the virus. Next day they left their bolt- hole and returned to London.

The Chiefs in the first group, led by the Sky alpha, launched the attack, and demanded an immediate resignation by the DC. Also, the political parties, Labour, Lib Dems, and the SNP jumped on the bandwagon.

According to Sir Keir Starmer, leader of the Labour Party, the DC could drop the child at the residence of his brother-in-law, who lived in London. With due deference to Sir Keir, this alternative was based on speculation and not tenable. DC’s relationship with his in-laws might not be as cordial as of Sir Keir’s, who had suspended his leadership campaign when his mother-in-law had sadly died.

The attacks by the chiefs in the second group against the DC may be compared with a deadly attack by a pride of lions on the huge bull with big horns. The pride did not expect that the bull would be joined by the herd.  They thought that they were hunting a dear with big horns. They misjudged the strength of the bull and found it difficult to devour him while breathing.

The DC got unqualified support from the other chiefs.

 At the coronavirus daily press conference in the Downing Street, the briefer Prof. Jenny Harries argued that the rule could be interpreted according to the common sense. In my opinion she could have used the quote from Charles Dicken’s novel Oliver Twist, in which when Mr Bumble was told that the law assumes that a wife follows the authority of the husband he responded, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands:

“If the law supposes that, the law is a ass- a idiot.”

She could have substituted the word ‘rule’ for the word ‘law’.

The cabinet minister, Grant Shapps, refuted the argument that there were precedents when one chief scientist and a medical advisor of Scotland had resigned after it was found that they had violated the shutdown rules. The case of DC is clearly distinguishable. In those two cases there were no exceptional circumstances – a four-year-old child’s welfare was at stake.

The PM said that he would not throw his chief advisor to the dogs. It would have been better if he had said:

‘There’s no dog’s chance that his chief advisor would be thrown to the dogs’

At a Downing Street Coronavirus press conference on 24^th May, the PM defended his chief advisor and held that he had acted reasonably and legally and with integrity.

To exculpate himself, next day the DC held a lengthy press conference in the Rose Garden of the 10 Downing Street.

He gave his itinerant details from the time when he was seen running home in the Downing Street. He was questioned and cross-examined incessantly. His demeanour during the conference was meek and respectful, while the questioners were aggressive.

An hour later the PM briefly reiterated his acceptance of the version submitted by the DC at his press conference.

Though the DC has unflinching support, there is no let up on the part of the attacking alphas.

I should call a spade a spade. Personally, it does not matter a whit to me whether the DC stays put or is swallowed by the attackers, but I believe that he has not violated any rule. Even the former Chief Constable of the Greater Manchester has unequivocally stated that no rule has been broken. The Durham police have closed the file.

One thing puzzles me, and I do not want to bottle it up. Why these attackers deem the DC as their bete noire? As it stands, the invisible enemy is staring at us. The public are scared, lest the virus re-emerges. There is no certainty that vaccine will be ready in the coming months or years. We are on the cusp of the worst recession in more than 300 hundred years.  But they are out for the DC’s head, whom I have never heard of uttering any words in public, until the press conference on the Bank holiday Monday. As I stated hereinabove, he behaved deferentially, when the questioners were repeating the same questions over and over again trying to provoke him. They have made a mountain out of a molehill. They should spit out the real problem.

If I were in a similar situation as the DC was in, I can swear on my children that I would have done the same. The doubt if there was any in my mind has been decisively dispelled after his press conference.

According to the leading article in the Times [25.05.2020]:

“……Mr Johnson has a government to run and the public health crisis to defuse. He should be allowed to get on with it”.

It is hoped that the media’s rancour vis-à-vis Mr Dominic Cummings will simmer down. But the fact is that the jury is still out.

5 min read.

From this week the government has partially eased the lockdown. But there has been no change for mobile barbers, barbers’ salons, and hairdressers. But, according to the 50-page document issued on 12^th May, depending on the impact of the measures implemented in June, the next stage of easing restrictions will take place incremental after July 4. It may then include hairdressers and barbers.

 I mentioned in my last post that when my haircut was due in February, I had cancelled the appointment with my barber. He comes to our house on a day and time which suit me, including the weekend. He is doing it for the last many years.

 Sometime last year he whispered to me:

“My wife with our child has left me. She has found another man. Doctor, I am looking for a South Asian wife. They cook delicious curry.”

He added:

“I’ve seen you and many South Asian couples who’re happily married for many years”.

I replied:

“Personally, I’ve no axe to grind whether you marry an Asian or someone of different ethnicity. If you fancy one from the sub-continent you may go ahead. I know there is quite a large Asian population in your town. But, according to an oriental adage, ‘the drumbeats from far away sound very pleasant’ and when they get closer you tend to plug your ears.

While delivering further advice to the barber, I do not remember exactly the words which I used, and I am adopting some of the vocabulary by the Prime Minister and later followed respectfully by the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care and the advisors during their speeches and at coronavirus daily briefings. I have italicised those words.

 I meant to say:

“You’re a fantastic person and a fantastic barber and you may be raring to marry an Asian woman. But I can prophesize that in a matter of weeks your wife will not see eye to eye with your parents and other relatives. She will not be at level with you. Your house would be overwhelmed by your in-laws. Of course, your parents will be able to see you at your house from outside observing the social distance of 2-metre. You may be able to speak to them virtually. With the passage of months and years, you would turn thiny and your wife fatty. From every sinew of your body, the curry smell would be seeping in your surroundings, and your white customers would shun you. You will not get Asian customers. They normally go to the barbers of their ilk, who are cheaper and narrate stories of the community to boot.

“Furthermore, in recent years, I’ve witnessed the cases where the father bought a house by his hard-earned money and due to love and affection registered it with the Land Registry in the name of his son. After the son was married, at the behest of his wife, the parents were evicted from the house, who moved to a rented accommodation. In another case, it was the widow, who left the town.”

The barber shook my hand and drawled:

“Thank you very much doctor, you opened my eyes”.

When next time he came to cut my hair, I was told that he was co-habiting with an English woman and they were quite happy except one trivial problem- her baby girl cried during night, which disturbed his sleep. He hoped that as she grows older the situation would change.

Coming back to the issue of my uncut hair, since my previous cut before the Xmass I have grown unruly shock of hair, and the situation as it stands, is that my barber cannot visit me, nor can I go to a hairdresser in the town centre. I might look like Sir Billy Connolly, a retired Scottish stand-up comedian, musician, presenter, actor, and artist. If I comb my long hair properly and grow some beard, I might resemble a Muslim preacher. But more appropriately, if you look at me in the morning before shower with tousled hair, I might be mistaken for a South Asian Qawwal ( classical singer).

I am in a fix and there does not appear any way out.

Some people in the government have been seen on the TV with nice haircuts.

A few weeks’ back, Mr Quinton Letts, the Times political sketch writer observed, and I noticed it too, that at the daily Covid-19 briefing the Government’s chief medical advisor was supporting a new haircut. Mr Letts quippingly queried how he could get hold of a barber without breaching the regulation of 2-metre distancing?

According to the same writer [20.04.2020]:

“Rachael Reeves, shadow cabinet minister appeared at the BBC’S Andrew Marr show when ‘her hair bearing the most lustrous, inky sheen and trimmed like Cleopatra’s fringe. How has she managed that when hairdressers (are) closed?”.

Thus far, there has been no response.

I wholeheartedly sympathise with Mr Letts who, as he mentioned this week in his sketch, suffers from dental ache, and the dentists are still in lockdown.  But he is an important person. Sometimes, his political sketch appears on the front page. He can pull some strings and ask the ministers to ease the restrictions on the dentists for at least one day a week. Beside alleviating his pain, it will help the dental practices as well. Many of them are at the brink of bankruptcies.

Interestingly, Mr Letts has since been regularly reporting in the flesh from the House of Commons gallery. I doubt it if his pain has gone. There is every probability that he pulled some strings.

Finally, according to my wife, I look fabulous and I should dispense with the need to have a cut. I think she must be joking. The fact of the matter is I do not feel comfortable. I envy the baldpates.  I should not have cancelled my appointment with the barber. At that time there was no lockdown. But to err is human.

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8 min read.

I was thinking to submit this month’s post about some of the Covid-19’s brave sufferers and recoverers. But on a second thought, as the deadly virus is still on the offensive, I decided to write about how we are keeping it at bay.

 On 10^th March, the Government had issued directions to the people above seventy and those under 70 but who have underlying health conditions, to isolate themselves for three months. I belong to the former category. It is not disputed that the deadly virus cherishes decimating the older and vulnerable people.

In the last week of March, the country went into lockdown for three weeks. It has since been extended for three more weeks. There is every probability that it would continue beyond that.

To be honest, I did not have a premonition of imminent outbreak of the disastrous coronavirus pandemic nor of the prospect of any lockdown, but I had taken several steps which under the normal circumstances I should not have. For example:

According to my wife, I have the obsession to buy reasonable quantity of the everyday use items, like toilet rolls, kitchen rolls, facial tissues, toothpastes, cereals, whole meal flour, rice, pulses and cooking oil etc.  After the outbreak of the coronavirus in the country, there was an acute shortage of some of these items.  People were buying and hoarding the toilet rolls in a helter-skelter fashion. We did not have any inconvenience at all. When I counted the items lying in the utility and cubbyhole, we had the supply for a few months.

The panic buying has since tailed off.

It was sometime in October last year, I had decided that whenever I drive through the city centre, I should wear a face mask to avoid pollution. I wanted to buy a few, but I got a box of 300 surgical face masks. Now their availability in the country is scarce. But I dish out to friends and neighbours.

 I had the habit of brisk walking for 35 minutes around the streets of our village every evening.  But from December last year, for no apparent reason, I changed my walking habit. I would do it either inside the house or in our rear garden.

We used to pick up our grandchildren from school during term time every Wednesday. It was stopped in February.

My barber comes to our house from the neighbouring town. I had an appointment with him to visit me in the second week of February to cut my hair. I cancelled the appointment*.

We were not desperate for any items, except of course bread, eggs, butter, fresh fruits, vegetables, meat and juices etc. Milk is delivered by the milkman at the doorsteps.

We have a helper, who is working for us part-time for the last about ten years. In the papers there was the news item that cleaners have been hung out to dry. We stopped her coming to the house, not only for our sake but for her protection as well. But we promised that standing order for her wages would not be cancelled. She volunteered to do some shopping for us whenever she does her own. She is helping another family as well. We have given to her the face masks and the disposable gloves. We leave the money in the porch and she drops the shopping there later.

Beside her, our son, daughter-in-law, friends and neighbours were quite keen to help us.

Finally, we wash our hands frequently. In a nutshell, as it stands, there does not appear any earthly reason that this virus would be able to attack us.

It may be argued that we are lucky to get by because we have support from different quarters, but there might be many lonelier people who cannot solicit any support.  They might feel that they have been left high and dry. But the fact is that to help such people the government have allocated large sums of money. There are about a million registered volunteers who are able, ready and willing to help them 24/7. Many of them are waiting for phone calls. Interestingly, not only the weekly shopping would be delivered at the doorsteps, it is fully free. It is not means tested.

Thus, the argument is untenable.

But the tricky question is:

 How to spend the time while confined to the house or flat?

 So far, I am concerned, I do not feel any boredom. I spend time on the computer, one-hour afternoon nap, walking, having a video chat with the children, grandchildren and the friends. Substantial time is spent on reading, including the national and local papers. I watch on TV the daily Prime Minister/Minister led briefing about the coronavirus and later the news at ten.

 I am worried about the havoc being caused by the virus, but I am not inconvenienced. Not a wit. But the wife is. She is a worrier and not ready yet to face up to this situation.

As stated in an earlier story (February 2020), she is a lady of leisure. In the ‘good old days’ i.e. before the outbreak, she would visit the town centre, particularly during the market days. She would meet the friends there, have coffee and gossip. Sometimes, she would go with them to our local cinema. Occasionally, she would lead the group to an Asian restaurant for a dinner.

Her socialising with the friends is all gone in a flash. She is feeling down in the dumps. There does not appear to be an end to it during this year at least.

One day when I was busy in my study, I heard her talking to someone. I thought she might be on phone. But, in fact she was talking to herself. On another day, she asked me:

“What’s the time?”

The clock was ticking right in front of her a few feet away.  I try to bring her home to the reality that according to the pellucid advice of the scientists this is a long haul.  We should be prepared to remain confined to the house.

Even to me every day is like Sunday.

It is widely reported in the media that for the public at large, beside the loneliness, the lockdown causes some other problems as well.

There has been increase in the cases of domestic violence. Since the lockdown, each day in London there are one hundred arrests of persons who have allegedly committed the offence.

Also, it is said that when the courts re-open, they would be overwhelmed with divorce petitions.

But if the benefits of the lockdown are juxtaposed with the problems and pains, mentioned above, the balance truly tilts in favour of following the guidance strictly i.e. stay at home, protect the NHS and save lives. I humbly hope that the invisible enemy will be a goner sooner rather than later.

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8 min read[.

At one time in the last month, the author was on the verge of suspending further posting of the humorous stories until the Covid-19 is eliminated. But, on second thought, changed the mind, because in many countries of the world millions of people are hunkered down in their homes for weeks, and there is dire need of cheering them up. Thus, here it is.]It was a Midsummer Sunday afternoon, and my wife and I went to the nearest superstore for our weekly shopping. It is about three miles from our house. Normally, we go after lunch and before shopping drink a cup of coffee in the precinct’s café.  Sometimes, we have lunch there as well. I reverse parked my car just near the store where the wife was going. I went to the next store to buy toiletries etc and I returned in about ten minutes. When I was in the store, someone had parallel parked his/her car, which was of the same colour and size but of a different make.As usual, I expected the wife to take longer. In superstores, where she buys clothes, she sometimes takes even longer – one day she buys the dress, the following week she would exchange it.Thus, after returning from the store, I sat in the car, switched on the classical music radio with low volume and closed my eyes to have a cat nap.About fifteen minutes later, the passenger door opened and shut. In a flash, I pressed the start button of the car, turned left, then right, and from the mini roundabout took a left turn.After a couple of minutes, I indicated to turn left to join the dual carriageway. At that juncture, instead of hearing my wife’s teacher’s commanding tone, I heard a mellifluous voice:“Where’re you going my dear?”“Going home,” I replied.Concurrently, I realised that unbeknown to me, the woman sitting next to me was not my wife. It was a different woman. She resembled the ex-wife of our Prime Minister Boris Johnson, the mother of his four children. Her household originally stems from Sarghoda (Pakistan) and after partition settled down in India.Naively, the woman had not realised the mistake, nor did I until we were on the dual carriageway.The woman had the giggles. She did not know that we could not return until three miles from there.She told me that her husband might be looking for her. When she gave me his description, I remembered that, while I was taking left turn from the mini roundabout, I could see in the mirror a man in his early sixties. He was wearing a blue jacket. He had stretched his right arm, pointing his index finger at my car. Probably, he had suspected that I was taking his wife away for clandestine reasons.Still, I was relaxed and knew that it was an honest mistake on our part, and we would return in about twenty minutes.We reached the stretch of the carriageway where there was the national speed limit. The woman was fascinated by the view. On both sides of the road there were multicoloured flowers and beyond the short hedge there were cattle grazing in the pastures.  She said:“It’s very beautiful here. We live on the other side of the town, but never ventured to this side in summer”.Suddenly, I heard a sound of a helicopter from afar, which was getting closer by seconds.I was startled. I guessed that the husband might have reported this to the police alleging that a stranger had kidnapped his wife. When I conveyed my fear to the woman, she cracked up, while I was sweating. My worry worsened when I heard, again from the distance, police car sirens.While my fellow passenger was enjoying the experience, my mind was reeling:“Her husband must have reported this to the police, who might be searching for us. They would find out my details in a matter of minutes. Soon, it would be on the national and North West news and radio, it would be a breaking news that a Barrister has kidnapped a shopper’s wife in broad daylight in a town in which he had been the mayor.  The police and the Crown Prosecution Service are pleased to arrest and prosecute celebrities. I’m not a celebrity, but my profession, in tandem with the fact that I had been the mayor of the town, would be enough to investigate the matter thoroughly. They do not spare even people who are dead or dying. In some cases, the accusers turned out to be malicious”.When I expressed my fear to the woman, she said:“It’s not your fault. They would not blame you”.She added:“Worse comes to worst, I would say that I eloped with you.”The words uttered by her, albeit in jest, tasted dust in my mouth.“Should we not ring your husband?” I meekly suggested.She told me that she didn’t bring her mobile phone.I had my phone, but it would not open unless it recognised my face. I did not remember my password. I explained to her the situation. She tried to bring it in front of my face but as the angle was not right, it would not open.When she was trying to focus the phone before my face, she touched me.I sweated more when I envisioned that, beside the charge of kidnapping, she might allege that I touched her inappropriately. She was not blaming me at that time but might change her mind at the behest of her husband. I thought I had, inadvertently, landed in deep waters.The helicopter missed us. I was relieved to some extent. But the relief was ephemeral – the police car siren was getting nearer. I felt relaxed and least pressured when, after a couple of minutes, the police car overtook us, and I was sure that they were not chasing us.We were reaching the traffic lights from where we could turn right. That road led to our village and to the next one.

I told her that in a few minutes, I would take an about turn from the mini roundabout.

Before we reached the mini roundabout, she gazed at the scenic view of the surroundings in rapt silence.

‘There is a deep slope. The road snakes through the spectacular village and the bridge on the river. During summer one can see the steam locomotive moving and whistling. The river looks small, passive and shallow, but the appearance is very deceptive. On the surface it is calm, but might have a fast under current, and that’s very dangerous. There’ve been incidents of people drowning in it, and the bodies are later found on the other side of the town. Also, if there is heavy rain, it bursts its banks.

‘After crossing the bridge, a few minutes later, you drive through a single lane with five passing places and join the A road to get onto the motorway’.When I briefed the lady, sitting next to me in my car, about the two villages and the river, she said that she would like to view it. I apologised saying:

I did not tell her the lurking fears in my mind.

From the mini roundabout we returned.

On our way back, we did not talk much. Just before we could enter the shopping centre’s car park, she said:

“I’m grateful to you for the ride. I feel, I’ve returned anew”.

Before I could say something, she advanced towards me and kissed me on the cheek.

As the previous parking space was not available anymore, I parked the car near the bench on which the husband was sitting with a bewildered gaze. His wife explained to him in an enthusiastic manner about the ride.  He looked askance at me giving scant attention to the matter. 

After their departure, hardly five minutes had passed, my wife emerged. She saw the car parked slightly away from the place where it was reverse parked before. She did not notice it. 

Had she arrived a little earlier and seen the woman in my car, she would have tutted:

“You took the woman with you wittingly”.

She might quip:

“Leopards don’t change their spots”.

Thereafter, she would maintain radio silence, which I would struggle to break it.

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Part 2.

9 minutes read

By Dr. F. Chaudhry

We planned one-week Mediterranean cruise holidays. We had been on cruise ships quite a few times before.  We suggested to our family friends, husband and wife couple, to join us this time. They are awfully nice and always ready to help others. I never see them moaning about anything. In recent years they have turned slightly more religious, more so than their respective parents. But reassuringly they are not religious zealots.  The husband, who is called Aliyu, has grown beard. But it is not of the style of Brian Blessed’s beard. Rather, it is of Corbyn’s style. He has been a Corbyn fan. Since his decisive defeat in the recent general elections, Aliyu appears to be changing the style of his beard slowly but steadily.

The couple have been on other holidays but never on a cruise ship. This was their maiden journey on a ship, and they were gripped by a feeling of excitement. We forewarned them that on board there would be a variety of highly delectable veg, fish and meat dishes but not the hallal/kosher food, unless at the time of booking they pre order this.  

  We went to Southampton by train one day early and stayed in a hotel. Next day at about 1.30 pm we boarded the ship. Our friends were fascinated and truly entranced by the gargantuan ship.

During the week some interesting things happened. But I will recount the two incidents only. Before coming to the second one, which directly leads to the question as to who told someone in the Council that the mayoress was glossophobiac, I will narrate the first one which is quite interesting.

It was at dawn when our ship docked in the French port of Roeun. Paris was the nearest city. We were not keen to visit Paris as we had been there before many times. But Aliyu and his wife were very excited to see the city for the first time and the Eiffel-Tower in particular. My wife decided to go with them as well. As no excursion tickets were available anymore, it was decided that they would travel by train. One-way journey by an express train was around an hour and 10 minutes.

Next morning, they boarded the ship’s shuttle bus service and in about ten minutes were at the town centre. They hired a taxi and reached the station which took another ten minutes.

They viewed the Tower and milked every minute of the surroundings.

They returned to the station to catch the train to come back to the port town. Due to the language barrier, it took quite some time before they came realised that the train was cancelled. The next one would come after an hour. While waiting for the next train a fellow passenger, who was French and was to board the same train, told them that he was a regular commuter and the cancellation of trains was not uncommon. He was not sure the next train would arrive on time.

It was 3 pm. According to my approximation by that time they should have returned to the ship. I tried to contact them on their mobile phones but there was no response.

 At 3.45 pm I struck up a conversation with the officer at the entrance, who was an Asian. He told me the chronology of the timings leading to the departure of the ship from the dock.

 The last shuttle bus would arrive at 4.15 pm. All the passengers should check in by 4.25 pm when the embarking gangway would be removed, and the ship door shut. The two long blasts would be sounded at 4.45 pm and the ship should sail any moment thereafter.

Earlier at 4.05 pm I was able to establish contact with Aliyu who had told me the train would reach the station in about 25 minutes. The earliest they could reach the ship by taxi would be 4.45 pm. Thus, it seemed certain that they would miss the boat.  There were more than 3,000 passengers on board the ship and the departure could not be delayed for 3 persons. Moreover, the longer the ship remained docked in the port, more rent was payable by the cruise company.

They had funds to stay in a hotel and the next day could travel to London by air, train or ferry. But what about the luggage? On my own I could not handle it.

 I was in quite a pickle and it was getting worse with every passing minute.

I tried to argue with the officer at the gate. He expressed his inability to delay the departure. The door had to be shut by 4.25. By that time, it was 4.23 pm. Only two minutes were left and under no circumstances they would be able to reach the ship in time.

At 4.25 pm when the officer was about to shut the system, I had another round of persuasive talk with him. He reiterated that it was not in his power. He raised half of his arm to convey directions to the ground staff to disengage the gangway. I moved his hand gently downwards to its normal place. It was not, even in the broadest sense like Pope Francis moving the arm of his pilgrim. I asked to speak to the Captain. I did not expect he would agree. But this was the last desperate throw of the dice. Being a lawyer, I believe that one should argue vehemently even if the case has no substance. There have been instances in my life practising law where hopeless cases have been won.

AT 4.35 pm I was speaking to the Captain.

To gain some more minutes, I allured him to listen to me about the things which were not relevant to the issue of delaying the departure. At 4.35 pm I was talking to the Captain decorously:

‘I’m Dr Chaudhry. I’m pleased to talk to you. How’re you’?

He replied:

‘I’m fine. What can I do for you?

I replied hiding my worry behind an air of insouciance:

‘I met you at your party. You sounded Scottish. Which part of Scotland you come from? I’ve been to so many places in Scotland. To be honest I love Scotland’.

I was trying to be friendlier and flatterer.

It looked that he was carried away by the conversation and for some minutes he was oblivious of his duty to order the departure of the ship.

Captain said pleasantly:

“Thank you…..”

Interrupting him, I said:

 “We’ve travelled on this ship and other ships owned by your company many times before. Each time we enjoyed it”.

The captain’s patience was running out and it appeared he was getting agitated. He said:

“Thank you for the compliments. But what’s the problem, sir? In what way can I help you?”

As I was speaking slowly, respectfully and with pauses, the time was 4.44 pm.

The officer at the gate saw a taxi and three passengers alighting from it. He roared:

“They’re here”.

I thanked the Captain and truncated the conversation.

The threesome checked in huffing and puffing.

Next day at lunch time what happened is more interesting. It culminates in the disclosure of the answer to the question posed in Part I of the story.

  There were several restaurants in the ship with a variety of food. We were having fantastic time.

It was lunch time. The ladies went to a different restaurant and Aliyo and I chose one on the upper deck. We occupied the seaside table. We were eating, talking and enjoying a gorgeous vista of the sea. Suddenly, I heard Aliyo addressing me timidly:

‘Doctor, I’ve made a mistake. I’ve eaten a small piece of roast chicken which was non-halal/kosher. Please don’t tell my wife.’

At first, I chortled. It took a few minutes before I composed myself. I replied gently: “Look, Aliyo, had you not mentioned the fact that you ate non-halal/kosher piece of chicken, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Now you’ve brought it to my attention the situation is different. I might’ve many weaknesses but unfortunately the conspicuous one is that I can’t keep secrets close to my chest. I would do my best not to breathe a word of this to anyone, let alone your wife. But I am not joking if I tell you that I might blab it to someone sooner or later. Be that as it may, you should not worry- it is a flimsy fact. There might be a chance that your wife comes to know of it, but she will forgive you and forget it.” He said: “I think you don’t know my wife. She’ll not forgive me, nor will she forget it. I’m sure my God would ignore it. He has several other far more serious problems to be taking care of rather than to punish me for eating this small piece of chicken. Beside hair-raising problems on our planet, He might be busy to control the Black hole, which swallows objects of the size of our earth and no one knows what happens to them. It’s our good luck that our planet is billion of light years away from the hole.” After a pause, he added: “I don’t blame you. But I can swear by that you’ll try to keep it on the quiet. If you don’t, I’ll be ready to face the music.” Coming back to the question: Who told someone in the Council about the fact that my wife suffered from glossophobia? The answer is: I did.

Part 1

 By Dr. F. Chaudhry 

8 minute read

In accordance with the age-old practice, each year in the month of December the ruling political group nominates one of the councillors to be the mayor of our paradisal Metropolitan Borough in the English county of Lancashire. It has the population of about two hundred thousand people. The new mayor takes office from the start of the municipal year in the second week of May. It is the prerogative of the Party with a majority at the time to nominate a senior councillor to be the mayor.

The nominated mayor can then appoint any member of the family or a friend to be the mayoress or a consort, who would attend various functions with or without the mayor. In the town both the positions are deemed as very honourable. Both wear gold chains, share a chauffeured car and a secretary who has an office next to their prestigious parlours. It was at about 6.45 pm when I was walking in the town hall’s corridor towards the committee room to attend our full group’s monthly meeting. Before that, as usual, there was the executive committee meeting which had just ended. One of the councillors, who had been the mayor in the recent past and lived in our neighbourhood, stopped me and broke the news that the executive committee had determined I should be the mayor of the Borough for the forthcoming municipal year. I was pleased and thanked him for the support. Later at the full group meeting my name was unanimously approved.

I returned home at about 10.20­­­ pm and did not wake my wife to disclose the good news to her. It was in the morning at the breakfast table when I apprised her that she would be the mayoress. She felt exalted.  After taking early retirement she was a lady of leisure. She rang up her friends informing them that she would be the mayoress. They congratulated her.

It was the following Sunday when further discussion took place. She enquired what sort of activities she would undertake during the year. She was very pleased when I told her that there would be a few overseas official trips as well, including the possibility of visiting a twin town in China.

I added:

“I’m sure you would enjoy the year. You’ll preside over several meetings, including the Woman of the Year Award ceremony. It’ll be held in the Council’s banquet hall to be attended by more than 250 women from the town. You’ll make a speech….”

Before I could complete my sentence, she fumed:

“I don’t like to be the mayoress. I hate to make speeches.”

I asked her whether she had a stage fright, which she tartly denied and added:

“I don’t want to discuss the matter anymore”.

Instead of prolonging the discussion further, I left the room. There was plenty of time. But ostensibly it appeared that as it stood, there was not a dog’s chance that she would change her mind. If she did not, I had to think of other options. I was caught in a cleft stick.

My daughter, who was not only working full time, she had very young twins, boy and girl and could not spare any time to be the mayoress for a year. Besides, her husband was joining his new job about two hundred miles away. The whole family would relocate to the new place. Our son, with his wife and two very young children lived about six-minute ride from our house. But he was starting his MBA at Oxford in the next academic year. They had already rented accommodation there. We had many friends in and around the town. But their wives were working full time. Also, it did not look nice if I moved around with a friend’s wife.

The time of mayor-making was approaching apace. The impasse continued.

 One day I suggested to her that she had the degree of MA in English from a university which was more than hundred- year- old and had worked as a lecturer/teacher in different parts of the world. Thus, there was no earthly reason she should suffer from glossophobia. She did not budge an inch and further clarified that she had no fear of public speaking. Rather, the decision was made on principle.

There did not look any solution to the problem. But I was calm and confident that by and by there should be a way to cajole her into agreeing to do the job of mayoress. 

 It was a Sunday lunch time in the middle of March, I said to her passingly:

“The problem has been solved”.

“Which problem?”, she enquired.

“The Chief Executive of the Authority has been very helpful.”

What sort of help he’s providing? She queried.

I replied:

“He’s found a mayoress.”

After saying the words, I just moved into the kitchen pretending as if it were not a serious issue.

“What do you mean ‘found a mayoress’?”, she retorted.

I said:

“He has agreed that he’d give the time off to one of the Council employees, who sounds ebullient and happy to perform the civic duties. The woman he has spoken to is …..”.

I had not completed my sentence, interrupting me, she said:

“Who told you I’m not able, ready and willing to be the mayoress? I might have said something jokingly. You must’ve misunderstood me. It was nothing.  It’s a great honour to be the mayoress of our beautiful town. I’s rather very keen for it”.

She looked nauseated at the prospect of another woman to be the mayoress

I sniggered behind her back and enjoyed her remarkable volte- face. The fact was that I was hatching a ruse from the day she had declined to take the job bluntly and it struck home. I never sought any help from the Chief Executive.  I relished the trick.

As expected, I was sworn in on the Wednesday in the second week of May.

About two weeks later there was the annual Woman of the Year Award ceremony to be presided over by the mayoress. Only women were invited. The officers and councillors could watch it from the gallery. Soon the banquet hall was chock- full of the guests.  My chauffeur had reserved for me a ringside seat. Beside him, I was the only spectator.

I soon noticed that one by one more officers, including the Chief Executive and the councillors were occupying the chairs in the gallery. More chairs were fetched. Before the meeting kicked off, it looked the scene of the Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Bird. There in a matter of minutes, close to the car in which actress Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren) was reading the paper and waiting for the actor Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor) to return to his house, a lot of birds had gathered.  I asked the chauffeur whether every year the gallery was filled with so many fans.  He said that he was surprised too.

The meeting started. The mayoress had checked that everything was in order. She had prepared her speech to a T. She started it in a stentorian voice and made some funny quips as well.  The audience whooped and cheered. There were five standing ovations and no booing or yawning.

 I saw some of the spectators near me gaping. Some looked uncomfortable and squirmed in their seats. I observed that before the end of the speech all of them around me left one by one sheepishly.  

 I conjectured that they might have hoped the mayoress would stumble over her words and expected a schadenfreude. But they were disappointed when listened to her flaw-free speech. Also, I was sure they must have been briefed by someone that the mayoress suffered from glossophobia. 

Who could that person be? The answer will be given in Part 2 of the story.