My dining table is in a perpetual state of transmogrification, much like the crew on Davie Jone’s ship, The Flying Dutchman. Though I clean up every couple of days, within minutes, it’s gleaming surface attracts not only dust, but all kinds of odds and ends.

Today, for example, there’s
a picture frame which Vivek took off the wall, to put up his half-done painting,
the mini-DV camera,
two Beta tapes, and 20 odd CDs all marked “Lilkee this-that-and-the other”,
some coins,
my wallet,
Vivek’s wallet,
visiting cards of people I regrettably, am never going to remember or call, just dump in a shoebox, which I must clean up one of these days,
10 books and 3 music CDs from the British Council library,
my cheque book which seems to throw out money from the bank faster than I can put it in,
our all-purpose pink and black patchwork bag which has seen better days and been mended atleast 12 times – much like me,
my new Hidesign handbag – an atrocious expense,
and some grubby bits of bills, which I valiantly collect, in the hope that the accounts of the film will sort themselves out miraculously.

No wonder we never eat at the table.

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