I've been on a manic blog-reading spree to determine what it is about other people's blogs that makes them get encouraging comments and ovations and appreciative word-of-mouth publicity, while I have people asking me if I want to own an online casino, with no references whatsoever to the interesting anecdotes I've put in about my superbly colourful life. I've compared notes, and come to the conclusion that my blog, at best, is mildly amusing, but only just so. It has nothing of "the morbid musings of the existentialist nihilist" or the insightful observations of "the post-modernist weeping philosopher". No intellectual capacity, nothing cerebral about it. I'm a yapping Lindsay Lohan who wants to discuss spots and mo-biking men.
So, in a last ditch effort to boost readership, I'm turning my blog into a tabloid.
Here, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you "The Life Of Rainbeau Peep: Most Embarassing Moments" :-
1. Year 1995- I am 12 years old, not very bright, rotund with acne. I need tuitions in mathematics, and a private tutor comes to explain to me the intricacies of vulgar fractions. I am only concerned with sexual innuendoes and find mathematics amusing, until I realise the terror that is my tutor. He wreaks havoc on one and all when I make careless mistakes and exhales dangerously toxic breath [obviously never used mouthwash] when I don't [I mean I can't] do my homework.
On one fateful evening, I am being taught decimals, and am making an effort to listen attentively, having just previously been admonished for undone homework. The man is jabbering away when I feel a leaky bladder issue arising. I'm petrified of him, so I let him keep talking without interrupting. Until it gets unbearable...
I say: Sir, may I...
Motor-mouth [no need for respect, he was only a young engineering student]: No, no breaks, you didn't do your homework. To continue, 6.66 + 66.6 would make ... etc.
I [writhing like a flummoxed serpent]: I need to be excused. [I can barely talk by now]
M-m: I know all your tricks, young lady. You're always looking for excuses to slack it.
I [swaying in my chair,as if to a tribal chant in my head]: You're not getting it ...
M-m [roaring in exasperation]: CONCENTRATE!!!!!!
The weak of heart should stop here. I tried my best, dear readers. I couldn't hold it in any longer. There and then, I went, drip drip trickle trickle and then splash splatter, until my dining room was a pool of my own urine. It didn't help that I pretended nothing had happened. What followed is hardly important, suffice it to know that my Father gifted him an expensive fountain pen on the next day of class. I was 12, and well developed. He was only about 8-10 years older than I.
2. Year 1999 - I am 16 now. Still fat, with acne. But quite the sprightly little devil, with a sizeable friend circle, and in the process of discovering new creative potential in myself everyday. I participate actively in several extra-curriculars, convinced I can do anything. The sort of thing all teenagers go through. Boys have begun to notice me. Not the best boys, though. I'm a happy, prancing elephant.
Double period English in school. There's a silly class test that Debo, Mahe and I are just too good to take. We decide to bunk, and hide in the Home Science Lab., because the girls have made roso malai in the last period. We're the gastronomes who will partake of the roso malai and subsequently make our opinions about other people's culinary skills be known.
So we're in the Lab, chomping down all sorts of roso malai, when this cleaning-guy suddenly comes in. Engrossed eaters, we had forgotten to lock the door. Cleaning-guy sees us, turns around, rushes out, locking the door behind him. We're trapped in the Home Science Lab, with nothing to defend ourselves but round balls of cottage cheese dipped in sweetly flavoured milk. Clearly, some teacher would be summoned. We lose our mind and decide the best course to adopt would be to hide. Even though we'd already been spotted, we hide. Debo and Mahe are both unnaturally thin, they squeeze themselves behind a large cupboard. I hide under the table.
After what seems like an eternity, the door opens and we hear the voice of the Department Head asking where we were. I close my eyes. I'm so dizzy with fear, I can't gauge what's being said. When I open my eyes I see the DH crouching down and gesturing to me to come out from under the table. I crawl out, tasseled with years of accumulated dust.
We were actually let off without suspension or even detention, because we were all three of us good students with clean records. Maybe DH was slightly amused by the whole incident. Or perhaps Mahe's relentless weeping had an impact.
When she found out, my English teacher held me and her eyes were misty. I'm not lying, I swear, she was very fond of me. We were in Class XI, the second-most senior students in the whole school.
3. Year 2001- Do the math. I've just appeared for my school-leaving examinations. Got through a law school, everybody elated. We need a holiday. My acne is under control, somewhat. I am full of angst, I listen to psychedelic rock, and have known love. We decide to explore Australia and New Zealand - my family and I.
On a touristy train to gape at the natural marvel that is a Kiwi glacier, we sit behind a young American mother with her delightfully pink, bouncy baby. She has wicked blue eyes and a tuft of golden hair all curled up on a tiny head. Everything excites her, she hops from her mummy's lap onto the seat next to her, and then clambers up and down anything worth clambering. I catch her eye and wink my admiration, and she flashes me her best mono-toothed smile. Her mother turns her head to find out what delights her so, which is when she points towards me and gurgles happily, "Oi piggy!" She wasn't talking about my pigtails. I had short hair like a boy's.
I look out the window, pretending it wasn't me. My mother snorts, my father looks worried.
So there you are, you trivia hounds. Now you know everything about me.
p.s.: Still battling the bulge, the cellulite, the avoirdupois.