Table manners
Going to restaurants would be a much better experience if we all acquired some
I’ve always said that if you want to know how well (or ill) behaved people really are, you only have to observe them in a restaurant setting. I don’t know what it is, but there is something about eating and drinking in a public place that makes people reveal their essential selves. And going purely by my own experience, in eight cases out of ten, this is not a terribly edifying spectacle.
Among the many lovely qualities that you see on display are boastfulness, pride, self-aggrandization, rudeness, bullying, arrogance, belligerence, with a little lying and cheating thrown in for good measure.
There will be people who arrive without a booking but expect a table on the strength of their last names, their daddy’s balance sheet, their place in the Union Cabinet or simply because they are best friends with the owner (take your pick). There will be those who take particular pride in being rude and obnoxious to the wait staff and then refuse to leave a tip on the grounds that the service simply did not cut it. And that’s not counting those who will eat their way through a large three-course meal and then summon the manager to complain about the quality in the hope that they won’t be obliged to stump up for it.
On the basis of my largely unscientific research (not to mention empirical observations) I have come up with a guide of what to do and what not to do in a restaurant. Do feel free to pass it on to all those who appear to be in dire need of such a primer!
• Don’t arrive at a restaurant at peak hours without a reservation and expect to be seated immediately on the strength of that time-tested refrain: “Don’t you know who I am?” (To which the only acceptable answer is: “Why? Have you forgotten?”) If you haven’t reserved a table then get in queue like the rest of us.
• If you make a reservation then make sure that you keep it. That means turning up at the restaurant at the appointed time. If you arrive half an hour late and discover that your table has been given away, don’t kick up a fuss. The management has a perfect right to do that especially if you haven’t had the courtesy of calling up and telling them that you will be late.
• If you have made a reservation for four, then don’t turn up with six guests. No restaurant can miraculously whistle up two extra covers at a minute’s notice. And no, it is not possible to add two extra chairs to a table of four. The laws of physics – not to mention restaurant aesthetics – mandate against it.
• Please don’t eat out when you are clearly suffering from the flu. All that sneezing and coughing is enough to put everyone else off their food. Not to mention the very real fear of infection, given how close tables are set these days.
• If you want to bring along your children for lunch or dinner then look after them yourselves. If that’s too much of a strain and you must bring the nanny along, sit her down at your table and treat her like any other member of your party. Don’t make her stand behind your child’s high chair, napkin at the ready to wipe off drool and assorted food stains.
• If there is something wrong with the dish you ordered or you simply don’t like it, return it immediately. Don’t eat your way through three-quarters and then demand a replacement.
• If you want French fries, order your own. Don’t steal them off someone else’s plate while pretending to be an oh-so-abstemious salad-eater.
• Don’t order soufflé for dessert and then complain about how long it is taking. The waiter explained when you ordered it that minimum cooking time was 25 minutes. He wasn’t kidding. It isn’t his fault that you didn’t take him seriously.
• Don’t dawdle over your tea or coffee at peak times when other people are waiting to be seated for their meal. You may be well within your rights to do so, but good manners demand that you relinquish your place to those still waiting to be fed.
• Your waiter is a person, not a sub-human species. So, don’t whistle or cock a finger to attract his attention. If you can’t catch his eye, a loud “Excuse me” usually does the trick. But if he is wearing a name tag then do him the courtesy of addressing him by his name. (Needless to say, the same applies to waitresses.)
• If your favourite coffee place is full, it is not cool to go and stand behind a table that looks as if it may be the first to get vacated in the hope that you can grab it before anyone else. And it is downright rude to ask those seated just how long they are going to take over that cappuccino.
• It doesn’t matter if a 10 per cent service charge is included in your bill. It is still a nice gesture to leave a little something behind for your waiter. For one thing, it will get you better service the next time around. But more than that, it is the right thing to do.
About Me
- Seema Goswami
- Journalist, Author, Columnist. My Twitter handle: @seemagoswami
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Year-end Specials
I’m sorry, but I simply don’t have any time for them
Question: Why are journalists regarded as the original environmentalists? Answer: Because at the end of the year, they recycle everything.
Okay, as jokes go, it’s probably a little lame, but you know what I mean, don’t you?
Yes, I’m referring to that annual ritual conducted by all media organisations, both in print and on television, otherwise referred to as the Year-End Special. This basically consists of dredging up every newsworthy thing that happened through the year and writing it up with pretty pictures and witty captions – and I should know, having ‘conceptualised’ several such series during my years as feature editor of a newspaper.
Yes, as surely as winter follows autumn, December heralds a crop of ‘year-end’ features, all of them marked by a certain tiresome similarity (except, I hasten to add, those compiled by my colleagues at Brunch and HT City, who do a marvellous job of an essentially thankless task!).
By now I am so weary of these year-end special issues that from the time December hits the mid-month mark, I simply stop reading magazines and the feature sections of newspapers. And every time the dreaded words ‘Year-end’ come attached to a TV programme I change channels.
So, why do I regard such specials with such dread? After all, they are nothing but a harmless catalogue of the year that has gone by – or sometimes an attempt to see what the coming year will bring. So, why do I hate such features so much? And what is it about them that irks me the most?
Well, even if you ignore the fact that most of these features recycle similar stories and themes from previous years, there is much to loathe about them. And here, just off the top of my head, are four things I can’t abide in these year-end abominations.
1) Gift-giving manuals: It all starts with the run-up to Christmas. What should you give your mother-in-law for Christmas? Do you need to buy a present for your secretary? How do you choose the perfect gift for your boss? What is the best way of telling your sister-in-law that you don’t want yet another electric toaster? How does an aromatic candle rate on the gift-giving scale? Do you need to send a bottle of champagne with a cake for New Year? Is it ever acceptable to recycle gifts (well, if you can do that with year-end features...)?
2) Diet advice: The most popular topic during this month in the health section is, “How to keep your weight off during the festive season.” Articles on this subject crop up with a distressing predictability in most newspapers and magazines. And the advice given by everyone from celebrity dieticians to famous nutritionists (for some reason that I can never quite fathom, the two are not one and the same thing) ranges from the downright dotty to the plain commonsensical. But shorn of all the nonsense about basal metabolic rates, glycemic index, blood groups diets and what have you, it all boils down to two things. One: eat less. Two: exercise more. Now, are we really so stupid – no matter how bad the hangover – that we can’t figure this out for ourselves?
3) Travel tips: Okay, I get it. Everyone wants to get away for Christmas and New Year. And most people – except for those drones at the bottom of the food chain, who have to slog away while everyone else parties out the old year and rings in the new – are looking for advice on where they should go. My grouse is that the destinations featured in these year-end specials are the same ones that we read about through the year. Now, how is that any help if you are planning a trip?
And don’t even start me on the ‘tips’ on what to take with you. The usual clichés – white shirt, jeans, a roll-up dress that doesn’t get crumpled, comfortable boots, lots of accessories to dress up your outfits, a couple of colourful sarongs – are trotted out year after year (and yes, I plead guilty to churning this stuff out as well). As for ‘packing tips’, I swear I will scream if I read one more story about stuffing tissue paper up the sleeves of my jackets to prevent creasing. Honestly, how much free time do these people have? And haven’t they ever heard of steam-ironing?
4) New trends: This is a particularly dangerous game to play. Trying to forecast what will happen in the year to come – whether it is politics, movies, food or fashion – is a tricky business. And it becomes downright fraught when it is left to the junior-most people on the staff (the only ones who don’t rate a holiday over the festive season). In fact, if you want a good laugh you only have to see some of the ‘predictions’ made by the media about who was going to be ‘big’ in the year to come. Of course, as they say, hindsight is always 20/20 but even so, some of these predictions look downright ludicrous after the event. And I should know. I once predicted that Ruby Bhatia (remember her? She used to be a veejay on MTV. Or was it Channel V?) was going to be the Next Big Thing on Indian television. Only in my case, these turned out to be Famous Last Words.
And, on the cheerful note, here’s wishing all of you a very Happy New Year!
I’m sorry, but I simply don’t have any time for them
Question: Why are journalists regarded as the original environmentalists? Answer: Because at the end of the year, they recycle everything.
Okay, as jokes go, it’s probably a little lame, but you know what I mean, don’t you?
Yes, I’m referring to that annual ritual conducted by all media organisations, both in print and on television, otherwise referred to as the Year-End Special. This basically consists of dredging up every newsworthy thing that happened through the year and writing it up with pretty pictures and witty captions – and I should know, having ‘conceptualised’ several such series during my years as feature editor of a newspaper.
Yes, as surely as winter follows autumn, December heralds a crop of ‘year-end’ features, all of them marked by a certain tiresome similarity (except, I hasten to add, those compiled by my colleagues at Brunch and HT City, who do a marvellous job of an essentially thankless task!).
By now I am so weary of these year-end special issues that from the time December hits the mid-month mark, I simply stop reading magazines and the feature sections of newspapers. And every time the dreaded words ‘Year-end’ come attached to a TV programme I change channels.
So, why do I regard such specials with such dread? After all, they are nothing but a harmless catalogue of the year that has gone by – or sometimes an attempt to see what the coming year will bring. So, why do I hate such features so much? And what is it about them that irks me the most?
Well, even if you ignore the fact that most of these features recycle similar stories and themes from previous years, there is much to loathe about them. And here, just off the top of my head, are four things I can’t abide in these year-end abominations.
1) Gift-giving manuals: It all starts with the run-up to Christmas. What should you give your mother-in-law for Christmas? Do you need to buy a present for your secretary? How do you choose the perfect gift for your boss? What is the best way of telling your sister-in-law that you don’t want yet another electric toaster? How does an aromatic candle rate on the gift-giving scale? Do you need to send a bottle of champagne with a cake for New Year? Is it ever acceptable to recycle gifts (well, if you can do that with year-end features...)?
2) Diet advice: The most popular topic during this month in the health section is, “How to keep your weight off during the festive season.” Articles on this subject crop up with a distressing predictability in most newspapers and magazines. And the advice given by everyone from celebrity dieticians to famous nutritionists (for some reason that I can never quite fathom, the two are not one and the same thing) ranges from the downright dotty to the plain commonsensical. But shorn of all the nonsense about basal metabolic rates, glycemic index, blood groups diets and what have you, it all boils down to two things. One: eat less. Two: exercise more. Now, are we really so stupid – no matter how bad the hangover – that we can’t figure this out for ourselves?
3) Travel tips: Okay, I get it. Everyone wants to get away for Christmas and New Year. And most people – except for those drones at the bottom of the food chain, who have to slog away while everyone else parties out the old year and rings in the new – are looking for advice on where they should go. My grouse is that the destinations featured in these year-end specials are the same ones that we read about through the year. Now, how is that any help if you are planning a trip?
And don’t even start me on the ‘tips’ on what to take with you. The usual clichés – white shirt, jeans, a roll-up dress that doesn’t get crumpled, comfortable boots, lots of accessories to dress up your outfits, a couple of colourful sarongs – are trotted out year after year (and yes, I plead guilty to churning this stuff out as well). As for ‘packing tips’, I swear I will scream if I read one more story about stuffing tissue paper up the sleeves of my jackets to prevent creasing. Honestly, how much free time do these people have? And haven’t they ever heard of steam-ironing?
4) New trends: This is a particularly dangerous game to play. Trying to forecast what will happen in the year to come – whether it is politics, movies, food or fashion – is a tricky business. And it becomes downright fraught when it is left to the junior-most people on the staff (the only ones who don’t rate a holiday over the festive season). In fact, if you want a good laugh you only have to see some of the ‘predictions’ made by the media about who was going to be ‘big’ in the year to come. Of course, as they say, hindsight is always 20/20 but even so, some of these predictions look downright ludicrous after the event. And I should know. I once predicted that Ruby Bhatia (remember her? She used to be a veejay on MTV. Or was it Channel V?) was going to be the Next Big Thing on Indian television. Only in my case, these turned out to be Famous Last Words.
And, on the cheerful note, here’s wishing all of you a very Happy New Year!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The perfect getaway
We all need happy places that we can retreat to – even if they just exist in our minds
Breakfast at Tiffany’s – the book, not the movie – remains an eternal favourite of mine. Every year or so, I pick it up and re-read it, revelling in the antics of Holly Golightly, marvelling at her own particular brand of capricious madness. The title of the book says it all really. Of course, nobody ever has breakfast at Tiffany’s, which is a store that sells jewellery. But for Holly, Tiffany’s equals a magical place where nothing bad can ever happen. It is her own special ‘safe place’ where she seeks refuge when things tend to get too much for her.
Reading the book yet again recently got me thinking. Yes, safe places are all very well. But there’s a lot to be said for happy places as well, isn’t there?
Happy places. We all have them in our lives and in our memories. Places where we felt at peace, where we experienced joy, where we indulged in laughter or where we simply felt loved and cherished. Sometimes these places are associated with other people who are or have been special to us. Sometimes they are places that are significant only to us, our own personal islands where we spent some special time with ourselves.
At every stage of our lives, we all have our own happy places. And even though we may not always be able to access them physically, in times of stress even their memory is enough to soothe and please.
Even today, when the sun shines down warmly on a balmy winter day, I am transported back to my happy place in the house I grew up in. My favourite spot at home was a tiny little enclosed verandah in the front of the house, which got sun all through the morning. Once school broke for Christmas break, I would spend the entire day there, sprawled on an easy chair, reading my latest loot from the lending library, moving every hour or so to lap up the rays of the sun as it moved across the horizon. The reading was punctuated with parathas for breakfast, chomping down on sugarcane for a quick energy rush, and endless cups of sweet, milky tea before the chill of dusk sent me scurrying indoors.
At college, I found my happy place in the library, in the row of desks set against a bank of windows overlooking the central courtyard. I would sit there for hours on end, reference books open on the sloping desk, making copious notes when the exams came perilously close. When I wasn’t in the mood for serious study, I would choose an old favourite from the shelves heaving under the combined weight of the literary endeavour of several centuries. There was a special joy in simply reading a book, without bothering with the analytical stuff that comes with studying literature as a subject. My attention would wander from the printed page on to the flower-edged lawns below, watching the women come and go (with no thought of Michelangelo – or T.S. Eliot, for that matter).
More recently, my happy places have included the palm-fringed terrace of the barsati I lived in when I first moved to Delhi. This was the venue of many an impromptu party, a place where my friends could let their hair down over some pizzas and plenty of beer. This was where I organised a brilliant fireworks display for a friend’s young son only to have him cower in a corner all evening, looking frightened out of his wits. This was the vantage point from where I first fell in love with Delhi winters, with their mixture of mysterious fog, glorious sunshine, and the riot of colours as the seasonal blooms took over the traffic roundabouts.
Of course, there are plenty of other venues that qualify as happy places for me too. There is my favourite cafe, where I can curl up with a good book and a strong cup of coffee whenever I want some downtime. There are the green pastures of Lodhi Garden, the best place to go for a walk as the day winds down to an end, with Joni Mitchell singing to me from my I-pod. And strangely enough, I find long-haul flights happy places as well, where you can settle down with a glass of wine and watch crappy movies back-to-back without feeling the least bit guilty about wasting time.
I guess at the end of the day, a happy place is just someplace where you create some warm, fuzzy memories for yourself. For a young mother or father, it could be at the foot of their child’s bed, as they watch him snore breathily in the deep slumber of innocence. For a young couple, it could be the tiny little flat they moved into after their wedding, the venue of their first enthusiastic grapplings in the marital bed. For a 50-something man on the verge of retirement it could be his office, the scene of many professional triumphs over the years. For a 60-something woman, it could be the memories of her childhood home where she felt safe, secure and pampered before the vagaries of married life took over.
Yes, all of us have our own happy places. Sometimes they are just a car or plane ride away. Sometimes they are merely the stuff of memories. But even if they only survive in our minds, our lives are always happier for their existence.
We all need happy places that we can retreat to – even if they just exist in our minds
Breakfast at Tiffany’s – the book, not the movie – remains an eternal favourite of mine. Every year or so, I pick it up and re-read it, revelling in the antics of Holly Golightly, marvelling at her own particular brand of capricious madness. The title of the book says it all really. Of course, nobody ever has breakfast at Tiffany’s, which is a store that sells jewellery. But for Holly, Tiffany’s equals a magical place where nothing bad can ever happen. It is her own special ‘safe place’ where she seeks refuge when things tend to get too much for her.
Reading the book yet again recently got me thinking. Yes, safe places are all very well. But there’s a lot to be said for happy places as well, isn’t there?
Happy places. We all have them in our lives and in our memories. Places where we felt at peace, where we experienced joy, where we indulged in laughter or where we simply felt loved and cherished. Sometimes these places are associated with other people who are or have been special to us. Sometimes they are places that are significant only to us, our own personal islands where we spent some special time with ourselves.
At every stage of our lives, we all have our own happy places. And even though we may not always be able to access them physically, in times of stress even their memory is enough to soothe and please.
Even today, when the sun shines down warmly on a balmy winter day, I am transported back to my happy place in the house I grew up in. My favourite spot at home was a tiny little enclosed verandah in the front of the house, which got sun all through the morning. Once school broke for Christmas break, I would spend the entire day there, sprawled on an easy chair, reading my latest loot from the lending library, moving every hour or so to lap up the rays of the sun as it moved across the horizon. The reading was punctuated with parathas for breakfast, chomping down on sugarcane for a quick energy rush, and endless cups of sweet, milky tea before the chill of dusk sent me scurrying indoors.
At college, I found my happy place in the library, in the row of desks set against a bank of windows overlooking the central courtyard. I would sit there for hours on end, reference books open on the sloping desk, making copious notes when the exams came perilously close. When I wasn’t in the mood for serious study, I would choose an old favourite from the shelves heaving under the combined weight of the literary endeavour of several centuries. There was a special joy in simply reading a book, without bothering with the analytical stuff that comes with studying literature as a subject. My attention would wander from the printed page on to the flower-edged lawns below, watching the women come and go (with no thought of Michelangelo – or T.S. Eliot, for that matter).
More recently, my happy places have included the palm-fringed terrace of the barsati I lived in when I first moved to Delhi. This was the venue of many an impromptu party, a place where my friends could let their hair down over some pizzas and plenty of beer. This was where I organised a brilliant fireworks display for a friend’s young son only to have him cower in a corner all evening, looking frightened out of his wits. This was the vantage point from where I first fell in love with Delhi winters, with their mixture of mysterious fog, glorious sunshine, and the riot of colours as the seasonal blooms took over the traffic roundabouts.
Of course, there are plenty of other venues that qualify as happy places for me too. There is my favourite cafe, where I can curl up with a good book and a strong cup of coffee whenever I want some downtime. There are the green pastures of Lodhi Garden, the best place to go for a walk as the day winds down to an end, with Joni Mitchell singing to me from my I-pod. And strangely enough, I find long-haul flights happy places as well, where you can settle down with a glass of wine and watch crappy movies back-to-back without feeling the least bit guilty about wasting time.
I guess at the end of the day, a happy place is just someplace where you create some warm, fuzzy memories for yourself. For a young mother or father, it could be at the foot of their child’s bed, as they watch him snore breathily in the deep slumber of innocence. For a young couple, it could be the tiny little flat they moved into after their wedding, the venue of their first enthusiastic grapplings in the marital bed. For a 50-something man on the verge of retirement it could be his office, the scene of many professional triumphs over the years. For a 60-something woman, it could be the memories of her childhood home where she felt safe, secure and pampered before the vagaries of married life took over.
Yes, all of us have our own happy places. Sometimes they are just a car or plane ride away. Sometimes they are merely the stuff of memories. But even if they only survive in our minds, our lives are always happier for their existence.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Crime and punishment
One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer
By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.
This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.
But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.
The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.
The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.
So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.
Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.
But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?
What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.
So, these miscreants got off scot-free.
Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?
Somehow, I think not.
Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.
The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.
That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.
Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.
If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.
One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer
By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.
This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.
But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.
The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.
The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.
So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.
Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.
But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?
What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.
So, these miscreants got off scot-free.
Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?
Somehow, I think not.
Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.
The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.
That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.
Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.
If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The claws are out
There’s never been much love lost between Hindi film heroines; but what’s with all the recent public sniping?
Older readers will probably remember a more innocent time when film magazines carried reverential articles about the leading stars of the day, when those who were in a relationship were described as ‘very good friends’, and every heroine felt compelled to express her utmost respect for her female colleagues even though what she really wanted was to claw their eyes out.
Well, guess what? That’s exactly what the ladies are doing these days – albeit metaphorically, for the time being at least. For now, their weapon of choice is their tongue and boy, do they hand out a lashing with a rare relish!
Nor are their frank opinions expressed within the privacy of their own drawing rooms. Au contraire, they are aired on their TV channels of choice as they act all naughty and playful on the talk show of the day. The barbs are dressed up with giggles and chuckles but they are sharp and well-directed for all that. And they are trading them as if there is no tomorrow.
Playing a starring role in these cat fights is Deepika Padukone, ex-girlfriend of Ranbir Kapoor and current squeeze of Siddharth (son of Vijay) Mallya. Asked what product her former boyfriend should endorse, Deepika was quick to respond. “Condoms!” she replied, with perfect aplomb. Questioned about Katrina Kaif – with whom Ranbir is said to be ‘very good friends’ (see above) – she said she would like to see her passport. Apparently, this was a reference to the rumour that there is some dispute about Katrina’s nationality and thus, her work status in India. (And no, I hadn’t a clue about this either.)
But Deepika is just the first among equals in this bitching fest, for want of a more polite term. Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra, who began as good friends (or so they claimed at the time) now never tire of sniping at one another. Evidently, it’s all down to the fact that Priyanka began dating Shahid after Kareena dumped him for Saif Ali Khan. Priyanka and Shahid are apparently no longer together (do try and keep up!) but the ladies are still sniping away at each other.
Kareena was first off the block, asking Priyanka where she had gotten her accent from. Priyanka, who has been educated abroad, retorted with a tart: “The same place her boyfriend got his”. Then Priyanka was asked that if she could steal something off the computer of a long list of people (including Senior Bachchan and other Hindi film stalwarts) what would she steal? When it came to Kareena, Priyanka asked with faux-innocence: “Does she even have a computer?”
Oooh, you could just see the (Hermes, of course) handbags being drawn at dawn.
For some reason, most of this sniping and bitching happens on Karan Johar’s talk show. Suddenly in the midst of a somewhat happy-clappy atmosphere where everyone is laughing and teasing one another, you get a zinger like the ones quoted above. And above the sound of a million gasps across the nation you can hear Karan chuckle happily as he thinks of the headlines this little one-liner will elicit for the next few weeks.
Okay, so can I understand why Johar is happy for the occasional barb to be levelled across the parapet of the Koffee with Karan (honestly, what is with all this ‘K’ stuff? Doesn’t anyone know how to spell any longer?) show because that can only be good for his ratings. The more outrageous the stars get on the show, the more people are likely to tune in to get their weekly fix of cheap thrills.
But why do the stars fall in line so readily? Why are they so willing to say unkind things about one another on national television? Why are they so ready to be flip and bitchy about their colleagues? Why do they get so darn nasty with so little provocation?
Okay, Karan does tend to needle them a bit. But then, that’s his job as an anchor, to stir things up, to push the envelope, to make people say things that they otherwise would not. After all, his brief is to make the show as interesting as he possibly can. And quips like these go down swimmingly with the audience at home.
But my question is this: why do the stars fall for it? Why is it that in episode after episode, they all stumble into the same trap of slagging off their colleagues?
Is it that they are so comfortable with Karan – with whom all of them have done a movie or two and, no doubt, partied late into the night for good measure – that they forget that there is an actual audience out there watching and listening? Do they get conned into feeling that they are just among friends, joshing and joking, and that nothing they say will be taken seriously?
There may well be something to that because once the shock-horror reactions start pouring in, all the stars express outrage that what they said in good humour is being taken amiss. But, if you ask me, all this public sniping just makes me long for the good old days when stars concentrated on their pancake rather than their put-downs.
Call me quaint (and I’m sure you will) but I still prefer old-fashioned good manners over this new-fangled bitchiness.
There’s never been much love lost between Hindi film heroines; but what’s with all the recent public sniping?
Older readers will probably remember a more innocent time when film magazines carried reverential articles about the leading stars of the day, when those who were in a relationship were described as ‘very good friends’, and every heroine felt compelled to express her utmost respect for her female colleagues even though what she really wanted was to claw their eyes out.
Well, guess what? That’s exactly what the ladies are doing these days – albeit metaphorically, for the time being at least. For now, their weapon of choice is their tongue and boy, do they hand out a lashing with a rare relish!
Nor are their frank opinions expressed within the privacy of their own drawing rooms. Au contraire, they are aired on their TV channels of choice as they act all naughty and playful on the talk show of the day. The barbs are dressed up with giggles and chuckles but they are sharp and well-directed for all that. And they are trading them as if there is no tomorrow.
Playing a starring role in these cat fights is Deepika Padukone, ex-girlfriend of Ranbir Kapoor and current squeeze of Siddharth (son of Vijay) Mallya. Asked what product her former boyfriend should endorse, Deepika was quick to respond. “Condoms!” she replied, with perfect aplomb. Questioned about Katrina Kaif – with whom Ranbir is said to be ‘very good friends’ (see above) – she said she would like to see her passport. Apparently, this was a reference to the rumour that there is some dispute about Katrina’s nationality and thus, her work status in India. (And no, I hadn’t a clue about this either.)
But Deepika is just the first among equals in this bitching fest, for want of a more polite term. Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra, who began as good friends (or so they claimed at the time) now never tire of sniping at one another. Evidently, it’s all down to the fact that Priyanka began dating Shahid after Kareena dumped him for Saif Ali Khan. Priyanka and Shahid are apparently no longer together (do try and keep up!) but the ladies are still sniping away at each other.
Kareena was first off the block, asking Priyanka where she had gotten her accent from. Priyanka, who has been educated abroad, retorted with a tart: “The same place her boyfriend got his”. Then Priyanka was asked that if she could steal something off the computer of a long list of people (including Senior Bachchan and other Hindi film stalwarts) what would she steal? When it came to Kareena, Priyanka asked with faux-innocence: “Does she even have a computer?”
Oooh, you could just see the (Hermes, of course) handbags being drawn at dawn.
For some reason, most of this sniping and bitching happens on Karan Johar’s talk show. Suddenly in the midst of a somewhat happy-clappy atmosphere where everyone is laughing and teasing one another, you get a zinger like the ones quoted above. And above the sound of a million gasps across the nation you can hear Karan chuckle happily as he thinks of the headlines this little one-liner will elicit for the next few weeks.
Okay, so can I understand why Johar is happy for the occasional barb to be levelled across the parapet of the Koffee with Karan (honestly, what is with all this ‘K’ stuff? Doesn’t anyone know how to spell any longer?) show because that can only be good for his ratings. The more outrageous the stars get on the show, the more people are likely to tune in to get their weekly fix of cheap thrills.
But why do the stars fall in line so readily? Why are they so willing to say unkind things about one another on national television? Why are they so ready to be flip and bitchy about their colleagues? Why do they get so darn nasty with so little provocation?
Okay, Karan does tend to needle them a bit. But then, that’s his job as an anchor, to stir things up, to push the envelope, to make people say things that they otherwise would not. After all, his brief is to make the show as interesting as he possibly can. And quips like these go down swimmingly with the audience at home.
But my question is this: why do the stars fall for it? Why is it that in episode after episode, they all stumble into the same trap of slagging off their colleagues?
Is it that they are so comfortable with Karan – with whom all of them have done a movie or two and, no doubt, partied late into the night for good measure – that they forget that there is an actual audience out there watching and listening? Do they get conned into feeling that they are just among friends, joshing and joking, and that nothing they say will be taken seriously?
There may well be something to that because once the shock-horror reactions start pouring in, all the stars express outrage that what they said in good humour is being taken amiss. But, if you ask me, all this public sniping just makes me long for the good old days when stars concentrated on their pancake rather than their put-downs.
Call me quaint (and I’m sure you will) but I still prefer old-fashioned good manners over this new-fangled bitchiness.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Crime and punishment
One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer
By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.
This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.
But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.
The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.
The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.
So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.
Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.
But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?
What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.
So, these miscreants got off scot-free.
Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?
Somehow, I think not.
Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.
The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.
That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.
Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.
If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.
One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer
By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.
This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.
But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.
The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.
The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.
So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.
Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.
But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?
What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.
So, these miscreants got off scot-free.
Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?
Somehow, I think not.
Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.
The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.
That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.
Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.
If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.
Attention, please!
When there are so many distractions available at the click of a mouse, can you stop your mind from wandering?
Over the last few months, I have been trying to work on a new book, a racy thriller that I hope will turn out to be a page-turner (not to mention, a bestseller!). But the operative word in the last sentence is: ‘trying’. Yes, that’s right. I am trying – very hard indeed – to write a book. But I’m sorry to report, I am not getting very far.
And it’s all the fault of that scourge of our times: the Internet.
No, seriously, if it wasn’t for the distractions available at the click of a mouse, I would be half-way through my opus by now. I have written the first chapter, which is always the trickiest. I have the plot more or less worked out. I have plenty of thoughts on the twists and turns I could throw in to surprise the reader. I have the gleamings of a cracker of a climax in my head. And by now, I know my main characters almost as well as I do some of my best friends.
And yet, the writing is not going very well.
Of course I carry some blame for that, for being an undisciplined so-and-so who can’t keep to her self-imposed deadline of at least 500 words a day. But truth be told, most of the blame rests on my laptop, which is connected to my wifi network, and keeps throwing up interesting little nuggets when I am trying to work.
Suddenly an icon pops up telling me that a friend wants to chat on Gmail. Now, if she were to call me on the phone at that juncture I would probably not even notice (my mobile is nearly always on silent) let alone take her call. But there is no ignoring her on my laptop. The icon blinks on and on and I can’t keep my eyes off it.
Finally the temptation gets too hard to resist. Who knows what choice piece of information she may have to offer? What if she needs to discuss something urgent? The questions whirl around in my head until I concede defeat, close my word document, and press ‘Yes’ on that icon.
Of course, nine times out of ten she is just looking for a good gossip in the middle of the workday. And by the time the two of us have finished instant messaging the news of the week, a good half hour has passed. And so has the mood to work on my novel.
If it isn’t instant messaging on Gmail, it’s Facebook alerts that pop up to provide instant distraction. Yet another friend has a ‘Recent Status Update’ that he would like to share with me. Another has sent a private message with such an intriguing tagline that it is impossible to ignore. And then, there’s that link to a piece in the Guardian. Would it really be so bad to have a quick read before I resume work?
Of course, it would. Because when it comes to surfing the newspapers, there really is no end to it as far as I am concerned. I click on a link about Obama’s state visit to India, get distracted by a strap line that talks about the forthcoming royal wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton (or Catherine, as we are all apparently now meant to call her). From there it’s one easy click to an article about Princess Diana and how she may well overshadow her daughter-in-law even from the great beyond. And so it goes, until all thoughts of my book have been chased from my head, which is now filled with conspiracy theories about the Princess’ death in a car crash.
And then, there’s my new toy: Twitter. No, I don’t really tweet that much, mostly because I have nothing to say. But I do get a tad curious if I get an alert about someone having tweeted to me. I sign in to check what that’s about, quickly type out my replies, and then get waylaid by what everyone else is twittering on about. It’s not long before I have been inveigled into a conversation or two with my Twitter friends, or, as is more likely, have gotten into an argument that takes up so much of my mind space that there’s no longer any room for novel-writing in it.
I guess this is an unavoidable fall-out of the Age of Information that we live in, surrounded by so many social media networks that we find ourselves quite lost in all that babble. And given this constant flitting between different things, it’s no wonder that our attention spans are shot to hell.
Well, at least I know that mine is. With all this instant messaging, twittering, Googling and what have you, I find it harder and harder to concentrate on any one subject. In fact, given the level of my distraction, it’s a wonder how I manage to get any work done at all.
Which is why I’m making a resolution even before the New Year rolls in. From now on, I am going to restrict my use of the Internet to two hours a day, judiciously spaced out over a 24-hour period. Who knows, with a bit of luck, I may even get down to finishing that book.
(Full disclosure: in the course of writing this column, I logged on to Twitter, answered a couple of emails, and did a quick Internet search for Kate Middleton and Princess Diana.)
When there are so many distractions available at the click of a mouse, can you stop your mind from wandering?
Over the last few months, I have been trying to work on a new book, a racy thriller that I hope will turn out to be a page-turner (not to mention, a bestseller!). But the operative word in the last sentence is: ‘trying’. Yes, that’s right. I am trying – very hard indeed – to write a book. But I’m sorry to report, I am not getting very far.
And it’s all the fault of that scourge of our times: the Internet.
No, seriously, if it wasn’t for the distractions available at the click of a mouse, I would be half-way through my opus by now. I have written the first chapter, which is always the trickiest. I have the plot more or less worked out. I have plenty of thoughts on the twists and turns I could throw in to surprise the reader. I have the gleamings of a cracker of a climax in my head. And by now, I know my main characters almost as well as I do some of my best friends.
And yet, the writing is not going very well.
Of course I carry some blame for that, for being an undisciplined so-and-so who can’t keep to her self-imposed deadline of at least 500 words a day. But truth be told, most of the blame rests on my laptop, which is connected to my wifi network, and keeps throwing up interesting little nuggets when I am trying to work.
Suddenly an icon pops up telling me that a friend wants to chat on Gmail. Now, if she were to call me on the phone at that juncture I would probably not even notice (my mobile is nearly always on silent) let alone take her call. But there is no ignoring her on my laptop. The icon blinks on and on and I can’t keep my eyes off it.
Finally the temptation gets too hard to resist. Who knows what choice piece of information she may have to offer? What if she needs to discuss something urgent? The questions whirl around in my head until I concede defeat, close my word document, and press ‘Yes’ on that icon.
Of course, nine times out of ten she is just looking for a good gossip in the middle of the workday. And by the time the two of us have finished instant messaging the news of the week, a good half hour has passed. And so has the mood to work on my novel.
If it isn’t instant messaging on Gmail, it’s Facebook alerts that pop up to provide instant distraction. Yet another friend has a ‘Recent Status Update’ that he would like to share with me. Another has sent a private message with such an intriguing tagline that it is impossible to ignore. And then, there’s that link to a piece in the Guardian. Would it really be so bad to have a quick read before I resume work?
Of course, it would. Because when it comes to surfing the newspapers, there really is no end to it as far as I am concerned. I click on a link about Obama’s state visit to India, get distracted by a strap line that talks about the forthcoming royal wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton (or Catherine, as we are all apparently now meant to call her). From there it’s one easy click to an article about Princess Diana and how she may well overshadow her daughter-in-law even from the great beyond. And so it goes, until all thoughts of my book have been chased from my head, which is now filled with conspiracy theories about the Princess’ death in a car crash.
And then, there’s my new toy: Twitter. No, I don’t really tweet that much, mostly because I have nothing to say. But I do get a tad curious if I get an alert about someone having tweeted to me. I sign in to check what that’s about, quickly type out my replies, and then get waylaid by what everyone else is twittering on about. It’s not long before I have been inveigled into a conversation or two with my Twitter friends, or, as is more likely, have gotten into an argument that takes up so much of my mind space that there’s no longer any room for novel-writing in it.
I guess this is an unavoidable fall-out of the Age of Information that we live in, surrounded by so many social media networks that we find ourselves quite lost in all that babble. And given this constant flitting between different things, it’s no wonder that our attention spans are shot to hell.
Well, at least I know that mine is. With all this instant messaging, twittering, Googling and what have you, I find it harder and harder to concentrate on any one subject. In fact, given the level of my distraction, it’s a wonder how I manage to get any work done at all.
Which is why I’m making a resolution even before the New Year rolls in. From now on, I am going to restrict my use of the Internet to two hours a day, judiciously spaced out over a 24-hour period. Who knows, with a bit of luck, I may even get down to finishing that book.
(Full disclosure: in the course of writing this column, I logged on to Twitter, answered a couple of emails, and did a quick Internet search for Kate Middleton and Princess Diana.)
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