So, of course, the car did not arrive. It couldn’t - because our carefully laid plans had to go waste. I mean, what is the point of all that planning unless you indulge in a spot of self-commiseration?
Our car stayed stubbornly in the car carrier that had apparently been whisked off the face of the planet by forces unknown. All attempts to contact the aforesaid carrier having failed, we comforted ourselves with the thought that our car was getting the fabulous ’ride’ with a view from the exosphere thrown in for good measure.
Being the means to further intergalactic ties made us uncomplainingly bear the brunt of the merciless C sun, haggle with cranky cabbies and finally set off to Conoor. and then onwards to the Defence Services Staff College (Aka DSCC).
Arrive we did as did a weird demand – the driver demanded three dollars. Hmm…was the esteemed staff college a country upon itself, did it have its own government, its own currency and its own strange language, I marveled.
Apparently it was the latter.Three Dollars = Three Bottles. Bottles of Pril? Unfortunately not.
We, as faujis or navellas, who for all purposes sail on rivers of rum, bath in beer and wallow in whisky should act as benefactors, sharing our god given bounty with dhobis, gardeners and drivers alike. That was an unwritten albeit forced rule that we were being inculcated into. And as students are wont to do, we broke the rule.
We have been parting with hard cash and parting with gardeners ever since. Well meaning folk advise me to bottle up my feelings about the dollar but honestly this parallel currency is enough to make me take to the bottle.
You know you are Dwelling in Wellington when
- Saris are de’ riguer - but can never really expects Mrs Navy and Mrs Airforce to wear one
- One is supposed to cast their eyes down before the powers that be (and their better halves) lest in case they slice off your arms for dare looking up ;).
- Hobby classes like flower making and cutlery setting are what marks out the lady from the badminton raquet toting, hike-loving rabble (which for the moment only consists of me).
- Cocktail Parties are all about empty conversations and emptier tummies. And to think of the precious minutes spent dolling up for that!
- The handwritten applications is the way to go, the computer is apparently only for student officers to check the LAN.
- Every officer is a golfer or to put it more accurately wants to play golf.
- Every Mrs Officer wants to learn SOMETHING at
(to keep their husbands' company or do I smell the desperation of boredom?) Honestly, why don’t you just enjoy the ‘salubrious climes’ ladies? Wellington
We always seem to be going in 'semi-circles' (Syndicate parties anyone) and never full circle, but it is all so very gorgeous, it doesn’t really matter.