Last night, after a long, long time, I went home to an empty house.
The parents are out of town again and the brother has gone along for the ride.
Now normally, I get all depressed if I’m alone at home at night. Don’t ask why. I just do. I think it’s got something to do with a near-paranoid fear of dying alone surrounded by cats and old issues of Cosmo.
But last night, I did myself proud. Despite the exhaustion that comes from running up and down between the 3rd and 4th floors of office some 200 times a day, I didn’t crash face-down into the mattress.
No. I did my laundry, I cleared the house and I COOKED.
Yes, you read that right. Admittedly, it was only khichdi and papad and fried chillies (I’d had a waffle doused with butter and honey earlier, in the esteemed company of Eliot). But hey, I “fixed myself dinner”. And I think that’s very cool indeed.
But that wasn’t the end of my accomplishments.
I also repaired the pressure cooker.
The day before, I had fixed my front door lock.
In both cases, the problem was the same. Something that always creates problems in mechanical things and in life.
One little screw.