> Went to Elevate after the longest time on Saturday night, or the wee hours of Sunday morning, depending on your perspective, to watch the fabulous Talvin Singh play. The place was crowded, not as crowded as it would be, granted, when people like Jay Sean or Juggy D come in, but crowded enough. We went to the second level, of the transparent swing-seats and phallic beanbags, and crowded around the little parapet type area, where you could look down upon the hoi polloi dancing below on the vibrating dance floor. Only with Talvin Singh's strange music (psy? house? world?) no one really seemed to know how to dance to it. Some couples slow-danced others did bhangra moves, arm up, one leg extended, and the majority did the strange movements I call 'rave-dancing', when you stand still, move your head up and down, make your hands into fists and raise them to shoulder level, moving them up and down as well.
We went because Small's cousin had come in from Bombay and he "really really wanted to go to Elevate" because that's the one Delhi club that people in Bombay talk about, and so we gathered, Small, her cousin, Urvashi and I, at our house where we drank steadily from 9 to midnight, and then set out. Urvashi, Small and I were already feeling tired at this point, old age catching up with us, I guess, and we would've probably been okay with just going to TC and wrapping up our evening there. But her 20-year-old cousin was full of excitement, his eyes shining as we reached, trying to figure out the difference between Bombay girls and Delhi girls (after a point, we told him to stop generalising, and he stopped, chastened). But then, once we got there, he seemed bored and sleepy and fucked off for the longest time to talk to his girlfriend back in Bombay. Oh well. I was pretty sleepy too, but then we ordered vodka-Red Bull and within like five minutes I was jumping around, head moving with the best of them. I love vodka and Red Bull (though it costs like 500 bucks! Dude! They should warn you before you order). Plain Red Bull gives me a headache, not wings, but with vodka it's a charge. Though Small told me it makes you skip heartbeats. I know it has testosterone, which is what gives you the energy. Imagine if they made drinks with extra oestrogen. All the men would come around with tears in their eyes and big, soppy smiles and say, "Dude, I lurve you" throwing their arms around their bemused friends. They should make it. I'd buy it.
Anyway, so it was four by the time we left, and five by the time we stumbled into bed, bleary eyed. Perhaps once a month, Small and I agreed, not more. We grow old.
> Does anyone think it's weird that Caroline In The City is called Caroline Duffy and there's a real life poet called Carol Ann Duffy? Coincidence? I think not.
> I'm an Angry Consumer in the Delhi Ecosystem these days. Grarh. It's just one bad service after another. First, Airtel has been fucking with me forever, ever since I signed up for the stupid postpaid account. I had to beg and plead with them to change my billing address for something like two months before they finally did, charging me late fees, of course, even though I explained to them that I did not in fact, recieve my bill. Their executives are badly trained, and no one seems to know what's going on. What Airtel needs is a computer system where you figure out who's spoken to whom. Anyway, so last month? Thye tore my cheque while taking it out of the drop box and asked me to issue a new one. Fine. Then they cut my services off, saying they hadn't recieved any payment. THEN this chick calls Small (how in the world did she get her number? Big Brother's watching us, I tell you) and then gets in touch with me at work and says they haven't recieved a new cheque, coz they've lost it. Oh-kaaaaaay. She also says, more or less in this snitty tone that I must be mistaken, because none of their customer service executives would ever tear a cheque and it's never happened before. I call up my bank, cancel the new cheque I've issued, and then get to PVR Saket, where there's an Airtel booth, where you can pay by cash. It's six pm, I get there, a man is lazily talking on the phone, and he waves one desultory hand. "It's closed," he says, "Come back tomorrow." At this point, little blood vessels are popping rapidly, like bubble wrap, in my forehead and real steam is coming out of my ears, so I go next door, to a stall that's selling phone covers and all and tell them I want a Hutch prepaid card. (Which by the way, if you know me in real life, please email for new number). In great triumph I activate it. The next morning, I get a call from the same Airtel chick who says sorrowfully that she had activated my account, and why had I switched. "Because I am sick and tired of your service and I'm going to tell everyone, nanananana-naaaaaaaa," I said. "Can't you at least give your connection to someone else?" she asked. "Nope, coz you suck and I hate you," I said dignifiedly and she hung up. Phew. Anyway, so if you're contemplating getting an Airtel postpaid, consider yourself warned.
And then I was at Yo China last night with Small and her mum and we ordered a Double Combo which had chilli chicken and lamb in hot garlic sauce, and I asked the waiter to make it chilli chicken dry, coz it didn't specify what kind of gravy it was going to be in and he said, "We only serving with gravy. Dry, you have to order extra." But surely you can just not put any gravy, and give me dry chicken?" I said, reasonably enough, I thought. "We only serving gravy," he said, eyes shifting away. So we ordered the dry chicken, extra, and it was terrible. See why I am angry consumer?
The one happy spot in my consumerism is Boots Cucumber Lotion. I bought it at Kunchal's in GK-I M-Block market and it smells all cool and refreshing and makes your skin feel all refreshed. I've been using it like mad, I love the way it's not too olily, so I can use it on my face also.