Wedding Season And Why I want To Kill Myself

The Ubiquitous Aunty manages to find her way to me. First Question, dodged, Second Question, politely answered, Third Question, politely rebutted. I discreetly pick up the pallu of my mothers best silk sari, trying in vain not to inadvertently slap the Uncle next to me with the weight of the damn thing. He spills his ice cream. Sure enough. What is it about silk saris, that too ones that are light beige, that make him send his dessert flying in its direction with the careless splatter of an experienced water colour artist, i wonder.
Neanderthal man (still around, still around, me hearties) rushes to the rescue with tissues. Across the aisle, my mother watches with resigned acceptance (i told her i wasn't going to marry him and go off to the States). Could somebody fetch me a large whisky sour, please? Actually, make that just a large Scotch, neat.