Killing me but not softly!

A plate of prawn tempura rolls had just arrived at the table. I was ravenous and couldn’t wait to tuck in. I had kept my bowl of dipping sauce ready and had reached for a roll when a strange sound reached my ears. It sounded as though a cat had been run over and was dying a slow, painful death. I dropped the tempura in alarm and pricked my ears. A cat inside the restaurant? 

It seemed unlikely. Even if the creature had managed to sneak in, tempted by the smell of food, who was causing it bodily harm? I looked around, over the heads of my fellow diners to see if I could spot the aggrieved feline. I couldn’t see it anywhere. No one around me seemed the least bit bothered. They were either stuffing their faces or talking with one another. It was Saturday evening and people were clearly in a mood to unwind. Not even a tiny shred of concern for the cat.

I felt annoyed. This wasn’t right. Perhaps I should have a word with the manager. I pushed my chair back and got ready to take up cudgels on behalf of the cat, probably lying injured somewhere, the poor kitty. 

That’s when I heard the sound again. Only this time, the cat had managed to string a few words together.

“Kiiiiiiilllling meeeeee softly

 oohhhhhhhh ohhhhhhhh ohhhhhhh

With his song,

 ooohhhh ooooh oooooh”

Realisation dawned. It wasn’t a hurt cat. It was a singing cat … erm .. human.

That’s when I saw him, over the bobbing heads. A young boy with a guitar in front of a microphone. The restaurant had hired him to provide live music. Caterwauling actually. That was his voice. No one was hurting animals. On second thought, perhaps a cat might have sounded better.

“Strumming my pain with his fingers

 oooooh ooooh oooh”

I winced. My temples throbbed. I could feel the start of a headache. All of a sudden, the tempura roll didn’t seem appetising anymore. I just wanted to get away from the boy, his voice and the guitar.

The fellow was killing me with his song. And he wasn’t even being particularly soft. Rather he was loud and tone-deaf.

Now I'm all for supporting young, musical talent but some youngsters clearly need to be discouraged from pursuing a career in music. 

Sushi-Smushi. I’m calling for the cheque!

Take a Lift!

The young woman pressed the elevator button repeatedly. As though she was transmitting a message via Morse Code to a secret recipient. I looked at her curiously. She was clearly in a hurry, Chanel sunglasses parked on top of her head, face immaculately made up, wearing a Zara dress that I’d seen on the store mannequin a week back. 

“The lift will come when it’s ready. It won’t hurry if you press the button several times,” the words had escaped from my mouth before I could stop them. She turned around and threw me a withering glare. 

“I know,” she replied, icicles dripping from her tongue.

Alittle boy and his mother walked into the lobby to stand beside us. They seemed to be waiting for the elusive lift which had stopped at the 14^thfloor for the longest time. Through the CCTV camera, I could see that a man was holding the lift door open as he kept poking his head out and yelling for someone to hurry up. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. But the head movements and the expression on his face were a dead giveaway.

As we waited in silence, the little boy kept running in circles around us. I looked at the mother hoping she would ask him to stop but she kept gazing at him adoringly. As though she could not believe her eyes. I was seeing double vision. The brat was making me dizzy. By the time the lift arrived, I was teetering unsteadily. The man who had kept the lift waiting walked out, throwing me a suspicious look as he passed. He probably thought I had consumed copious quantities of alcohol! Beside him was his elegantly dressed wife. Clearly, we had been waiting for her to get dressed.

The designer woman, mother and son nudged me roughly out of the way and got in. As though there was a prize for the one who got inside first. To my horror, a tall man with a bicycle appeared out of nowhere and headed into the lift. I narrowly missed getting trampled. Once he had manoeuvred his cycle inside the lift along with the woman, mother and son, I squeezed in with an apologetic look on my face. 

Now squeezing into anything, leave alone a lift, is a mammoth task for me as I am not tiny by any stretch of imagination. The little fellow had pressed all the buttons in the lift before his mother could say anything. I managed to slide in before the doors closed on me. The obnoxious brat then proceeded to play with all the buttons on the panel. I looked at the mother helplessly but she didn’t reprimand him. My fingers were itching to give him a tight slap.

Designer lady had whipped out her phone and was trying to take a selfie inside the lift. I gaped as she puckered and preened trying to get the perfect angle. Well, we had plenty of time. Thanks to the brat, the lift was going to stop at every effing floor!

Selfie done, designer lady got off first followed by annoying mother and son. Then it was just me and Lance Armstrong in the lift. I wished he would keep still but he kept moving his bike this way and that every couple of seconds. I almost got mowed down before I could leave the lift. I have painful wheel tracks on my legs if you'd care to have a look!

I have never been so angry in my life. Elevator etiquette should be taught in schools. Till then, I think I will take the stairs!