It is another day for me under a foreign sky. Women haggle as usual over vegetable prices, girls with glazed faces and high heels walk everywhere and starched white shirts hurry to the office.
I sit with my cuppa of chai, my mind far away in another land where it must be a similar day and my ma must be bustling around, muttering to herself about the inflation and the wayward maid.... tricolours must have taken to the rhythm of the wind and television would be over doing the flavour of the day....I cribbed about it all when I was back there and wished to disappear to some far off land. I dreamed of Pharaohs, of dollars, of nude beaches and snow.
And now when I am sipping chai on what is just another day in a foreign land, I want it all back.
