It’s 90 degrees in London. I am so hot and sweaty I am not even going to convert that into centigrade. There is no air con anywhere. It’s Africa hot.
Such high hopes going into the weekend. The way I looked at it, we were going to come out on the other end with at least one victorious World Cup team.
Saturday night I stayed home with Jonah during the USA match. I screamed so loud out the balcony when Landon Donovan scored that hours later when the outcome was done and dusted and I happened to be standing out there for some reason, a woman in the building next door looked out her curved bay window, shrugged and made a face of disappointment in solidarity.
Sunday, in happier times
Jonah’s first (and last?) vuvuzela
On a happier note, little Romili had her mukhebhat- a Bengali Indian rice eating ceremony when a baby eats her first solid food- fed by the maternal uncle. There is also another symbolic part of the ceremony when the child picks an item from a silver platter to indicate what their future will hold. The parents in this case seemed very pleased and relieved when Rom picked the tennis ball. Jonah and I had an excuse to wear our gifts from other Indian friends. I am still gunning for a sari so hopefully someone gets married.