Part Une : Coming Home

People say that you can never really go back home and I guess it's true to some extent since as I said things change - and most importantly people change. Unfortunately my parents don't seem to have caught on to that fact yet - though I don't know whether to feel pleased or frustrated by that fact yet. Let's face it, I'm not getting any younger, these days I'm practically staring the big 3-0 in the eye. Can't believe it but it's already four years that I've actually lived by myself - as a swinging bachelor footloose and fancy-free.


Been a little difficult adjusting to a life with my parents, and my brother ( and other assorted relatives ) occasionally intruding again. Living alone, I only had myself to think of without the many responsibilities that comes with having a family. Now, I only have to step out of the house to receive a long barrage of questions aimed at me from my parents. Occasionally makes me feel like a sullen adolescent again actually though I try my best not to reply in the way I used to.

Parent : Who are you going out with?
Teenage Son : A friend.
Parent : Where are you going?
Teenage Son : Somewhere.
Parent : When will you be back?
Teenage Son : Sometime.

Saying little and telling nothing.

Despite being generally competent in every other way, somehow my parents have never gotten out of the way of thinking that I'm the sort of naive, weak-minded idiot who's in imminent danger of falling into the wrong company ( do raging homosexuals count? ). Hell, if I wanted to fall into an unsavoury crowd, wouldn't I have done so back in school rather than hanging out with the goody-two-shoes?

Sneaking out with Hush Puppies in hand during the late hours didn't seem to have worked either since my father seems to have an unfailing radar when it comes to me. Just as I slip noiselessly into the car, I get the usual Dad's Dull and Dreary Duty-list, running the gamut from numerous mundane bills and errands to the regular Magnum 4D. Years before, my brother and I used to flip coins for the boring chores, therefore reducing our duties by half ( usually my brother since he was the elder and actually had a vehicle of some sort ) but now, its all up to me - and by God, I hate waiting in line at the gambling havens rubbing shoulders with the local riff raff.

Even worse when I'm getting ready for an assignation with Charming Calvin, all slicked up in shirt and pants only to receive the third degree from my mum, making me feel like a awkward, gangly teenager with hormones rather than a responsible gainfully employed adult with condoms in the backpocket. Not easy thinking of hot, heavy makeout sessions with Calvin in the car ( and now in his own place dubbed Calvin's Cosy Crib ) when I had my mother making me promise to come home for a dinner of fried chicken and curried brinjals. Even penises and brinjals don't go together nicely when your mother's standing there giving a lecture.

But I won't ever complain. :) Downsides aside, it's nice to have someone leave the lights on waiting for me to come home.