Confused

The world seems to have gone mad.

Oh, yeah. Thank you so much, dear readers, for chipping in with recommendations. I think not. (Not you, Siva, you are a dear.)

Our idiot box is temperamental and shows colour under some intensely guarded private code. And my son is up in arms. Come on, mom, he says. Get this fixed, he says; supremely confident that mom can fix everything.

Why is he up in arms? Because he had to watch part of today's match in black and white, as our television set imposed its own censorship and ratings. And then the cable TV died.

Furious phone calls and frantic tuning into radio commentaries later, all is bliss. Husband: listening to cricket; son: watching football. Nirvana.

I pause in passing and remark that a goal seems to have been scored. "Nice, a goal." I say. My son looks pained. "Its an own goal, mom, " he says. "So? Isn't that the best kind, achieving one's goal? " I say.

Then I cringe at the glance of amused contempt my son spares me before turning his eyes back to the screen.

What's it with the world that men's chasing a ball is so fascinating?

Granted, it is good exercise. But how many calories are the spectators expending in screaming themselves hoarse? Are they losing pounds and pounds as the men who are running up and down do? And, why? It is so pointless.

And why should propelling the ball to one goalpost mean more than propelling it to the other? Why? Eh? Why aren't things equal?

The world has gone mad, I tell you.

Cheers!