Selective Amnesia There was a point to this. But I forgot.

In which Chandrachoodan is ready to be married off

I made Lemon rice for lunch today. Three or so days ago, it was Carrot saadham and Velirikkai pachadi. I have already shown you how I make soup and stuff, and can whip out a good Rasam any day. I cannot sing, but appreciate good music. I am calm, humble, and homely.
In other words, I am the perfect middle-class housewife material. All prospective grooms, pliss to come ponnu paathufy.

On the other hand, to take this post firmly into androgynous waters, I am a Real Man ^TM. I ironed my own shirt for the first time since coming to Bristol. (Because till y’day, I didn’t posses an iron, and academia doesn’t appreciate knife-edged creases on your shirts as much as they look for it in your 5000 word essay.) But coming back to the point, I ironed my own shirt, and a few trousers and a boxer, all alone in true RealMan fashion.

That gives me three career paths to explore if the aforementioned 5000 word essay (and its brothers and uncles and bastard sons) all go up in flames. Housewife. Small time cook. Roadside isthiri man.