Classic Case of Overexposure

The first book i remember reading was not, interestingly, an Enid Blyton or a E Nesbit or even a Boxcar children book. ( Though I love reading them now. I must be in regression). It was this book called the Black Arrow. It was abridged, and by RLStevenson, and I loved it, still do. After that, I read every classic I could get my hands on to. I loved Jane Austen, and Dickens(i loved Dickens), Verne, Alcott, Fenimore cooper. And so I was into classics from the very beginning. Some of them abridged, most not. I realise now I was too young for many of them, and had to go back to them later, but they were these books with character, not mass produced children's literature, and I fed on them ravenously.

Of course, this had many repercussions.
One, I had these huge glasses when I was six, and already had a small face, so from a distance it looked like two walking parabolic reflectors.
Two, I developed this weird habit of talking like I was this ancient Victorian. Hearing a little girl saying things like "why, pray?" and "That's pre-pre-preposterous!" must have been disconcerting, and it's no wonder people stayed away.
Three, I nearly bankrupted my family. At one point of time, I was getting twelve books a week, and they had to rent most of them, and even buy some, so I think they even tried to get me addicted to TV instead; but it was too modern and newfangled for me.
Four, I became this trying-to-be-dramatic, romantically-inclined creature, not unlike Anne but without her charm, which ensured and ensures that I remain single forever. Also, there wasn't and won't ever be, anyone like Darcy, or Bluntschli, or The Scarlet Pimpernel, or Dick Shelton.
Five, I ignored guests of all kinds, didn't eat unless they let me read while doing it or better still, spooned the stuff into me, stayed up till I'd finished a book or barricaded myself into the bathroom with it, and snapped at anyone, however well-meaning, who tried to talk to me in the middle of a book. To their credit, they soon learned, and let me alone after a while.


But then, I gained hours and hours of the most amazingly pure, uninterrupted(not that they didn't try), unforced pleasure that I never get from anything other than books. In all, I was a totally happy child, safe in the world I'd created for myself, letting no one in.(Come to think of it, I wouldn't marry me if I were a guy.What a bore.)

Now, to business. This post was prompted by the fact that sangy( can i call you that?) aka Roberta Flak, of icecream-is-cold.blogspot.com (wow blog), tagged me. Which means I have to post the 5th para( or last if there's no fifth) of page 123, of the book I'm currently reading, and I have to tag five people more. And that's why I wrote this post, because the current book happens to be Rob Roy by Scott (sucks to all of you who expected Penthouse) and I find I haven't got over my fascination with the musty old things. They do smell so good...

*shakes head to clear it*.anyway, here's my bit.

"Besides the progress which Miss Vernon had, whose powerful mind readily adopted every means of information imparted to it, had made in more abstract science, I found her no contemptible linguist, and well acquainted with ancient and modern literature. Were it not that strong talents will often go furthest when they seem to have least assistance, it would be almost incredible to tall the rapidity of Miss Vernon's progress in knowledge; and it was still more extraordinary, when her stock of mental acquisitions from books was compared with her total ignorance of actual life. It seemed as if she saw and knew everything except what passed in the world around her; and I believe it was this very ignorance and simplicity of thinking upon ordinary subject, which rendered her conversation so irresistibly fascinating, and riveted the attention to whatever she said or did; since it was absolutely impossib;e to anticipate whther her next wprd or action was to display the most acute perception or the most profound simplicity. The degree of danger which necessarily attended a youth of my age and keen feelings from remaining in close and constant intimacy with an object so amiable and so peculiarly interesting, all who remember their own sentiments at my age may easily estimate."

I love this book ever since '98 when i got it. The heroine's so different from the usual simpering kind. Oh, and I tag Priyanka at butterfly assassin which does not mean that she slaughters innocent butterflies, and revolver at shootingfrom. I also tag raghu and another brick in the wall, seeing as they haven't done their part and I don't know anyone else to tag. And if you noticed that leaves another person to be tagged, you can jolly well be that person yourself, because I CANNOT think of anyone else. so there.

I'm disgusted.

Don't read this if you expect a nice post, I'm sick.(Literally, I mean.)
I was a very healthy baby. I almost never cried, saving up all the whining for this blog; I never had croup, or measles, or chicken pox, or wooping cough, or mumps, or even the common cold or a stomach upset. And if I threw up on someone, it was only my way of protesting about the person, while sacrificing my dignity as befits a martyr. And while other people had fevers and things and didn't come to school, i didn't come as well, but instead of lying on a bed, had fun at home. I was tiny and scrawny, but I had and have this wowie of an immune system. And did I mention the invulnerable stomach of steel?

So when I had this accelerated heartbeat in 5th grade, I naturally thought it was some cute boy next door and this must be my first crush, and that's why they call it a crush. So when the doctor met us gravely I didn't think much of it (they always look grave or weirdly, falsely cheerful); that is, until he said I had SupraventricularTachychardia.(Yup, I couldn't pronounce it either.) It was an extra impulse or something in the heart, not very painful, just a sort of dhak-dhak like the heroines' dils, and then they got it zapped in Delhi so it was all right and my people were pretty relieved.It was over, they thought.

You guessed it. Not by far, it wasn't. I went on being healthy as hell and eating anything I could get my hands on and not looking noticeably the worse for it. And then in class 7 or so, at a time when I'd had nothing but home cooked food (cooked by shubu mashi who was new then and I hadn't got used to her grotesquesness-look at the earlier post for details) for a long time, down I come with ParaTyphoid, and just when they think it's licked, i get it AGAIN. And they can't even blame it on phuchkas.

Yeah, there's more. In 9th grade, the night before the Maths exam, I wake up with this raging fever. So I don't give the exams, and the doctor can't figure out what's wrong, so he decides it's dengue( which was conveniently doing the rounds just then) and i have this nice long holiday for about a month, and no exam to boot.Parents did get a scare, though.

And that brings me to a few days ago, just before Milaap the SPICMACAY fest, when, after a long time of no diseases or discomforts whatsoever (I should have known a malevolent providence was saving it up for a big one, I didn't even get a cold or an upset), I get a sore throat and the CMRI doctor takes one look at it and says:"You, my Young Lady, have got Acute Pharyngo-Tonsillitis." Which basically means Pharyngitis and tonsillitis together. Ow.

Yes, I'm okay now. And no, it doesn't hurt that much. And thank you for asking.But I think I'd take a cold once in a month instead of these nasty surprises they keep choosing ME to play on.