Now my life can be divided into eras. The pre-phall and the post-phall. And no, I’m not misspelling the American season. Sigh. Gotta go get me some more phall soon.
I had a plate of phall during Eid. At Rs.100 a plate, I thought it decent. A nice dish. Then I had the Rs. 40 a plate phall. The one out of a cart. The one managed by a beefy (puntended) bloke called Imran on a dimly lit corner of Pottery Road. And that’s when I phell for phall.
Post-phall my life seems better somehow. My evening walks around Richards Park seem more realistic. My surroundings less jaded. I thought bacon brought out the best in me.
That was pre-phall.