It is midday on Sunday. My shift today is 3pm – 12am, and I am preparing myself as per the Taj Grooming Standards. I began on the French Knot almost an hour ago.
My first mistake was assuming that once I had triumphed, it would never torment me again. I remember gleefully walking into work a few weeks ago and announcing that I had got it in one go that morning. Never again would the French and their damned hairstyle reduce me to nervous hissy fits in the bathroom.
Oh, how I was so wrong. Today it has been pinned and unpinned no less than five times, much to the amusement of my room mate Olga. She is cooking Russian food on the stove, and there is a sharp incongruity between her homely scents wafting out from the kitchen, and my angry curses echoing in the bathroom.
Praise the Lord! It is finally done, and she assures me that it looks good. And so we have:
England: 1
France: 0
Going Home to India 