It being that time of year, I am off on a skiing holiday in Switzerland with my best friend Asha P. and my something-or-other-by-marriage Babita. My friend Mike suggests I take along an inexplicably neglected friend of his whom he calls The Bomb, Praveen Choudhary. She has always seemed like good fun to me too, so: the more, the merrier!
All three of these ladies make me envious with their ability to tease up a big bouffant and their cat’s-eye makeup, perfect for setting off a fur collar or parka hood. My plan is to have them teach me these valuable life skills when they are too tired to ski any more. And while they wear themselves out on the slopes, Gemma and I will be making friends with the bartender in the nearest cozy firelit lodge. I don’t ski, myself, but I do love a good ski resort!
I have also invited my cross-dressing cousin Tiwari, who lacks a bouffant but makes up for it with a fervent love of pink, which suits him. It will be lots of fun watching him snowboard from my comfy barstool vantage point.
Upon arrival in Zurich, we are met with a scene that makes us all look like dowdy wallflowers by comparison!
Mehmood is strolling through the airport in vintage Chanel with an elegant large white greyhound called Moti at his side. He is working it as only Mehmood can; I suspect he may have been there for days by now, just going around in circles. Tiwari is stunned and fascinated, almost in awe (very unlike him), but I notice that airport employees seem a little weary of the whole spectacle.
Gemma keeps her distance from the greyhound since others of its kind have in the past regarded her as breakfast. She wisely takes refuge behind fellow passenger Dara Singh, who has no need for petty clothing despite the frigid temperatures—I feel pretty sure the scarf is just pure vanity. He positively, gleefully, exudes masculinity, especially in this crowd. I see Praveen eyeing him, and I don’t blame her.
The appearance of my dangerously unstable brother Shyam Kumar, already on his skis and ready to bully us onto the Black Diamond slopes, is sort of the last straw. I worry that between him and Tiwari there will be a lot of shouting and chest-thumping over the next week or so, and flimsy tinfoil breastplates and helmets may be required.
It seems likely that I will need a nice mug of glühwein or two to start with. Prosit!
