Wednesday, February 17, 2010


Aboard the time-machine I often travelled back a score and ten years to re-live my salad days. Those were the days when my imagination had just sprouted the wings of an ostrich that enabled my teenage fancy to run, though not to fly. A time when, with an imagination incongruous with the reality, I could not get over the idea that I was a thing of beauty and a boy forever. Those were the days...

when every waking hour was filled with romance; when the fields on magnetism surrounding the fair sex inducted electric thoughts that galvanised me into action providing the sole motivating force behind all my ambitions spurring me on to sartorial elegance and savoire-faire;

when, with a silly grin plastered on my face, I eagerly awaited the issues of film magazines just to have a peep at the centre-spread photograph of some starlet in advanced state of disrobing;

when my racing heart oozed out sugary drippings of polysyllables that together formed excellent stuffing for amorous verses; when a spell of benevolent musings gave me an effervescent desire to pat the humanity on the back in explicit camaraderie and under the spell of such bonhomie, I turned a great philanthropist doing a good turn to many a puzzled fellowmen much against my pre-ordained genetic make-up;

when in moments of solitude, the time crawled painfully but in the company of a perceived heart-throb it started running and then galloping just when I wished the time to freeze for eternity;

when every film heroine seemed like a demi-godess and every second young gal appeared to be my prospective spouse in full bridal attire whom I would soon be leading down aisle amidst the chants of the clergy in their solemn voices;

when presented with the prospect of meeting some loved one behind hibiscus bushes, I conducted elaborate dress rehearsals to churn out flowery monologues only to botch up the line at the grand finale and then bitterly complain that the girl had no heart, knowing all the time that she had in fact two, one of which being mine.

But the search for a rational explanation to my abortive forays into the arena of courtship bore fruit just recently when a scientific study revealed that Pheromone, a hormone-induced chemical substance secreted into one's skin, when present in adequate quantities, made one highly desirable to the opposite sex. It is the same Pheromone that attracted mosquitoes to such person. Therefore if you are more often bitten by mosquitoes, you are also likely to be more attractive to the opposite sex.

If my memory serves me right, I often bragged in my youth that mosquitoes never bit me and I was a mosquito repellent in human shape! Got the point?

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