Every now and then I feel like I’m in an 80s sitcom with canned laughter and Alf Garnett.
I’m sat in a hospital room with my mum, sister and father. Mum is curled up on a bed with an Indian-looking shawl. Dad is conversing with her in Gujarati, my sister and I interact in English. Behind us, I hear giggling between the two other ladies in the room. One of them leans over and whispers to the other, ‘Look at them Tandooris over there. They’re making me hungry for curry.’
‘Well, shall we order a curry? We can order a curry if we want.’
‘Let’s order a curry.’
‘I’ll look one up that delivers on my laptop.’
Two hours later my mum phones me up out of boredom.
‘Those two ladies,’ mum curses in Gujarati. ‘They’ve ordered curry and it’s stinking up the room. Why do they have to shovel chicken in their mouths?’
I dunno mum, I’m just a Tandoori.