It has come to pass that I have been talked to, and scared about, my future (or lack thereof), and therefore I have had to give an entire morning up in searching. For prospects. For ideas. For inspiration.

Having done this I made up my mind to either a) open a cottage industry or b) join an obscure expedition to Africa and live with the people there and drink out of ostrich eggs. It will happen. A straw hut or two with a lot of dust everywhere should be just the right thing for me. Turns out I need to have fancy degrees to do both a) and b), but I have decided to be a Pioneer and build a Glorious Career on my own, even if an Erasmus Mundus evades me. Even if I have to eventually report for The Telegraph and kill myself out of mortification. Even if I have to die a thousand deaths in order to eventually reach Iceland. I shall do it and spend my retirement baking cakes in the Himalayas.

But first I shall kill my father for playing Kaifi Azmi this morning and putting me in the Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi mode that ghazals - and Urdu poetry in general - bring with them. What a waste of a Sunday morning; the rain right now doesn't even come close to comparing with the waste that it was. Tchah.