Kishore Singh: All in a day's work

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At the time of writing, there's a somewhat restrictive "international" food and wine show on in the capital "" which must be why my wife has not packed me any office lunch. "Go drink wine," she remarks sarcastically "" for I have mentioned that there are 70 Italian wine exhibitors at the hotel where the fair is being held, close from office.

It is tough doing your job when everyone, the family included, thinks that sampling wine is not the same as quaffing it "" besides, it's all in the line of duty: I don't normally get around to imbibing the grape quite before noon under normal circumstances.

It's got so, even weekends are not spared when it comes to work. So, at Olive Beach, an announcement is made that Sunday brunches will henceforth be served, so I fit my weary body into the car to do my bit for the newspaper.

You'd think somebody would appreciate such sacrifices, but at work they say. "Had a good time, I see!" And my sister, who my parents allow to get away with a sharp tongue, calls from Ahmedabad to ask, "Are you ever at home?"

"Rarely," I retort, "but only because it's all work." "Eating crumbed oysters and drinking champagne is work," she is at her shrill best, "and my name is Madonna!"

"You don't understand..." I begin to explain to her, but she's in a bad mood: "And my husband is off playing golf, the kids won't study, and I have all this schoolwork for the kindergarten babies to finish," she wails. I commiserate with her, then grab a passing tray of tikkas "" it's the least I deserve for being diligent about what the newspaper pays me to do.

You'd think there was an easier life, or at least an easier way to earn money. When we have dinner with a gallerist (this is on Monday), I must first make conversation with artists, collectors and investors before I can get a refill of my Pinot Noir (the lobsters, though, make it worth the while). Later, my wife says, "If we can't live in a house like that, please don't take me to such places again."

So, I tell the cook we will be home for dinner the following day. Things are fine till my wife, rifling through my diary, chances upon a half-dozen invitations for that evening, and promptly cancels the saag and makke ki roti that's on the night's menu.

"I can't bear being at home on the eve of our daughter's examination," she explains. I admit that our usually quiet daughter is a screeching neurotic before her tests, so I acquiesce.

Meetings on Wednesday morning accompanied with shots of espresso have me so wired, I don't enjoy my lunch with a business acquaintance, not least because he doesn't offer to pay for it either.

Oh well, it'll go on the expense tab, provided no one questions why a meal for two cost more than most meals for four "" but then, truffles are expensive, and how was I to know I was going to have to pay!

A late potluck at home means I'm tired Thursday morning, and it doesn't help that I must attend a play at 9.30 that night. "You poor dear, your work so hard," my mother says over the phone. I couldn't agree more. "Do you ever work?" my sister calls too, but only to nag. I make myself a stiff vodkatini, hoping it'll keep me awake.

I know I must attend a mozzarella tasting this afternoon, if only because the Italians insist they have the knowhow for India to make it right here. But should that be before the oysters or the hi-end Barolo wine? Decisions, decisions...if only one didn't also have to write!