Matchless in Margarethaland

Yeap. You heard it right! WE WERE MATCHLESS IN MARGARETHALAND last weekend.

If you think that I am making an ultra-arrogant statement, I am sorry to say that you are wrong. I am not proclaiming myself peerless. And, I didn’t do anything to consider myself one. I didn’t win an Olympic gold for India in 100m sprint. I didn’t see God. I certainly didn’t drink a litre Coca Cola through my nose. I don’t understand the language of dogs. I didn’t invent the drug to trigger a dozen kilo weight loss in a single day. I didn’t even find the secret of Bappida’s fantastic dressing sense. And yeah, I haven’t yet got enough evidence to prove that I am an alien.

If you think that I am a pathetic bachelor desperately browsing every matrimonial site in the world to find the perfect ‘match’, I am again sorry to say that you are wrong. I don’t think that I am so heartless to a random girl’s life in the name of marriage.

Let me explain. We - J, H and I, who live in Margarethaland, went matchless. We ran out of matches. We ran out of matchsticks. And we couldn’t cook our dinner on Sunday. I was assigned the duty of getting a matchbox on my way back from office on Monday. As it always happen, I couldn’t leave the office on time. Konmar closes sharp at 6:30 PM. I got a lighter from my namesake at office. She carries plenty of spare lighters. Smokin’ Joes too can be useful at times. I bought a matchbox on Tuesday evening. Thus we retired from the ‘matchless’ state.