Hardeep Singh Kohli: A drain on my musical resources

My shower is blocked. The water seems unwilling to drain away. Instead it gathers as a wilful pool, enticing me to slip and fall on my rather too large Punjabi backside as I wade towards my towel.

I have timed how long I have before the waters become treacherous: it is the length of a pop song. This has meant that I now shower to the sound of pop, be it Girls Aloud, Britney or early Steps. By the time the middle eight kicks in I need to be washing off the soap, closer to the end of my shower than the start. The wee mannie is coming tomorrow to sort the drain. After that perhaps I will be able to pop some Pink Floyd back on and shower feeling comfortably numb.


Divorce is easy, saying ta-ta tattoo is another matter

My body has been described as many things but never a temple. Yet none the less, I'm quietly fond of my big brown hairiness. I have never felt compelled to mark my body in any way, particularly not with the permanence of a tattoo. Tattoos have always scared me. Indian people don't generally have tattoos; there is the odd home-made religious symbol scratched on to a teenage hand but tattoo as art is not a very Indian thing. Whereas in the west of Scotland ye cannae order a pint without being treated to the sight of some painted fleshy forearms muscling their way to the bar. I was never much taken with the indelibility of it. In these days of endemic divorce, the notion of committing the moniker 'Sandra' to your bicep seems overarchingly optimistic and unnecessarily reductive. (I suppose if the marriage with Linda #1 breaks down irretrievably you can always search for Linda #2, a relationship built on tattoo necessity rather than emotional need. Gives another veneer of meaning to Hue and Cry's 1989 hit, 'Looking For Linda').

I also don't understand the obsession with dolphins. Why would a lassie frae land-locked Cadder decide to have a marine mammal tattooed on her ankle? She's probably never seen a dolphin. I asked a white woman once why she had a Sanskrit word tattooed on her hip; given that she was from Manchester and had never visited India, it seemed a curious choice of image. She claimed that she had been tattooed by a novice tattoo artist who had practised that word over and over again; he was cheaper than the more experienced artist but could only do stars, crosses or this Sanskrit word. And she will have it for the rest of her puff.

Hitting 40, and in preparation for my mid-life crisis, I have finally considered having my body painted. (I will shortly be sporting a pony tail and purchasing a tomato-red sports car.) Obviously, I need to think carefully about my artistic choices. I will eschew the Japanese dragon wrapped around the Bonsai painted up my thigh; a wind-assisted Marilyn Monroe will never look right across my shoulder-blades; and I have yet to meet a Linda I wish to share my arm with, let alone my life. If I was to finally opt for some inked analogy to sport subcutaneously, I think I would have a Saltire and the Indian flag, representing both sides of my heritage. And where would I have them? One on each buttock. One's heritage is always behind one.

Hope the joke won't be on me

You're never too old to learn; or too old to fall flat on your fat face in front of a paying audience. I have, after two score years on this little green planet, decided to realise a lifetime's ambition. This year, I will, for the first time, take to the stage at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe and attempt to perform my first solo show. Contrary to public opinion, I have had a hugely limited presence on stage in any sort of comedic way. I have compèred a couple of comedy gigs, one for a friend and one for charity. I don't have what stand-up comedians might call stage-miles. I haven't had the experimental exposure to carnivorous crowds in Cowdenbeath and hostile hen nights in Hamilton. I am ill-prepared; yet my awareness of my ill-preparedness could be construed as a positive. All I need to do is work out what my show will be about.

(Any jokes gratefully received.)

Dinner ingredients: parsley, sage, rosemary – and time

This coming Friday, I'm planning a dinner party. I love nothing more than eight friends and three courses. I normally need no more than four hours to prepare for such an evening. Having made more mistakes than some people have had hot dinners, (including some of my guests in the late '90s) I have worked out the perfect quotient between time expended and flavour garnered. I am also old-fashioned enough to want to enjoy my guests when they arrive. Having spent all these years finessing my system you might think I would abide by it. Alas, no. I have decided to work on Friday, work that will render me incommun-kitchen-cado until well after 6.30pm. Guests will arrive at 7.45pm. You see my challenge?

I have therefore been compelled to prepare a potentially panic-free pronto party plan. I will be forced to utilise Thursday evening as prep time. Celeriac will need to be peeled and chopped and left to steep in salted water, alongside the sweet potato. (My plans for the roots couldn't be simpler: olive oil, salt and an hour). The beloved belly of pork will be placed into the oven on Friday morning, an oven that will whisper its hundred degree Celsius around the porcine flesh. I can't pretend not to be a little nervous about swanning off while leaving an oven on, but I am assured that nothing burns at that temperature. With the addition of a few roast pears, the main course will be completed. The lentil salad starter will be completely cooked on Thursday evening, gently coaxed back to life over the most modest of flames. The crumble I can concoct while the root veg cook. The only thing I have to make sure of is that I don't accept an invitation to go out on Thursday night.