Kishore Singh: Winter rain, hallelujah!

Winter rain is a premonition of ominous things. It was a day when the cook received a call from his wife to say he needed to sort out some nasty stuff between his mother and her, so there was no breakfast. His assistant, the usually perky lad who rises early to take the dog for a walk, refused to leave his room for some unfathomable reason - though maybe it was just the cold - so I got wet and the bedraggled pooch jumped into my wife's bed, causing her to shriek and order me to "immediately" change the bed linen. My son said he'd overspent on his sports bike and did not enjoy debt, so could I extend him credit? It seems no one put the geyser on, so I emerged blue from the shower. Which is when the driver called to say he wasn't coming either, and my daughter complained that she had a meeting but couldn't drive with boots on, as a result I had to cancel an appointment and drop her off first before heading for work.

Did I mention I hate driving in the rain? The car fogged up because it was cold outside and warm inside, so I couldn't see out. I twiddled with buttons and knobs, causing the car to squawk, the distress lights to come on, but I still couldn't switch the fog lights on. A motorcycle grazed the paint off one door, and a passing car knocked the rear view mirror out. When I stepped out after parking, it was into a puddle as large as a lake, so I had wet feet all day.

There was backlog of work to get through, so I was late getting home. "Didn't I say the Chopras were coming for dinner tonight?" my wife asked in mock surprise. She hadn't, also failing to mention that the Sinhas, the Mehtas, Sarla and her clan of nine, were coming over for a bonfire potluck. But since the cook was sulking, could I, er, rustle up something that would do the kitchen proud? I had also to quickly replenish bar supplies and put out party essentials - coasters, ice, ashtrays, napkins, stuff she could have organised during the day instead of being on the phone issuing invitations to the neighbourhood.

It had stopped raining, but the tinder was wet and didn't catch, causing my wife to sigh, "I wish you were as handy around the house as Sarla's husband." When the children were young, she used to say Sarla's husband taught their kids, took them on picnics, and attended parent-teacher meetings. Over the years - my wife says this wistfully - Sarla's model husband spoiled her with gifts of jewels and silks, though I never saw evidence of this, nor, I suspect, did my wife. Now, Sarla's husband has volunteered to get the fire going. Meanwhile, I hustled inside, making drinks, getting out snacks, heating the rooms so it was toasty inside.

Which is just as well because the rain started up again, sending everyone inside. Sarla's husband was covered in soot, so his wife sent him home for a bath. My son decided to put on the music. My daughter joined in with some hostessing. The cook returned with a bright beam, his women having kissed and made up, so he decided to make something nice in celebration. My wife said everything was perfect, that I was better than Sarla's husband "any day". The dog bit the walker. Did I mention I love the winter rain?