A Perfect Day?

A perfect day. For a person like me who is perhaps the best-friend of confusion; who has a tough time deciding the flavour of an ice-cream, there definitely would not be a single element that determines a perfect day.

Perfection, although is a rarely met phenomenon. Yet, hypothetically, my definition of a perfect day would start with me waking up on a warm hotel bed on a holiday in a Swiss village. I step into the bathtub to kill the cold and have a nice hot coffee in the tub.

After giddying up, I find myself in the middle of a brunch buffet. Seven courses and seventeen cuisines lined on the tables. I break my fast with berry tarts and end with apple pies, till my sweet tooth can take no more.

Then, I take my van out of the parking, a mini home in itself, and drive through the alps. I pull over every few kilometres for the cold air to hit my face and to take some amazing shots.

By midday, I reach the cheese farm in an isolated town. It produces more varieties of cheese than I can count. I take a tour of the surprisingly small farm and fill my tummy to its limit with cheese. I even fill the bag with some cheese whose name I cannot pronounce.

I park the van in an open grassfield and tidy the bed at the back of my van. On the soft bed, I relax with some after my midday meal. With Gary Coleman playing blues in the background, I shut the drapes of my eyes.

Freddie Mercury sings ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ on the alarm clock to wake me up. The watch shows 4:30. I drive for some time to reach a tiny, heritage coffee shop. The aroma of slow roasting beans makes my feet move faster. I order the classic cappuccino with some butter cookies and sit by the window to see the sun going down, inch by inch.

I converse with the stranger who speaks little English. He tells me about a Swiss poet who lived a hundred years ago. I drink three cups of cappuccino and read the tale of the late poet who loved black-haired beauty.

The sun is on the verge of setting. It goes three shades darker. I pick the guitar from the van and open the back door. Looking at the sun, I delve in the country tunes and imitate John Denver. With my last strum, it is pitch dark. No cow bells are jangling in the meadows. I drive back to the village where I woke up this morning.

Another seven courses and a dozen chauffeurs await me in the dining room. I eat till I cannot tell one flavour from another. I go to my suite and get back in my shorts and tee. I open the cork of the bottle that reads ‘Chenin Blanc’. The fruity flavour of the wine reaches the corners of my mouth. In the player, I put the CD of Jazz Classics, Chet Baker and Miles Davis play the soothing notes and push me in a state of complete relaxation.

My phone is locked in the wardrobe all day. None of the calories from the food that I hogged hit me. No one cares about my dressing. Men are at my service whenever I need them. My hair is intact and soft as ever. But then the clock hits 12 and the cold gets to me. I start sneezing and my perfect day comes to an end.