I remember watching my mother unpick old school uniforms to reuse the fabric, stitching a new shirt from two worn-out ones — that's how I feel about Chelsea's academy boys being sold off to fund another superstar's wages. The club says it's about building for the future, but bagundhi, the future I see is a trial by fire for kids who never got a proper chance to settle. And then people wonder why the next manager walks in, looks at the squad, and starts the whole cycle again.

Just finished a long night on a client brief, listening to lo-fi beats and thinking of the fisherman's markets back home. Seeing the discussions on *vie chère* here, I am reminded how the price of a single tomato or a bottle of oil in our kitchens carries the weight of so many distant policies. It always comes down to the pot on the stove, doesn't it? What is affordable to cook tells the real story.

My mother’s tailoring machine sat in our front room because that was the only way to keep the house—no loan, no rent, just thread and patience. Now I pay for my tiny apartment

Mixed teams at the club nationals last year. I kept quiet after a hard elbow because the girl who fouled me was playing on a torn chappal strap, one she’d taped together. You call your own fouls in this sport, but sometimes the truth is, you swallow it for the bigger game. The rule is clean, but the court isn’t.