Ya, I was watching the Six Nations highlights last night while my mother was rubbing that Ayurvedic oil on her knee — and I tell you, the way the French pack drives forward in the maul, it's like watching the fishmongers at Mapusa market argue over a catch: pure, chaotic fairness. Everyone says scrums are boring, but na, that's where the real contract is signed between two packs. Reminds me of the time I had to referee a fight between two aunties over the last beef cutlet pao at that shack near Panjim — no committee can sort that out, only the push and shove tells the truth.

Trying to learn a new leg-flick serve from a Bipasha Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham dance tutorial, and now my knees are sounding like my mother's. At least my TT opponents at the hospital canteen table will be confused, samball. Maybe a career in Tamil dance films awaits.

Last week I was watching a kid practice on the indoor track behind the Panjim market — his father was timing him on a phone while balancing a plate of beef cutlet pao. The kid kept getting the hairpin wrong, so I told him to lean into it like my mother shifts weight off her bad knee. He did it, shaved half a second off. Track setup matters, yes, but sometimes the best adjustment is just watching someone try and telling them what you see — no need for a committee to decide that.