If they could make a movie along the lines of "And so the lion fell in love with the lamb"

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. Her name was Victoria or Katherine or something like that. She was the princess of Bratislavia or Latistonia or one of those eastern European nations that later disappeared under the brutal heel of Stalinist terror and his misguided efforts at breaking the backs of the bourgeois landlord class and forging the mighty industrial monolith that the Soviet Union isn't today.

Ever since she was a little girl, her mother (the queen) and her father (the king) had told her that appearances weren't everything, and the chances were that one day she would meet a horrible warty frog and, merely by kissing him, he would reveal himself to be a handsome prince and the love of her life. An unlikely story admittedly, but back in those days before worldwide information technology and "mythbusters.com" they believed in all sorts of crazy things.

And so, Princess Victoria went in search of her frog prince.

Eventually after wandering the length and breadth of the kingdom she happened upon a pretty little pond and happened to rest. To her great surprise, sitting on a medium sized round stone half submerged in water, was a horrible, ugly, warty frog. Actually more often than not, it is toads that are horrible and warty. But in this case it was a grog with a particularly nasty skin condition.

Pausing only to wash her travel weary hands and change in to one of her favourite evening gowns she closed her eyes, puckered up and kissed the frog. And when she opened her eyes, she felt a gentle breeze wrapping all around her, birds fluttered from their tree perches, the sky started to turn azure. She felt the magic in the air. But then nothing happened. The frog just stared back at her with its unblinking exophthalmic eyes.

Now her mother always called her fickle and her brother maintained that she was pathologically unable to commit to a meaningful relationship for various reasons (not the least of which all was her eating disorder and drug abuse) and her father well... he was just annoyed, he had had quite enough of tripping over her many shoes scattered all over the palace.

But she decided that she would jolly well prove them all wrong. She felt the tug of magic and she knew in her heart of hearts that her handsome prince was within grasping reach. So by the bank of the pretty little pond, she made her home, forsaking all comforts save for three square meals a day and a new gown brought daily to her from her father's castle about a mile away (Silk and mud just didn't seem to go well together).

At the dawning of each new day and once again just before bedtime she planted a kiss on the disgustingly horrible, ugly, warty frog.

But he remained unchanged.

The days stretched in to weeks and the weeks in to months but the beautiful princess repeated her ritual. She was sure that only through a supreme act of devotion and love could she save the prince from the spell that was upon him. . .  which she assumed was laid on him by the evil witch that lived in the sinister and crumbling old house close by. She knew that through her sheer constancy and single mindedness she would prove wrong the bleatings and winnowings of her family. So the beautiful princess stayed true to her promise (the one that she had made to herself about sticking around) but the handsome prince still stubbornly stuck to his amphibious form.

Occasionally it occurred to her that the whole situation was a bit ridiculous and that the very idea of witches and princes being turned to frogs ran contrary to all her hitherto sensible sensibilities. But damn it all, she had started and she was going to see it through to the end.

The months stretched in to years and years stretched in to . . . well, more years (decades?). And eventually, the princess grew old and died.

Shortly after that the frog died too.

* * * THE END * * *
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Prologue

Once upon a time there was a handsome prince who happened to visit an ugly old witch while he was on his way to pay an impromptu visit to a beautiful princess who lived a castle nearby. His name was Colin (of Firth fame - I continue to own movie rights by the way).

He had dropped in to buy a love potion or something. Anyway, he must have said something off-the-cuff of some sort because the witch got really annoyed and cast an evil spell on him. . . and turned him in to a rock (of medium size, and round).

She said - a rock he would be until he received a kiss from a beautiful princess, or for that matter from anyone. And without further ado she hurled him out her window and he rolled down the slight incline till he came to rest half submerged in a pretty little pond.

Soon after that a horrible, ugly, warty frog crawled out of the pond and sat on him.

Quod me nutrit me destruit

From our days hunting on the prehistoric Savannah, the human brain is famously adapted for picking out relevant details from a jumble of images. Computers, however, would most likely have starved to death long before discerning an antelope in tall grass, let alone a phone number or contact information in a scanned document or PDF. They're evolving, though.

I've been devoting most of my working hours (and then some) to a difficult campaign with some asinine clients. The guy doing most of the work designing the campaign (thereby working closely with me) pretty much keeps to himself. Mr. Chill speaks only when necessary. Gives looks that make people think their mere visage offends him. Wears his headphones so as to block out ambient noise and makes a mess on the table he eats on. Still he doesn't talk.

In the beginning of this month, I joined this new team when we were all allocated, and I found myself in the cube directly across from Mr. Benign Rotundness. Late last week, we had this much-needed communication breakthrough. RB started actually speaking to me. Both about work in general and about things unrelated to work. I was particularly pleased with the turnaround and looking forward to the benefits of our new found working relationship. And yeah, Hindi was the medium of communication.

The other day, my work buddy Buddhist Catholic tapped the glass behind me and blew me a kiss. I turned in my chair just enough to blow a kiss back at her, which left me facing the aisle and Mr. Chill. Usually engrossed in his work and/or social networking, Mr. Chill took this opportunity to turn toward me - as I was mid- kiss... lips puckered, hand in air... and facing Mr. Chill directly.

I tried to assure him that I wasn't blowing him kisses, but I felt the flush rising in my cheeks and saw my shame mirrored in his suddenly rosy face. Certain any further explanation on my part would only make things worse, I turned back to my work.

So, yeah... Pretty sure the new found lines of communication with Mr. Chill are shut down as of now.

And Buddhist Catholic? After laughing hysterically at my retelling of the story, she's banned from blowing kisses my way.

* No, that's not an excuse, just the facts, people. I'm not silly enough to think anyone is out there wondering where I've been. It just happened to be a good lead-in for a little self-deprecation. And we all know how much I love some self-deprecation.

I know, I know, I haven't been spending too much time at the blog lately because I've been working on advancing my career. Or so I'd like to believe, but all that is about to change.