Love...Under Different Skies Read Online Free PDF

hits me square on the nose. Manjula laughs in delight.
    “Manjula!” the mother chides again.
    Through watering eyes I see her pick up the picture book (which features a badly drawn monkey on the cover) off the floor and put it back in the bassinet. She then shifts Manjula to the other end of the cot in an attempt to keep me out of ballistic range.
    This works for about ten minutes.
    The third time the stupid book hits me it’s on the crown of the head—sharp corner first again. Christ knows how this kid can be accurate and strong enough to throw the bloody thing so high. If nothing else, the Indian shot put team will have no trouble scoring the gold at the Olympics in twenty years. This time I hand the book back to the mother, a dark look on my face. “Sorry, sorry,” she says with a smile that indicates her deep regret may not be as sincere as I’d like.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t give her the book again?” I ask. She shakes her head with incomprehension. I drop into typical English behaviour and speak slowly and loudly to her. “Don’t give her the book again!” I enunciate clearly into her confused face.
    She seems to get the message and puts the monkey book by her side. Manjula isn’t fucking happy about this turn of events and starts to wail. Mother then starts to tickle her, which stops the crying, thankfully.
    There’s no way I’m going to sleep now. I daren’t drop my guard in case Manjula decides to launch an all-out aerial assault on me. I do, however, shut my eyes again in the universal signal for I’m now ignoring you and your child for the rest of the flight, madam .
    With the picture book removed, there are no more incidents for the next few hours. In that time I end up watching the Kim Kardashian documentary, for the simple reason that she has nice tits, while munching my way through the evil chicken hot-pot concoction with grim determination.
    The final battle with Manjula commences two hours out from Singapore, our stop-off on the way to Australia. A majority of the people on the flight are now either fast asleep or watching to see if R-Pattz is about to give birth to a forehead alien. Laura is catching flies, Poppy is dribbling over the armrest, and even Manjula’s mum is sound asleep and snoring gently.
    I am not sleeping. I am watching Manjula like a fucking hawk. The reason? The little cow has stepped up her game. I’d eventually succumbed and decided to watch The Avengers again on the tiny TV screen. It was just at the good bit—the Hulk starts smashing everything in sight—when my viewing pleasure was ruined by the monkey picture book thrown at my face with the power, style, and deadly accuracy of a ninja. I narrowly avoided losing my right eye.
    I pick the book out of my lap and waggle it at Manjula. “If you think you’re getting this back now,” I hiss at her, “you’ve got another think coming!” I stuff the book down by my side and flick Manjula a V sign.
    I’m a man in his mid-thirties making obscene gestures at a small baby. This is not my proudest moment. Manjula accepts the insult with good grace and looks down into the bassinet. I take this as a sign of defeat and return to watch Robert Downey Jr. flying around Manhattan with a hoard of screaming aliens chasing him.
    The next thing I know a plastic baby bottle is bouncing off my forehead. To add insult to injury, the rubber teat on the end falls off as it lands in my lap, splashing the remnants of milk all over me. Manjula laughs with delight.
    “You little son of a bitch!” I gasp in suppressed fury.
    Manjula’s mother stirs next to me but does not awaken. In the dim light of the plane cabin I can see my enemy rock back on her pudgy little legs in devilish glee. A baby barely out of the womb is making me her bitch.
    I am rendered utterly impotent. There is simply no way I can respond to this in any conceivable way that won’t make me look like a complete maniac. I’ve been targeted by a demon who knows I can do