Saffron rice

Saffron was picked up from Thomson Grove relatively early today, just as one of her new 'favourite' programmes was starting - which prompted a mini-tantrum ("I want to watch my Chinese serial!") that was only placated by an offer to take her off to a playground for horseplay ("Okay. So can I bring my bucket and spade?")

As we got in the taxi, the appeal of hanging out at dusk in a mosquito-infested playground began to wane for me, and so I began to cast around for alternatives. MRT ride; carousel; watching fish in an aquarium; shopping; eating sushi; early bedtime; bubble bath; watch a DVD - all were flatly rejected in favour of the climbing frame and malaria. Until the mention of the magic word - poppadom.

And lo and behold 20 minutes later (we were heading downtown on the CTE in the opposite direction to the rush-hour traffic) she was leading me in to Shahi Maharani, the greatest tandoori restaurant east of Chalkwell.





The waiters, none of whom she recognised, were as pleased to see her, as she was to see a plate piled high with poppadoms greet her arrival to the table. Her fascination in a passing hotplate of sizzling curried lamb then prompted her to say (surely with echoes of Little Britain) "I want that one!", and before you could mutter 'A Passage to India' she was happily making saffron rice ("My rice, right?") sandwiches with her roomali roti.

After an enjoyable but futile attempt to finish all the food we'd ordered, we waved the white flag, swiped the plastic, and bounced our way to the nearest taxi rank, before heading for home - whereupon Saffron was as pleased as punch to find that the lift lobby of our apartment block had been decorated right out of Dream of the Red Chamber: "Just like my Chinese serial!" she squealed.