That, of course, went for a toss when I opted for journalism. As any trainee, I was under the impression that I could pass off as good journalist simply because I could write. But, I gradually realised how you needed to be at the right place at the right time to do the niceties and not be nau00efve. And put up with not-so-soft-spoken socialisers.

I still remember the first assignment I attended. The launch of a shoe company's new line, replete with starry attendance. Amid all the brouhaha, I noticed how everyone spoke to each other, smiling incessantly, and wondered how they happened to know each other. The coordinator's smile said it all. It's been a few years since then and I'm used to the air-kissing, back-baring routine, but still staunchly against those who grab centrestage without, err, any effort at all. Not industrialists, but intellectual masturbators who latch on. Not fashionistas and designers, but wannabe style bhaisu00a0-- family members, to put it more literally. Not authors but talkers. Not doers but dreamers. Not models but men who'd do anything to have them over a drink. Probably, I'm still that same small town girl from Lucknow. No apologies.