Wednesday, 5 March 2014


vol 39 India                                                    


I know in advance that I’m going to go a long way in order to justify this little, if stupid, mistake so my apologies for both the justification and the mistake itself. Very sorry.  Hopefully you will now never make it yourself but even better, safe in the knowledge that you wouldn’t have been such a fool, to make it in the first place and be consoled back your lack of idiocy and hopefully a nice glass of something bubbly and some cheese and crackers.

India, if you’ve never been, is at first a terrific shock to the system with its chaotic traffic and cows in the road, the daredevil dash from the airport on the windy, windowless bus exhorting terror from even the most robust of souls.

The colours, the beeps and cries, the armies of humans and exotic aromas at once excite and confuse the previously sedate senses.  I once read that an Indian, on a visit to a largely pre-pack English supermarket, couldn’t understand the lack of saliva- inducing smells and was unable to summon enough hunger to inspire his dinner.

Anyway, after a few days of the relative protection of all inc, you might venture out onto the equally chaotic shack-shop strewn street, keen to buy anything with which to compel your humid sprung hair into obeisance, to immediate cries of;

“Don’t buy her crap!  Buy my crap!” 

Later, you might, imagining a cool, heat-relieving paddle in the sea, risk another foray whereby a monstrous wave surge will instantly relieve you of your knickers and a passing tourist, clearly being clued up on the behaviour of the beach, will take your photo and you might swerve the cow on the sand and the elephant by the gate for the once again solace of all inc.

Conditioned by said and still slightly stressed, you may eventually make it to a spice plantation and, having been educated in the preferences and harvesting of the likes of cinnamon and turmeric, weary of walking in the warm, retire to the bar.  Here, you might imperiously summon a passing person from whom you order in clipped tones, the better to be understood, two large beers with no ice who, it turns out, is merely a fellow holiday-maker with a rather excellent tan.
At this point, you may, noting your growing mountain of mistakes, resolve to start a blog.