We’re going to India today. I spend so much time speaking to call centres in Mumbai and Delhi that I thought it almost rude not to go and thank ‘Kenny’ and ‘Mike’ and ‘Ronnie’ personally for disturbing so much of our meal-time peace during the course of the year. I’m taking a baseball bat with me.

32 years ago we went to Sri Lanka. Our first ever ‘exotic’ trip (ie: beyond Benidorm, other than America which doesn’t count because its civilised, or was back then, not sure any more). The first of many expeditions to faraway lands. Dragging our screaming daughters to the corners of the world in an effort to ‘expand their minds’, to ‘open up their hearts’ to other cultures, other customs and really cheap food. But all they wanted, in Thailand, South Africa, Australia, Mauritius, wherever, was ‘pasta’. Dried. From Waitrose. Don’t want that foreign muck.

But I do. I love foreign muck. Can’t really get enough of it.

India is famous for its foreign muck. And I intend to bathe in it. Live the dream. Curry for breakfast. Samosas for lunch. Kebabs for dinner. Virtually no calories at all. Or, virtually no calories that I give a shit about.

And giving a shit is the problem with India. Delhi Belly. India is reputedly the best country with the worst stomach upsets in the world. And thus the advice is always: don’t drink the water, and DON’T EAT SALAD because its washed in water. How will I survive 2 weeks without salad? Just watch me. And pass another lamb-chop.

Tomorrow morning in fact we shall be in Delhi. An aeroplane is taking us. And after a few days there we’re doing a bit of a tour round the whole of India, except the parts we won’t see. Because its big. Very, very big. And populous.

Yours very excitedly, even though we just lost the cricket over there 4 tests to nil.

Happy holidays

A xxxx