We spent an hour in an awful ‘Irish’ pub at the airport, leaving
just before the repetitive dirge on the radio fully took a hold of me, we
boarded the last plane and were informed by our Sikh friend, Charanjit that our
bags might have actually made it.
I rode out the last three hours unable to sleep, as usual, watched a film called ‘The Beaver’ starring Hitler’s favourite Australian, and wrote an ode to skinny air stewardesses (do they ever hire the short or stumpy?). Finally I had landed in India, fingers crossed that my bag was there with me.
We got through customs to find our bags almost instantly on the conveyor belt. I said goodbye to Hugh and Charanjit, spotted an Indian cabbie holding a sign which read ‘Dion Power’ (obviously a fan), and got him to deliver me to the overdue death of my day.
‘It was hot, it was baking, fandabidozy’, I thought as the madness of India first showed its face on the free-for-all roads, my driver, a somewhat peaceful fellow, driving like he had been drinking too much Lucozade.
I arrived in my cell-like room to receive a kiss from my favourite Miss, which re-energized my tired eyes. We pushed three weeks’ worth of love into two hours, and by 1pm I was finally asleep.
I awoke with Sarah’s return, took a shower and hit the streets of New Delhi’s main bazaar, where we strolled around the beautiful, dirty town, stopping off for a drink before searching a few shops for things I could wear (I’d purposefully not packed anything except a few worn out items I wanted to have reproduced). I paid 450 rupees (£6) for two pairs of comfortable trousers and a linen shirt so I had clothes for the next day, then we went for dinner in a roof-top restaurant. We returned home for another shower, and by 11pm, I was asleep.
I rode out the last three hours unable to sleep, as usual, watched a film called ‘The Beaver’ starring Hitler’s favourite Australian, and wrote an ode to skinny air stewardesses (do they ever hire the short or stumpy?). Finally I had landed in India, fingers crossed that my bag was there with me.
We got through customs to find our bags almost instantly on the conveyor belt. I said goodbye to Hugh and Charanjit, spotted an Indian cabbie holding a sign which read ‘Dion Power’ (obviously a fan), and got him to deliver me to the overdue death of my day.
‘It was hot, it was baking, fandabidozy’, I thought as the madness of India first showed its face on the free-for-all roads, my driver, a somewhat peaceful fellow, driving like he had been drinking too much Lucozade.
I arrived in my cell-like room to receive a kiss from my favourite Miss, which re-energized my tired eyes. We pushed three weeks’ worth of love into two hours, and by 1pm I was finally asleep.
I awoke with Sarah’s return, took a shower and hit the streets of New Delhi’s main bazaar, where we strolled around the beautiful, dirty town, stopping off for a drink before searching a few shops for things I could wear (I’d purposefully not packed anything except a few worn out items I wanted to have reproduced). I paid 450 rupees (£6) for two pairs of comfortable trousers and a linen shirt so I had clothes for the next day, then we went for dinner in a roof-top restaurant. We returned home for another shower, and by 11pm, I was asleep.
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