From My Armchair in the Colonies

It is fascinating to watch the Brexit debacle from my armchair in the colonies. I can do so with a certain privilege; for although I’m from Northern Ireland and therefore a British subject, my Irish passport lends a rather detached air to the whole proceedings.
I’m not sure that Teresa May, Boris Johnson, and his accompanying hurrah Henry’s were aware that when they nipped over to visit Mr Modi here in India they were in fact negotiating with the Indian equivalent of UKIP, or Sinn Fein for my Irish contemporaries. He is an Indian nationalist, of a particularly staunch variety.
I would suggest that the foreign office cough up for a subscription to the Times of India, or the Hindustan Times, and actually get a grip on how the whole Indian Nation is wetting themselves laughing as the British government came “cap in hand” offering to trade on their “special relationship”
No matter what the British press may have you believe, they both got short shrift. Why, I ask myself, and you should too, why; would a nation who suffered immeasurably at the hands of the British empire now assist in bailing that said empire out? 
You can’t go to Amritsar to see the Golden temple without being told ” you should go to Jallianwala Bagh, its where the Britishers massacred us….” It was made famous outside of India with the film Gandhi, it’s the well sequence, it’s horrific and extremely difficult to watch in the cinema, more so if you, or your family, or your countrymen were victims. 
People here cherish their “freedom fighters” that’s what they call them here. I met one just last week at the Irish embassy, he was 90, he’d spent years in prison at the hands of the British for sedition. He is a hero here, they get special privileges on trains, planes and possibly even automobiles  You don’t get past that just because the British have left the EU and need a trade deal, no, not whilst Mr Modi is in power.
The British government is all for “special relationships” with the commonwealth and the previous colonies, but guess what people, the colonies ain’t that keen. Why should the great invader who raped their women and their resources now be welcomed? Put yourself in their place, you wouldn’t jump too high to help either.
I’m currently reading the “Silk Roads” by Peter Frankopan it’s about the fall of empires, how history moves on, how the once great are no longer. I think it’s apt at this time, Greece isn’t doing too well, Constantinople is now Istanbul, Persia is now Iran, and Rome is no longer a force to be reckoned with. 
And whilst the British empire has been dead for a long time it’s subjects still revel in past glories, cling to a folksy version of history where they were benevolent do gooders, favourably looked upon by loyal, grateful subjects. They need a wake up call, that is not how it’s seen from the other side, they were invaders who took what they wanted and left, just saying. 
The whole Empire 2.0 in the British press is, let’s be honest, it’s codswallop..a most British expression for pie in the sky. Why anyone in the British establishment would think that any nation who has been treated so badly by the “empire” would dance to their tune, at their request, is beyond me. Seriously?
Sure, commerce, economics play their part, but other nations have pride too. Why should India dance to the “Britishers” tune? They built on their special relationship to the UK whilst it gave access to the EU, that’s not on the table anymore, time to move on to a more economically viable partnership. 
Right now their focus is on Trump, they’ll get round to the UK in their own time. And whilst the UK is not at the back of the queue let’s just say their special relationship is more a hindrance than a help.
Whilst the west embraces the rise of populism, nationalism and elements of the far right they’re expecting India and the colonies to embrace liberalism, the very thing they proclaim to detest. Forgive and forget, move forward for the greater good, well that won’t happen, not in India, not on Modis’ watch. 

Bye, Slainte, Masalama, Namaste

Topiary from the memorial garden Jallianwala Bagh. 

To your door…

When you travel a bit it’s kinda weird what you miss. Pork products obviously, but then other stuff that you never appreciated. Church bells on Sunday, daffodils, cherry blossom, a wee dander down the town, people who understand your accent, people who know your religion by your name, cut grass, lazy Sundays, the fear of running into your Ma’s mate down the pub, and thon bitch from school who was good looking but is now a cow. (She was always a cow, but her good looks then..gave her grace)
Yea, big cities do that, they kinda cut away everything that decided who you were, big cities allow you to become a blank page. I ran away to a big city at 20, London, I loved it. But jumping a few borders and striking out into the unknown is different. They speak English in London, they have churches and daffodils and cut grass. My Ma’s mate was not not on the horizon but I’m damn sure her sisters-brothers-cousin was…. and word would get back. It still wasn’t free.
I wasn’t a young thing when I made the big move, you know, like out of Europe, but I think that’s for the best, well for me anyway. I don’t think I could’ve coped before, I really had no idea of how cosseted small town rural life can make you. It gives you comfort, you’re among your own, but it stifles, it stifles so bad.  

Northern Ireland was always an us’uns and them’uns, I came from a pretty liberal family so I was never an “us” or a “them” . I’m thankful for that now, but it did make it really fecking complicated as a teenager.
I grew up in a little fairy land created by my dad, “Mairead, just work hard, be honest and stand up for those that need a hand” I was the eldest of 5, so there was a lot of standing up to do….there was always someone who needed a hand, and I naively thought that someone would do likewise if I needed one….my dad was a good man.
I’ve been fortunate, Ive never really needed a hand, I’ve got a hubby who has my back, three super smart children with values that I could only aspire to, they humble me. If they’re my legacy then so be it, I’ve done my bit, they’re awesome. But, but, there are people who do need a hand, I don’t care what religion you are, they are, if people need a hand then help. Feck this whole religion shite, if they’re hurting then help, its as simple as that.
Oh they’re too far away, oh that’s not not my responsibility oh they’re brown, oh they’re Muslim, oh they’re native Americans, oh they’re LGBT, oh they’re Protestant, not catholic, oh they’re Buddhist, oh they’re Hindu….feck-it they’re people and they need a hand. 
I guess what I’m trying to say is that with age comes a little understanding. If you challenge yourself you can get a different view, travel really helps. If you step outside your comfort zone rather than sitting on your own back door step you will realise that all families have the same hopes and dreams for their kids. Now when I say travel I’m not talking…..
A fortnight in Benidorm, or a stag weekend in Prague….how about Beirut…? It’s party central there, an amazing place. Fuck your woman Le Pen, and her headscarf, thon was a publicity stunt, Beirut is fun, welcoming and for the Irish it feels incredibly like home. You’ve got a broken country that has produced a population that are politically savvy, they know you have to vote early, and vote often….they also won’t be swayed by a political representative that’s a reality TV star, unlike some I could mention.
I’m feeling invigorated at the moment, sure, America is ripping its self apart, maybe that needed to happen, Trump is an ill wind but the people are “woke” as they say. You don’t appreciate what you have until its taken. All those rights that were fought for, all those people who who put right before wrong, they’ll be churning in their grave. Stand up, don’t be the good girl/boy cos your mums friend is watching, be you, be strong and make your voice heard, you’re in the big city now, make it count. 
Or don’t, because hate brings these bastards to your door

 

Out and About

Hiya,

I thought I’d follow on from my last post “My Street” and extend my exploration out into the surrounding neighborhood. We live in south Delhi just between GK and Saket, that’s the two sections on the map defined as “where rich girls live” and “where rich girls shop.”

Now bear in mind you’ve seen the photos of my area last time and that was “where rich girls live” …..so lower your expectations. I will head into the seedier sections next time, and, I do off course nip up to Khan Market (where rich girls eat) when I’m in full lady who lunches mode.
So, with the aim of showing you the other side of Delhi I’m out roaming around the more upmarket areas. This is in part to show my mate “Pinky” from Portadown that there are lots of options and you don’t have to get down and dirty all the time, thanks for reading by the way, xx
But first off, I’ve got to get there, that means a Tuk-tuk so here’s me heading out, just think pence when you hear the price, 50 rupees is about 50p and I’m going a couple of kilometers, well I think so, it takes 40 minutes to walk. Here’s the video, Jaysus, my accent is awful!!
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Supermarkets, let’s start there, well sort off, there really aren’t any here…they’re more equivalent to a decent Shell petrol station forecourt, say Spar size. They tend to be about 2000 sq ft. There is some planning law that bans anything bigger, but hey that’s good enough. They also tend to be over a couple of floors, so think a decent terrace house size, obviously there is no disabled access, lift, or even non slip floors but it works. It works because there are so many staff employed someone will carry your basket for you up and down the precarious stairs, or simply just go get your desired item.
The selection is pretty good, great fresh bread and pastries, copious amounts of tea, spices, lots of imported oils, basically anything you want, except cheese, feck the cheese selection is terrible. This is now my smuggling item of choice when traveling outside the country. It’s bizarre really in that with the vast amount of goats and buffalo you should be able to get good mozzarella and goats cheese, but no it paneer everywhere, tasteless, rubber stuff, I just don’t get it. Here’s a few photos, it’s pretty good..

They also sell a huge range of imported fruit and veg which is a total waste of money, it is not as fresh as the local stuff and about 5 times the price. Why would I pay a £5 fiver for a couple of apples when I can have a kilo of mangoes or papaya or bananas for a few pence, crazy. Anyway, suffice to say apart from the cheese you can get almost anything you want. 
I did have a problem with chicken until recently, they take all the skin off in the factory so it was hard to get a chicken with its skin on for a roast. I’ve now got a friendly butcher who delivers me 4 at a time with a day’s notice. I’ve no idea why they do it, they take all the fat off the meat too, it can’t be for health reasons as they cook everything in ghee which is 10 times worse, any way I’m sorted now thanks Mr Sardar from GK2. Here’s today’s delivery, £16.40 in total, yip that’s a leg of mutton, which they sometimes call goat….maybe it is…again I’ve no idea….

So enough of the groceries ladies, here’s where it gets to be fun, look at those shop names, and a multitude of others, all about 15 minutes from me. And the best bit, at Indian prices.

 For some strange reason clothes and non food items don’t seem to be taxed in the same way. Zara is cheaper than the UK yet has the same stock, and even Apple iPads and phones are cheaper than the US….maybe they are all made here, that’s the only reason I can think off. 
Whilst the malls may look as boring as those anywhere else in the world, you do still know you’re in India. Random signs greet you on arrival just to let you know you’re not exactly at home…, no guns, no armed personal bodyguards, etc but this one is fabulous

I particularly like the “be prepared section” and it’s reference to plant pots…..They are paranoid about the bad press they get in regards to the treatment of women. The “be confident” section is a bit blurry, it says

“The golden rule to empower yourself is to be confident. Remember women are gifted with tremendous amount of physical and moral strength. Resist any attempt of physical eve-teasing (that’s what they call sexual harassment)
The malls are all licensed, so after your shopping spree you can cool down with a cocktail or chilled beer. Here’s some of my favorite places that aren’t known outside India, they’re much better than the big international chains. There is a Hard Rock Cafe in my local Mall which I’ve never visited, what’s the point? Although having said that I have been known to visit “Chillies” it’s nothing great, it’s just adjacent to the smoking area…..These local outlets have beautiful food, excellent service and great prices, better by far. I may just go indulge….

The Smoke House Delhi

Delhi Heights

The Beer Cafe

Bye, Slainte, Masalama, Namaste

A Morning Well Spent

I’m feeling altogether rather pleased with myself. Whilst the world was being distracted with the tangoed Trump our Mr Modi announced he would address the nation at 8pm Tuesday night. The Indian Twitter disengaged from their sarcastic comments on the ongoing US voting only momentarily to speculate on what the announcement may be. The general consensus was he was going to declare war on the Paks. (That would be Pakistan to you and me, they love their acronyms here, and yes it sounds derogatory but political correctness ain’t a thing in India yet.
So whilst I’m scrolling through I have a WTF moment, “as of midnight tonight all 500 and 1000 rupee notes will no longer be legal tender” says Mr Modi. It’s 9pm and I’ve about 12,000 rupees in my purse. It’s a good job he didn’t do it the week before as I’d been hoarding about 50,000 to give to my son on his visit. Anyway, I’d generously palmed it off on him a few days previously and he and his girlfriend were currently lying on some beach in Goa.
There then followed a complicated instruction sign as to what to do with your now useless pieces of paper, none of which made sense. It was altogether rather complicated and unnecessarily bureaucratic as only those who’ve spent time here could possibly grasp. I managed to contact the loving twosome to let them know the latest “only in India” moment to add to their holiday experience.
His girlfriend replied ” don’t worry, we’ve spent most of the money on wine and vodka” I think I like this girl! They were fine and once I’d worked out how they could get a taxi back from the airport without any cash, the solution involving me standing in the street in my pyjamas with a bunch of coins scrounged from the back of the sofa we were on a roll.

The reasoning behind this rather fabulous bombshell….well…there’s lots of “black money” in India, dodgy boys doing dodgy dealings. There are literally suitcases of cash, possibly rooms of cash made through illicit channels. They also blame these “Paks” for printing fake notes and using it to sponsor terror and drugs.  So Mr Modi in his wisdom thought anyone with nothing to hide is fine, you dodgy boys are not. You can bring your suitcases along to the bank and explain how you got it, how you paid tax on it etc, or basically you can just have a bonfire. It’s a rather brilliant idea and the working classes have embraced it, it’s a very popular ballsy move. Fair play to him.

Today for me, being a decent honest person, was a whole other ballgame. Yesterday I didn’t even attempt to do anything as it was also announced that all ATMs and banks would be closed. I did however need to get my ironing done….I counted out the 51 items in question and dropped them off with my trusty street side ironing couple. I knew that it would come to 300 rupees, and, when a couple of hours later they arrived at my door with the said items I offered them 300 in small notes or one of the now illegal 500 notes. They opted for the 500 as there is off course provision to exchange it at some time over the next few weeks. Happy all round.
My lovely ironing couple

But getting back to why I’m so fecking pleased with myself today. It’s quite simple, I survived an experience any expat, scrub that, any Indian too would be proud off. I managed to go to the bank and exchange 4000 rupees of illegal tender for legal notes. 4000 being the maximum you can exchange at any one time as per the very confusing sign. I appreciate that nipping out to the bank sounds like feck all. But, that required me to be in the GK2 area which has loads of banks before their opening time, which is an exceptionally early 10:30 am, yeah Indians aren’t really morning people.

It required me to scout out which one had the shortest queue, yes, there were queues before they opened, and immerse myself in the throngs of let’s just say, more than slightly irate customers. I successfully negotiated the four pages of forms that had to be filled in. I successfully produced my passport photocopies, explained that YES that fecking stupid hand written thing in my passport is a VISA, No I’m not a tourist, No it’s not my husbands money, signed the effing declaration to say tax had been paid on this vast amount of money, and then finally joined another queue to exchange the notes.
I stood in the second queue for 1 hour and 17 minutes, I forgot to time the first queue. And during that 1 hour and 17 minutes the electric went out for a fairly substantial part of it. There are about 100ish of us, standing in the dark because off course there’s no natural light, and the generator didn’t come on. It didn’t come on because diesel generators are banned this week because of the pollution….I forgot to mention the whole multitude of pollution fighting measures didn’t I, that’s another blog entirely.
So here’s me, surrounded by approx 98 men and one other woman standing in the dark, without air conditioning in 29 degrees, such a fabulous start to the day. There wasn’t room to form an orderly queue and let’s be honest they wouldn’t form one even if there was, but I have mighty fierce elbows, those years of practice in Cairo have paid off. I’d just come from the gym so I was flexing those muscles as best I could and seeking anonymity behind my pollution mask, which served as a great defence against the rather ripe aroma now circulating due to the lack of A/C.
I did it, I stood strong and came away with 4000 rupees in legal tender. I off course rather naively thought that my 8 old 500 rupee notes would be exchanged for 8 new notes. I was rather excited to see what they would look like in the flesh, they are Braille ready notes which which is pretty awesome. ( some of the stuff they do here puts the west to shame) I was hoping I could feel them to see if I could tell the denominations in the dark. But alas, it was not to be, I received three bundles of notes, two in denominations of 10 rupees and one in 20 rupees. I am now the proud owner of 300 individual notes, and the total value of these 300 notes…….well that would be £40 quid sterling, yip, £40 quid. I’m home now glass of wine in hand, I think that was a morning well spent.
Here’s my new notes, the top two bundles are worth 10p each note and the bottom bundle is worth 20p each. The fags are so you can see how fat the bundles are and also I think I’m gonna need them, I’ve got 8000 left, that’s two more visits!!

Filling in the fecking forms

The new notes that I didn’t get….

Bye, Slainte, Masalama, Namaste

My Street

Ok, so I’m raging, I really am a total twat. I spent all day writing a new blog post and my ineptitude with all things technical means I’ve managed to lose the whole bloody thing by simply nipping out to the shop.
I’m trying to embrace this new age computer malarkey, I really am. But, bearing in mind it took me 11 times just to pass my driving test, yip 11, and that I also managed to send the whole fecking rugby club a lovey dovey message meant to be for my hubby……..it may be time to acknowledge that I should step away from this independent woman stuff and accept that I should stick to that female domain, white goods.

The “lost” blog post did indeed revolve around said white goods. It was full of excitement that the hubby has agreed to the purchase of a new Dyson Vacuum cleaner for me on our trip home in a couple of weeks. Ok so Dysons aren’t white and I’d set my heart on a vibrant purple one, but as a birthday present it sure beats the slow cooker I got last year.

It’s bizarre really, I’ve no problem with power tools, give me a Dewalt 9″ grinder, a Makita kango and it’s no bother. A TV though with the associated cables connecting it to the computer and it’s enough to send me into melt down. My daughter has just been here for a few weeks and that meant that I had the absolute treat of watching countdown in the afternoon. I’ll hold my hands up and say I never watch TV unless someone’s here to figure it out for me, I simply don’t even attempt to turn it on. The dog and I spend our days in silence until the hubby gets home, I don’t even have an iPod thingy, I’m happy with books. Good old fashioned ones you hold in your hands, spill tea on and weigh a tonne.

The nipping out to the shop was also a technical blunder as I was so excited by my new phone I thought I would take some pictures to put into the now lost blog. It off course is not really a new phone, my daughter got the new one. I got her old one which is apparently 3 designs behind the latest model but obviously more than enough for my technical abilities. The daughter and the hubby set it up for me, amidst surreptitious smirks that I chose to ignore.

I got the photos I was after and a video that was completely accidental as I pushed the wrong button… I get little surprises like that all the time, welcome to my world. The photos now have no connection to this blog but I’m putting them in anyway as you lot are a bunch of voyeurs who generally are only reading this nonsense to see what I’ve been up to, check how my wrinkles are coming on, and if the hubby’s getting fat.

I suppose I better give you a brief run down of the pictures I took, they were just to give you a little insight into the glamorous life I lead. Some of the daily sights I see, the delightful shop keepers who greet me with good morning mam, who humble me with their cheerfulness, and generally are the only people I talk to when I’m not being a lady who lunches. For whilst I’m more than able to swan around at fancy dinners, meet Maharajas and indulge in long champagne fueled brunches, 99% of the time this is who I chat to. These are the shops a couple of hundred yards from my apartment. First off here is the street view from my apartment, Delhi is pretty green. 

 

This is Mr Sanjay, he’s my go to cigarette man and he gets good trade from me. 

 

This is his setup, if you look closely you can see where he’s tapped into the lamp post to get his power for the air cooler that sits behind him.

  
I don’t know this guys name, his dad is usually there but this is where I get my bread and groceries. This shop is fancy, he has a fridge but no coke today, it looks like we are on the local equivalent, Thumbs up, it’s pretty good.

  
This is my favorite spot where I get my milk and ice cream. You bring your bucket and they fill it up or you can get the milk in sealed plastic bags, how they get it in I can’t figure out but that’s the option I go for.

  

Here’s where I get my cleaning stuff, this boy is lovely and I always get a thankyou from him for bringing my own bag. Plastic bags are banned here in shops over a certain size. I’m not sure what the cut off point is but his shop is exempt. He is very environmentally friendly and tells me he shouldn’t be allowed to give out bags, the government needs to tighten up the ban to cover all shops in his opinion. Everything is stacked to the ceiling hence the ladder.

   
 
This is where I pay my phone and TV stuff, it obviously has no connection to airtel or 4g, they must have nabbed the signs from somewhere. I never go when this wee woman is there as she is almost as technically incompetent as me, I wait until her son arrives, he’s about 12 so he’s perfect.

  
This is where I get my chocolate, it’s in a tiny fridge behind the bread and eggs, it’s the only place around that has unmelted chocolate so this boy made a good investment in his counter top display unit, he is busy.

  
Here’s the dry cleaners, it’s not really as there is no dry cleaning equipment but that’s what the sign says. I have no idea how they clean the stuff I give them, nor do I care they do a good job

  
The pharmacy where you can get everything, his stock system may be a little random but it works for him and if he doesn’t have it “come back in 4 hours mam” brilliant service.

  
This is my mobile fruit man. I can wave him down from my balcony and he will send up whatever I need.

  
This is the “Saloon” where the hubby goes for his pampering…. £9 (which is still a rip off, I’m sure the locals pay less than half that) but he gets, a haircut, a double shave, (if you know the hubby you’re in stitches as he is rather light in the beard department) a facial, a face mask, and a head and shoulder massage. The barber makes a great show of unwrapping a new blade for his cutthroat each time and sprinkles Dettol liberally. 

The chair is too small for the hubby so he has to hunker down and the barber then props up the missing neck rest with a can of deodorant or something appropriate in size. The socket, yes THE socket is too far for the cord to reach with the clippers so some contortions need to be performed. That’s assuming the power doesn’t go out midway….

  
I was going to finish off with the accidental video but I am unable to transfer it from my phone to my iPad……I’ve sent it to messenger, why or how I’ve no idea….but I can’t bloody get it onto this blog. I’m going to cut my loses and upload now before I loose the damn lot again. Secretly I’m really chuffed I’ve managed my new phone so successfully, now where’s my wine.

Bye, Slainte, Masalama, Namaste x
UPDATE
The hubbys home, I’ve now been instructed in the art of uploading videos here you go folks I’m on a roll today
  
 

Delightfully Mad

I seem to have the knack of attracting delightfully mad people, maybe it’s the fact I find them “delightful” that encourages them……..oh and drug dealers, yip I attract drug dealers too.
I got the life history of my tuk tuk driver this morning, weird and warped as it was. I love the feeling of anticipation when I stick my arm out to hail an auto and wait to see which delightful maniac has been sent my way today.
It started in the usual way….
“Mam, are you a Britisher?”
“No, I’m from Ireland, are you from Delhi?”
I find it better to respond with a question otherwise it turns into an interrogation, this I think is my fatal flaw, and why I know the ins and outs of numerous random tuk tuk drivers lives.
“No I’m from UP (Uttar Pradesh)” 
“Oh” says I “very nice”, in truth I know a little about UP, we used to live there and it’s known as the gun state, let’s just say it’s a bit rough…..So rather than divulge this little nugget of information I of course ask “and do you have family? I find this question is open enough to ensure I no longer have to comment and all that will be required is sympathetic head nodding and a few random “Oh dears, or Oh very goods”
It turned out yes he did have a family, but he’d left them behind in UP as he wanted to get a new wife. “Why? ” says I, and he was off…

Well, the one he had wasn’t very good as she’d given him “3 girl child’s,” and that was no use to anybody….He went on to explain that it was a love marriage but he should have listened to his parents because she had trapped him, he is convinced she knew she could only have girl child’s……
He said he had done everything right, used all the charms, prayed to the right Gods, to get a boy child, but there was obviously “something wrong with her”……that statement was immediately met with an “oh Dear” and some conciliatory head nodding…..It was 9am, I’d only had one coffee and was in no mood to call him out as being a fecking wanker. 

He told me he was having problems getting a new wife because all prospective wives were concerned about the 3 girl child’s and that there might be something wrong with him. He of course dismissed this scenario and said he wouldn’t marry any of them anyway as they were obviously stupid as everyone knows it’s the woman’s “fault” she must have had a “curse on her”

These little snippets of conversation really serve to let you know you are living in a very different culture. In different circumstances I would have called him out on his misogynistic views but like I’ve said, I’d only had one coffee and was quite unprepared to challenge the pompous prick on his ridiculousness without sufficient caffeine and nicotine in my system. I shrugged it off, waved him bye bye and thought, Oh bring it on Delhi, how many nutters will I meet before lunch? 

I’m guaranteed to meet at least one a day, that’s because my maid is here everyday and she is top notch nutter material, in the nicest possible way of course. Sometimes I avoid her but mostly I do engage with her and her dramas, of which there are many. I think it’s because she takes great pleasure in her suffering. That sounds strange but what I mean is her husband is a nightmare, he beats her, he says she is old and ugly (she is 42 and actually very pretty) but she is happy, like really fecking happy, because in her next life she knows, yes Knows, she will have a good husband to make up for his crap, she is totally convinced of this…..well, what do I know! I’m not going to burst her bubble it makes her happy, and you never know maybe she is right. 

He is currently having an affair with some 25 year old bimbo which gives her great pleasure, as in her words “he is far too old for her,” amid fits of giggles, (I think he is about 56) and he will die soon, and her and the “sexy stuff ” ( again her words) will speed up his dying. The other day she presented me with his picture, “look Mam, he is very old, I won’t have long to wait”…….followed by more giggles, her breaking into song, and some rather raunchy Bollywood style moves, she brightens my day no end.

Mr Singh the local taxi driver we use on occasion also has some rather odd views. Young girls nowadays are scandalous, “they ride motor bikes like men, (he means not side saddle) which would be kinda difficult to do if you’re driving the bloody thing, they pluck their eyebrows and even shave under their arms……” I’ve no idea how I managed to have this conversation with him as he usually picks us up when we’ve had a few, so the lead up to his venting is a little blurry. Now I kinda get the eyebrow and under arm stuff as I guess it’s religious based, he is a Sikh so hair is a big factor. A bit like Islam and the Hijab I think it’s open to interpretation, (this religion stuff has a lot to answer for) but I’m not sure specific motorbike riding positions are mentioned in any religious texts, and no girl wants a mono brow, or guy for that matter.

It’s not just the locals who are delightfully mad, one of my best friends here, an expat, can on occasion cause me to do a double take. She has decided that she doesn’t like the latest driver the company has sent her as he has “evil eyes” maybe I should accept the drugs I keep getting offered, I’m obviously not on the same wavelength, they might help. Although I think the offer of opium with my morning Chai is probably not entry level stuff.
I’m anticipating lots more crackpot theories to be made available to me over the coming weeks. You see the weather has been lovely which has meant we could sit outside and I could indulge in the hubby ‘s company and that off my not so sane friends. It’s much too hot now so that means a retreat to the air conditioned restaurants and bars and the cradle of all crackpot theories, the smoking room.. 

I will keep you posted
Bye, Masalama, Slainte, Namaste

Pick one, pick anyone, I’ll get the nutter

  
Uttar Pradesh

   

    

Maharajas & Mischief

As the saying goes, it’s not what you know but who you know….. That’s certainly been the case for me lately. From lounging on the beautiful beaches of Muscat, to catching up in crazy Cairo, and swanning around like a proper lady who lunches I’ve been having a blast.
 I’ve been to an Austrian embassy dinner and won a weekend in Jaipur, enjoyed Paddys day shenanigans at the Irish ambassadors residence, and mingled with some rather exquisite French ladies during a night of Parisienne glamour at the French ambassadors pied-a-terre. But, all of that pales into insignificance in comparison to the the 5 days we spent as a guest of the Maharaja of Udaipur.
The trouble with this country is it continually renders me speechless. Every time I come back from somewhere I say “now that’ll take some beating” and the next thing you know I’m staring in awe at something else equally spectacular.
 From the breathtaking views around wildflower hall at the foot of the Himalayas, (If you watch the TV series Indian Summers you’ll get the picture) to the spectacle of the Golden Temple in Amritsar at sunset, to the feeling of spiritual contentment at the side of the Ganges in Varanassi, and I haven’t even touched on the splendour of the Taj Mahal, or the hippy vibe in Goa, I’m feeling very privileged, it is indeed ” Incredible India”
So we headed off to Udaipur full of anticipation and wondering if we could pass ourselves of as Greek. Yeah, I know that makes no sense, but we had managed to tag ourselves onto a Greek embassy delegation, don’t ask it’s a long story, and yes we’re chancers as they say at home, and off we set.
We were staying in the Fateh Prakash palace which is where the Maharaja lives but he obviously has his own separate wing. I guess that’s to avoid running into him in his pjs or catch him clipping his toenails…. It’s was fabulous, all the rooms are different and a little bit quirky. Ours had a fabulous window seat overlooking the Lake Palace, just the spot to enjoy an early afternoon G&T, for medicinal purposes obviously!
We had anticipated a huge event as the trip was for an awards ceremony and envisaged ourselves just melting into the background but no, it was not to be. For whilst the event itself was huge it only lasted a few hours so for the rest of the 5 days it was basically us, our mates, the Maharaja and his family and about 30 others, very privileged indeed.
He was a pretty cool guy and he absolutely looked the part, fabulous outfits, keen on his whisky, but no airs or graces. His children were there too, I’d put them about mid 20s. The Prince obviously had his dad’s genes for he was rather pleasant on the eye, whilst the Princess who looked stunning in a vast array of Saris seemed to have drawn the short straw. Not in the looks department as she was divine, but it appeared her main duty was to escort the Maharaja home at the end of the evening, there was definitely a bit of a whisky wobble going on.
As “Greek” VIP guests everything was included…..all the food, all the alcohol….we hadn’t realised and if truth be told it was somewhat embarrassing. All the lunch and dinners were attended by the Maharaja or his family and we were invited, truly bizarre, I still have no idea what the Greek connection is. One day we nipped into the attached hotel restaurant for lunch and drinks by the pool but when it came to the bill we were told, you are guests of the Maharaja, it’s included!
It was a truly unforgettable experience, how the feck they let us in I’ll never know. We did of course manage to lower the tone of the gathering, mingling with the staff and slipping them tips for after hours drinking. Thankfully any mischief we did get up to went unnoticed, the Maharaja had left when the hubby had a go on the bands flute, and for the Portadown readers you can guess what he played…….There where no witnesses to the bedroom scenes of the hubby jiving with the bosses wife…. Not even the boss he was comatose on the bed. 
Our Greek friends who had managed to wrangle our invite treated us to a display of traditional Greek dancing, again out of sight in the bosses room thankfully, which seemed to involve a lot of foot slapping and lurching forward. I’m not sure if the lurching forward was part of the dance or the effects of the after hours alcohol. All in all it was simply fabulous, we had a boat ride on the lake, a trip through the palace, temple visits, and a dander through the town, the Maharaja even signed my book, but here, have a look I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

• Bye, Slainte, Masalama, Namaste.                                                             
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