To Tatsfield Bus Stop and Godstone Green

The weather was perfect on Saturday and slightly cooler on Sunday, although both days were fine for cycling. On Saturday we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way and because of heavy fog around Botley Hill, we rode back the slow way too, riding up Hesiers Hill. On Sunday we decided to ride to Godstone Green, not my favourite destination because of the hill on the return ride and that little bit of off-road through the golf course on the outward journey.

A burnt-out truck at the bottom of Hesiers Hill on Saturday morning

I was feeling despondent and depressed all weekend, mainly because I had to keep asking myself what is the point? Everything seemed so futile and pointless and my general state of mind was confirmed as being right, when I thought about the undeserving rich, those fat bastards (all weekend I've been using a much stronger word beginning with C and rhyming with hunt) who seem to have everything, but don't necessarily do anything more for it than those who don't enjoy the spoils of greebling to the boss and eating too much.

There are lots of these people around and they're always fat and beyond the help of exercise. Put simply, they're awful individuals who, quite frankly, I want to avoid like the plague they are; but it's not that easy.

I was watching a documentary the other day entitled Skint Britain. It was set in Hartlepool in the North East of the UK and it was all about people on Universal Credit, a new idea from our Government of Fat Bastards. Basically, these people are on their backs, they have nothing, but the Government's Universal Credit system means that they have to wait a whole month before receiving their benefits and for some of them it's disastrous. They resort to shoplifting and attacking local drug dealers to survive and despite all of this, the Government thinks it's a good system.

Andy's Blast almost at the top of Gangers Hill. I was still pedalling up...

In the corporate world (and in the Government), there are loads of complete idiots in positions of seniority because they're either good at one thing – greebling – or they just happen to be in the right place at the right time. Nobody likes these people in the workplace and you can bet your arse that they've trodden on a few people as they made their way to the top. Some of them shouldn't even be in work, they should have been put out to grass many years ago as their companies set about changing their business models; but no, they're still there earning a pointlessly large salary while their staff get by on a pittance. We all know people like this: two or three holidays a year, eating out all the time (and getting bigger and bigger in the process); half a dozen cars in the driveway – and it probably goes without saying that they vote Conservative. If Jeremy Corbyn ever makes it into Downing Street, he'll tax them into the Stone Age, which would be funny, but until then we've all got to live with the fat bastards.

The worst thing about these people is that they get richer on the work of other less well-paid individuals, the ones with the ideas, who earn virtually nothing and are always on the breadline, worrying about whether they can buy a book or go out for a curry or have lunch in a caff instead of relying upon sweaty egg sandwiches every day. They also have to wait and see what 'the boss' throws their way in the shape of a bonus and meanwhile they fret about whether they are going to be shafted in some way, which they probably will be.

And in all of this let's not forget the worst 'royal' ever – Megan chuffing Markle. Nothing to do with the corporate world, I know, but while people in Hartlepool are resorting to crime to eat, she's out spending £500,000 on a fucking baby shower in New York. Now there's greed for you! The awful Amal Clooney paid £125,000 for Markle's flight there and back in a private jet. And what does Markle do to appease the populace? She writes a load of patronising old bollocks on bananas using a felt pen and gives them to prostitutes. "You are strong" and words to that effect. Oh, there's a revolution coming, there's a revolution coming!

I view the weekends as stepping stones that I reach after five days of working. I was kind of looking forward to this weekend, but it all turned to shit when I was reminded early on that I was nothing, I simply work and work, day-in, day-out, and I get nowhere fast, I have no 'spoils of victory', no nothing, I simply 'get by' if I'm careful and I don't overspend; and you can bet that somewhere not that far away is a fucking fat bastard getting away with it. Come the revolution, of course, these people will be the first against the wall.

To Botley Hill...

I hadn't been cycling since the middle of January. Various things – my mum and a bit of travelling – had stopped me and as I made my way around the suburban streets surrounding my house I felt a little sluggish. As Andy later remarked, as we wove our way around country lanes close to St. Leonard's church, the older you get, the harder it is to get back into condition.

One thing that amazed me was how light it is now in the morning. The last time I jumped on the bike it was dark when I left the house and I had to put my lights on. Now, a few weeks later it was broad daylight and the lights were not required – until later.

Bleak at Botley Hill

When we reached the turn off for Hesiers Hill and later Beddlestead Lane, we decided to ride along Beech Farm Road instead and it proved to be a mistake. Weatherwise, there was fog hanging low in the bare trees and hovering over the fields, but as we approached the 269 and turned left heading towards Botley Hill, we both opted for the off-road path as it was simply too dangerous to stay on the road.

As we passed Botley Hill, Andy stopped. Yes, he had a puncture. "We might as well stay here for our tea," I said and we did. Andy set about fixing his bike; the puncture was on the front tyre. The fog persisted and Andy decided to head home via the Ridge. I would have gone with him, but the thought of Sline's Oak Road bothered me enough to keep me on the off-road path back along the 269.

When I reached Warlingham Green I met a complete imbecile, a toothless individual driving a truck. He leaned out of the window and exclaimed, "Oi! Mate! Yer fucking front wheel is going round!" It was something I hadn't heard since I was at school, but this utter twat – I didn't ask, but I bet he voted Brexit – spat it out with, it has to be said, a high degree of hatred. I simply ignored the arsehole and pedalled on towards Hamsey Green and eventually I reached Sanderstead.

Andy fixing his puncture...

I was sleeping at mum's on Saturday night and opted not to ride on Sunday, which proved to be a big mistake as the weather was amazing. I was reading this morning (I'm writing this on Monday 18 February) that we're in for some kind of freak heatwave and temperatures of 20 degrees. Sounds good to me.

While I considered riding round the block, I went for a walk instead and later drove to Westerham.

Whenever I miss a ride I always 'consider' a ride around the block, but for some reason it never appeals. I think that if I make up my mind not to ride, somehow that decision sticks with me and the thought of riding around the block simply depresses me.

What I think (and write) about at 38,000 feet...

Thursday 7th February 2019 – notes written on board BA256 from New Delhi to London

I woke around half five this morning and lolled around until it was time to get up. My alarm was due to sound at six o'clock, but I turned it off and then made final preparations for leaving New Delhi. I nipped upstairs to the business centre on the hotel's tenth floor and printed out my boarding pass for the flight and then headed downstairs for the last time. The plan was not to have any breakfast, just check out and get out, but the driver wasn't due until seven thirty and when one of the hotel staff asked me if I'd had breakfast I decided I just about had time for a couple of those small iced doughnuts, some masala porridge and a black tea without milk.

Checking out of the Park Hotel was very simple and soon I was sitting in the back of a cab (it wasn't a cab, it was a white Toyota car and I was one of three people sitting in it). I should have written 'on board' and saved myself a word.

Indira Ghandi International Airport, New Delhi, India...

We drove through the streets of the Indian capital and despite the early hour, there was still traffic on the road and an inevitable traffic jam. Once again, the sound of honking car horns, although not so much a honk, more a toot.

At the airport I checked in my bag and went straight to the rest room. The plan was to get 'nature' out of the way before embarking upon the nine-hour flight to London Heathrow's Terminal Five. And this was where disaster struck and, as always, it was all my own fault. I found a cubicle and did the necessary stuff that needed to be done, what myself and the International Man of Mystery call a 'mixed grill'. Everything was fine until I reached the wash basin. I placed my laptop case on a ledge above the sink, soaped my hands and then there was a loud, crashing bang; my case had keeled over and deposited my lap top in the sink, giving it a shower under the running tap. It all happened slowly – or so it seemed – but then it was damage limitation time. One of the attendants helped me dry the lap top while I sorted out the case. Unfortunately for me, I hadn't zipped up the case, so everything inside was falling out and into the sink where it took a soaking under the tap. This very notebook [these notes are being written in a notebook long hand] shows evidence of being exposed to water. It took a while to dab down the lap top and, as always, I was annoyed with myself for not zipping up the case. Still, what will be, will be. I gave my last 20 rupees to the attendant who helped me and then somebody else handed me a Dictaphone, which had also tumbled out of the case and into the sink. What a fucking unnecessary disaster.

Whenever the travelling resumes, the nightmares begin. Next up was queuing at passport control and then going through security. It's at this point that I wished I was home and not separated by nine hours of flying. Eventually I was through and had to run the gauntlet of commercialism that is the duty free shops. I hate them with a vengeance and ever since I gave up drinking nearly 16 months ago, I look at cans and bottles of booze in a different light; I group them in with cigarettes and when I look at them I feel a huge sense of relief that I have stopped and won't be going back. The bottles of whisky look bad for my health and I can't envisage ever buying one again. One way or another, I realise, I have been a fool and for many years, putting myself in harm's way for no reason. I must have been crazy to drink all that beer and wine. Was it ever any fun? The sore heads, the dry mouth, the humiliation the morning after, the upsets? Alcohol has never, ever done me any favours. I won't drink again and I'll never 'need a drink'.

There was a food court at the airport and I took the escalator to see what was on offer: McDonald's, a coffee shop (there's always people queuing at a coffee shop), some Indian operators, but I'd eaten enough over the past few days so I wandered for a while before resigning myself to go to Gate 1 and await boarding.

I am now on board the plane and I think we've been airborne for a good four hours, probably a little longer. I am sitting in seat 26A, an exit row on this Boeing 777, billed as a window seat, except there isn't a window right next to me, it's behind me and this I find annoying because it means that the woman sitting in seat 27A can shut down the blind whenever she wants, because it's her window and I have no say in the matter. Eventually, some time after we have taken off, she exerts her authority and I have no power to say 'leave the blind open'. There is a small window on the exit door in front of me, but I have to leave my seat if I'm to see what's going on outside, but eventually a steward comes along and closes it because the people to my right are both under blankets and asleep. How can people sleep on aeroplanes? I can't. Throughout my entire flying history I could count on one hand the number of times I have nodded off, only to be awoken by turbulence. I am not one of those people who cover themselves in blankets or make themselves at home by taking off their shoes, and you won't find me standing outside the toilet waiting for the occupant to come out. That said, I've just come back from the cramped bathroom. Sometimes I go in there just for a good quacking, other times just to stand up and stretch or undo the top button of my jeans to let things hang out for a while. Sitting down in a cramped seat for hours on end must cause all kinds of problems for one's internal organs, so it's nice to stand up straight for a few minutes. On other occasions, I go in there for no other reason than to pull faces at myself in the mirror or stick my fingers up and make 'tosser' gestures at my fellow passengers without them knowing. I find this particularly satisfying. Some times, I go in there and do everything – I multi-task – starting off with a good old quack, followed by a much-needed pee and, of course, a good old bout of silent obscenities aimed (unfairly and unnecessarily) at the other passengers. I wonder if they do the same? And don't you hate that whole 'mile-high' club thing? Surely, it's nigh on impossible to have sex in there, it's miles too cramped. A quick five-knuckle shuffle, maybe, but who would want to get their old man out on a flight, long haul or short haul – not me! And who would be that desperate? Can't they wait until they get home?

On the ground at T5, this is the plane that got me home... 

There's nothing better than being alone behind closed doors. I bet you I'm not the only one who, once alone in my hotel room, takes off all their clothes and then hops around the room naked whilst pulling funny faces at themselves when they pass the full-length mirror. I wonder how many other people hop around like a rabbit, naked, or with their pants over their heads, making noises that resemble the foreign language of the country they happen to be visiting, but are little more than unintelligible sounds laced with plain stupidity? Surely I'm not the only one. What about world leaders? Narendra Modi, Donald Trump, the Pope. Who out of that merry bunch would make a Hitler moustache out of shaving foam and goose step around their room or run through a pathetically choreographed dance routine while slapping their cocks and shouting "cashier number one, please!" I wonder how many hotel chains have video evidence, secretly filmed, of such behaviour?

I'm on a day flight (my favourite kind) but it's all pointless because the blinds are down and, as I mentioned earlier, I don't have the authority to open them. Imagine getting violent about it: "Oi! You! Yes, you! Open that fucking blind!" And then rubbing pasta salad in the face of the person occupying seat 27A. The trouble is the crew would probably gaffer tape me to my seat and the police would be waiting at the other end. I'd be an internet sensation for a day or two and then down at the Job Centre looking for a new job.

Perhaps I'll take a walk to the back of the plane, but that can be a pain in the arse too, a lot depends on the friendliness of the cabin crew. When I flew home from Tokyo in October last year, the crew was excellent, handing out chocolates, chatting and having fun. But when the crew lack that approachability, a trip to the back of the plane is mostly a waste of time if the reception is cold and frosty. Still, it's a chance to stretch my legs.

Something else I can't stand about flying is when one of my fellow passengers gets up and starts running through some kind of exercise routine as if they're just about to compete in an Olympic event. "Go back to your chuffing seat!" I feel like shouting, but of course I don't. I simply sneer to myself and check on the time. I reckon there's about two and a half hours left.

A baby is crying. It's the same baby that was crying at take-off. There's nothing worse than crying babies on planes. I guess we all feel like crying, but we can't because we're not babies and we're not insane.

I bought a Tin Tin book at Delhi Airport – or Indira Ghandi International Airport as it is known. Red Rackham's Treasure. It passed some time. When I was a kid I remember watching an animated adventure of the same story. It started with a voice exclaiming "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin", and then the name of the story. The one that has stuck with me for years is "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin: The Crab with the Golden Claws!" I can't remember the last time I read a comic book, although I guess it was a 'graphic novel' as it was over 50 pages in length. I've finished it and I'll take it home and place it on my book shelf.

I've just practiced what I've been preaching. I got up, went to the bathroom, quacked around, answered the call of nature, pulled a stupid face in the mirror and then waved my arms about above my head before opening the door and emerging with a completely straight face. The woman in seat 27A was looking at me suspiciously and I nearly laughed before taking my seat. I think she knows what I was doing in there, probably because she does the very same.

A very large woman dressed in black ('dressed in black, dressed in black, dressed in black, black, black') has just gone into the cramped bathroom. I remember her from the queue at passport control – or was it security? – back in Delhi. She was on her phone constantly. Whenever I saw her she had the phone to her ear. For all I know she's on the phone in the bathroom, but I doubt she'll get a signal. Actually, I'm more concerned about whether or not she'll be able to get her trousers off, there's such limited space. Worse still, what if she gets stuck in there? I reckon they would have to cut open the plane from the outside and winch her out. I pity whoever is sitting next to her. She's been in there a while and she's miles too big to do a dance routine. She might be doing 'tosser' signs at me right now or pulling a funny face in the mirror, who knows (and who wants to find out?). I wonder how much longer should we leave her in there before raising the alarm? Oh, hold on, I just heard the flush.

But hold the bus, I thought she was coming out, but perhaps she's not. Perhaps she needs the right angle of exit. The flush is pulled a second time – damn those floaters. She's a big lady but there's no sign of her. Perhaps she's in there now cursing herself. "You've practiced this many times, girl, now put your training into action, open that door and get the hell out!" But no, nothing. Should I politely tap on the door, inform the cabin crew or what? If in doubt, do nothing.

For a moment I thought I'd worked out the time incorrectly and that there was more time than I originally thought, but after making a few more calculations I realise that I was mistaken. I'd got it wrong. Fortunately, my original calculations were correct and we have under two hours to go. The cabin lights have come on; this is good news because it means that food of some description is going to be served. Judging by the time of day and depending on whether they are working on New Delhi or London time, we're either going to get something loosely based on afternoon tea or even another dinner. Lunch, rather predictably, had been roasted chicken breast. I'm sitting in cattle class, however, and that probably means I'll get a nose bag full of hay and a glass of water, unlike those posh and undeserving bastards in Premium Economy, Club and First Class.

It's hot food! Yippee! Chicken and pesto with pasta, plus a hard bread roll and a slice of cake. Just what the doctor ordered, I thought.

The people sitting next to me are still asleep. Actually, one of them stirred briefly and is now probably awake and just resting with her eyes closed. The man next to me, however, is still out for the count and covered with a blanket. He missed the meal. I considered asking Suki, for that is the name of the lady charged with the task of serving me during the flight, whether I could have his meal. I could do with another chicken with pesto and pasta, but I didn't bother asking. And besides, he'd probably opt for the vegetarian meal.

Slowly the passengers are coming round, there's more noise than previously so we're all gearing up, preparing for the moment when we disembark.

Soon we hear "cabin crew, take your seats for landing" and at this point I look out of the window and note that we're still miles away from the ground. The plane circles a bit and eventually descends. I can see the whole of Croydon at one point as we cross the Thames heading south and then bank west and run along the river, over Richmond and down on to the tarmac of T5. Once the plane comes to a standstill and the doors are opened, it's just a matter of standing there until it's my turn to leave. Soon I'm heading towards passport control, which was straightforward and hassle-free and then it's the baggage reclaim conveyor, number 8. Soon my bag arrives, I waltz through customs – there's never anybody there and I always wish I had a huge consignment of heroin and that somebody's going to pay me big for being the mule – and then I'm through to where taxi drivers hold up cards for weary travellers. I'm back home, but I'm concerned about the fat woman, although I know she did get out of the bathroom because I saw other people going in. Somehow I must have missed the moment. Then, suddenly, there she was, walking along the automated walkway – the typical behaviour of somebody with serious weight issues. Not that she bothered me. I simply headed for the exit and made my way home.

In New Delhi, day four

If I lived in India I think I'd become a vegetarian. The food here is amazing. Not the dodgy street food, the stuff you get in the posh hotels. It's all fresh vegetables and cooked to perfection. You could say I've eaten well over the past few days. Today I skipped lunch as I was visiting the Red Fort in Old Delhi, an eye-opening experience if ever there was one. I took a cab from the hotel in to the old part of town, the roads were jam-packed with auto rickshaws and bicycle rickshaws and the noise from car horns was deafening. The traffic was awful, snarled up here and there, but soon I found myself at the Red Fort, queuing for a ticket at counter number four (the one for foreigners). I think we have to pay more than the Indians, which is probably understandable. We can afford it, I suppose that's the reasoning behind it.

Yours truly at the Red Fort...

I was given a slip of paper and a blue plastic disc, which I had to insert in the turnstile to gain access to the Fort. Once inside I wandered about, took a few photos and then linked up with my driver. He took me on a short journey to a huge market, bigger than Istanbul's Grand Bazaar and jam-packed with auto rickshaws and bicycle rickshaws. I found myself saying farewell to my driver and hopping aboard a bicycle rickshaw. The man driving it must be so incredibly fit and, let's face it, strong too, what with me sitting in the back after all the dinners I've been eating this week. The ride wasn't smooth, far from it, but it took me along colourful, narrow streets lined with shops selling sarees and wedding outfits, books, musical instruments, pashminas, jewellery, hats, you name it you could buy it here. Absolutely fantastic. We stopped off at a Buddhist temple, photographs were taken, and then we headed towards the Red Fort where I picked up my driver and we battled through the traffic in order to reach the hotel. What a fantastic day. Something good always comes out of something bad, in this case a cancelled meeting led me to the Red Fort. I was in serious danger of coming all this way and simply not seeing anything. My plan for visiting the Taj Mahal was scuppered (and besides it meant a long, long day and I really wasn't up for it to tell you the truth).

Inside the grounds of the Red Fort...

Another structure inside the Red Fort's grounds

After the Red Fort I hailed a rickshaw...

...and risked life and limb on busy roads

I got back to the hotel around 1700hrs, possibly a little later, but I had a few things to do before I hit the restaurant. Because I'd missed lunch I made the most of dinner, having soup and two stabs at the self-service buffet. For dessert I tried carrot fudge. Sounds bad, but believe me it was amazing.

View of Old Delhi from bicycle rickshaw

It's now just past 2300hrs - 2307 to be precise - and I'm up on the 10th floor, in the business centre. I've checked my emails, written a few and now I'm thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow I fly home and I need to be out of the hotel around 0730, there's a car coming to pick me up. So I've got to settle my bill and head back to Indira Ghandi airport. I will miss India. It's a very special place. I love it's chaos, the strange smells, the honking car horns that carry on through the night, the sounds of a distant train horn, the food, the people, the mad traffic, there's not one element I can truly say I dislike, even those people who hassle me on the street aren't that bad, they're all part of this country's rich culture. And the fact that over the last week I have completely forgotten about Brexit can only be a good thing.

So, it's goodbye India. I hope to return again soon, preferably with my family.

In New Delhi, day three...

I can definitely report that I ate too much today, but if the truth be known I simply don't care, the food's that good here at The Park Hotel in New Delhi. I've told you already about yesterday's meal at the hotel's Fire restaurant and now a little bit about Mist. Alright, I've mentioned already that there's a self-service element to the food and that the Indian dishes are to die for, but today, on arriving around 2030hrs, I discovered that Mist has an a la carte menu too, and by that I mean you can get more than just Indian food. Pizza is on the menu, vegetarian lasagne, stuff like that, so I stuck with the Indian food, but was advised before sitting down to eat that if I purchase a voucher from the front desk (Rs1,300) it's far cheaper than if I simply didn't bother. So I bothered and then decided (who am I kidding, I'd decided long before I reached the restaurant) that I was going to have two helpings, and this time a starter too (chicken soup with a nice chunk of bread). I sat at the back of the restaurant in a kind of gallery area looking down on the main restaurant floor, just me and a bloke with a bald head and a long beard (yes, I think he was English). He'd been working out somewhere as I saw him in the lift earlier and now, still wearing his gym kit, he was sitting down and enjoying the food, like everybody else was, including yours truly.

As I simply can't be bothered to note down the names of all the dishes I sampled, take it from me that I had something from most of the hot bowls displayed, two main courses in other words and rounded off with three Indian sweets. I ordered a bottle of mineral water (still) and got down to the nitty gritty of getting stuck in. I did feel a little piggish afterwards and later quacked my way to the business centre on the hotel's 10th floor where I answered a few emails and started writing this blogpost. Here I am now at just gone 11pm feeling fretful because a meeting I had planned for tomorrow at 3pm has been cancelled, which is good and bad news. Good because it means that I can go to the Taj Mahal, although I'll be honest with you, it's such a faff to get there and back and it costs quite a bit, I don't think I'll bother; perhaps I'll simply visit the Red Fort instead. Decisions, decisions! It's bad news because one of the reasons I came here was to see the company that has cancelled the meeting. Very very annoying on that front, I can tell you. Or I might do absolutely nothing, just get up, have breakfast and loll about all day, but that would be wasteful and I'd end up trying to avoid the hasslers, like the Indian gentleman who starts up a conversation and simply hassles me all day, until I run for cover back at the hotel. He's like the human equivalent of a swarm of midges.

In truth, I'm not sure what to do, but it seems like a right waste of time just sitting here doing nothing, although I did have one good meeting today.

I skulked back to my room, feeling, it has to be said, a little despondent, but when I discovered that Jurassic Park 3 was on the television and I saw the familiar faces of Sam Neill, Laura Dern and that bloke from the movie Fargo, I jumped into bed and watched the last 40 minutes and then fell asleep, waking initially around 0500hrs and then again just after 0800hrs. Breakfast was another food fest and now it's 1212hrs and I should be outside, checking out the Red Fort, but I'm here writing this blogpost in the peace and quiet of the hotel's 10th floor business centre with views across the city. There's an interesting looking park across the street. Better go, but see you all later...

Fire Restaurant at the Park Hotel

There are two restaurants at the Park Hotel in New Delhi: Mint is the more general purpose establishment. It doubles as the breakfast room and offers a range of buffet style dishes and they're all very good indeed. Fire, on the other hand, is the a la carte offering, an Indian restaurant offering a wide range of dishes from various regions of the country. It is absolutely wonderful as I knew it would be; the quality of the food at the Park Hotel (currently celebrating its 50th anniversary) is top notch.

It's a fairly large space with marble floors and interesting lighting (decorative light bulbs hanging down from the ceiling). I stopped by on a Monday night at around 8pm. The restaurant started off being sparsely populated, but more people turned up as the evening wore on.

The menu is extensive, starting with ''farm fresh salads'' such as Burrata aur bhatt ka salad, which is burrata, arugula, tomatoes, black soybean, mizuna, seed mix, honey and beetroot dressing. You'll have to look up some of those ingredients because I didn't order salad on the basis that salads and fresh fruit are out of bounds for me in India, so many people advise against them, but I'm sure that here in the Park, it's fine, I just don't want to take any chances. That said, when I last went down with the galloping oobi joobys, in Brazil, I was staying at the recently refurbished Sofitel hotel and I was eating fresh fruit every morning. I also took a dip in the sea across the road in Copacabana Bay, which I understand is not very clean, so it could have been the sea, not the salad. Either way, I spent the night sitting on the throne.

I did, however, take a chance on the soup, opting for Ankurit moong aur chicken ka shorba. It arrived in two parts: a huge, out-sized tea cup with the ingredients resting in the bottom (chicken, lemon grass, wild mushroom plus chicken strips and sprouted moong, whatever moong is). The waitress poured the soup element of the dish in to the huge cup and I'm guessing the idea was to make it look like she was pouring tea into an enormous cup. The soup was very, very tasty. I'm not normally somebody that would order soup with a meal, but I wanted to make the most of this restaurant as I knew the food was going to be good. It was, and so was the value at Rs195, which is just over two pounds in UK currency.

Outside of soups there was a wide range of starters ranging in price from Rs395 (that's roughly four pounds). I went straight for a main course and ordered Fire's signature tadka vegetables and Lahori chicken (chicken cooked in a rich creamy gravy of onion and cashew and boosted with cardomom, cinnamon and mulethi). I considered the Hyderabadi haleem (a timeless stew made from mutton braised with wheat) but decided to stick with chicken. Lahore murgh as it was known cost me Rs595, so roughly six pounds. I can't find a pound sign on the keyboard hence the reason why I'm spelling out the converted price. I ordered a Malabar parotta speciality bread that cost me Rs245, which was just under three pounds.

Without exception, the entire meal was faultless. The service was a little slow, illustrated by a hot plate that was cold by the time the food arrived, but overall, the experience was worthwhile and I would recommend this restaurant and the hotel to anybody who asked me where to eat and where to stay in New Delhi.

The meal was accompanied by a bottle of still mineral water and rounded off with a camomile tea. Totally chilled. I put the bill on my room, but it was just over twenty pounds in English money. I loved it, you will too.

I didn't take any photographs because my iphone wouldn't do the excellent food any favours.

Mooching around New Delhi...

The poverty in India is depressing. Outside of my hotel there is a really old woman who lies on the pavement covered in rags. She has white hair and I wouldn't want to guess at exactly how old she might be, but I'd say easily in her eighties. I think about my mum, now 89, back home, recovering from a hip replacement operation, and I start to wonder whether the woman outside the hotel will live a long life, probably not. I'd like to think that she gets by, but what a terrible existence. The only good thing is that the weather here is warm, even in winter, but the temperature plummets at night, I'm told, although it can't be as bad as it is in the UK at the moment; it's been described to me as 'cold and crisp' but you can't fool me, it's fucking freezing, that's all I'm saying.

The old woman just about manages to beg. I'm not even sure if she can stand up as she seems to be swathed in blankets on the floor. In the UK I would fear for her safety, but here in India she's part of the furniture, so to speak, and is probably known by all and sundry. There are other 'beggars' who are a little more subtle. For a start they say they're not beggars as such and they claim that they're not after money, but I can tell by the way they talk that they want my cash, if not immediately then when I leave the hotel. They might subtely bring into the conversation that they don't earn much or that they're not at school because they need money for school books, all stuff designed to pull a little bit on the heart strings of those they try to attach themselves to. They don't dress too badly either, but it's obvious they're experiencing hard times, although one, Naresh, has a decent Samsung mobile phone so life can't be that bad, but I'm sure it is.

Out of the two people I've met, Naresh seems to be more genuine than the other guy, whose name I can't remember, but he spoke good English and claimed he was still at school studying English and then possibly computer studies. Anyway, he simply wouldn't leave me alone. He was constantly asking questions: Where are you going? What are you looking for? Questions I could have asked him. He provided directions to emporiums, he was always there. He was, it has to be said, good company and his English was good too, so we managed to converse fairly easily, but they're hard to shake off these people, they must be standing around waiting for people like me to emerge from emporiums, shops, what have you, and now I find that when I head outside, I look both ways to see if they're around. I've exchanged telephone numbers with Naresh, but I don't expect him to call me any time soon, although I'll probably see him later if I forget myself and walk in the wrong direction, they just appear out of nowhere. His back story is that he works at my hotel as a cleaner, but he's never in the hotel, he's always outside it, standing around. "Can I take you to my uncle's shop?" Well, no, I've done all my shopping now, I won't be buying anything else. I could have bought a made-to-measure suit for £135 – but decided not to; in many ways I wish I had because I desperately need a decent suit.

I had lunch today at a posh restaurant bizzarely called Kwality Restaurant & Ice Cream. It's on Connaught Place and was closed when I first peered through the window. Outside the place is described as a Tea Shop, but it was a top-end restaurant, so I ordered a chicken curry with rice and some mineral water. Not bad, but not brilliant, although, that said, the bill was only Rs2000 - that's about twenty quid.

Afternoon tea at Mister Chai...

It's Monday, my day off, and I needed to locate a hotel, the Shangri-La. The guy on the front desk says it was not far and gave me some directions (basically turn right, then left at the lights and it's there. Well, yes, sort of, and I did eventually find it AND I managed to avoid people hassling me on the street, a common problem here in New Delhi. It's a nice hotel, very grand, and I'll be there all day tomorrow. I liked it so much I stuck around for afternoon tea and a pastry, not forgetting a few biscuits (two to be precise). I ordered mint tea and a Black Forest pastry, which was very, very good and then I simply chilled out, perusing the map I'd picked up from the front desk of my hotel on Parliament Street. I'm annoyed that I missed the Taj Mahal, but I'm determined to visit the Red Fort some time tomorrow. I'll probably take a cab there. Either tomorrow or I'll fit it in somehow.

It's nearly time for dinner and I'll probably stay in the hotel like last night. As always, it's boring being alone. Oddly, I don't mind so much in Europe where everything is a little more familiar, but here in New Delhi where it's a little strange, it would be great to have somebody to wander around with; I reckon that two people will keep away the hasslers better than one. The hasslers are everywhere, waiting for an opportunity to ask a question and once I answer, they're with me for the entire evening. From now on I'm making a point of steering clear of them. I won't have to see them tomorrow because I'll be working all day and on Wednesday I have two meetings. On Thursday it's back to Indira Ghandi airport and a nine-hour BA flight back to Blighty.

New Delhi is a crazy city by European standards; what with the occasional monkey, the stray dogs basking in the sun on the pavements, the parakeets and the tiny squirrels, the hasslers trying to grab my attention, either to sell me something or ask me a question that they think gives them the right to be at my side ALL DAY LONG, it's fucking Crazytown. It's a real effort trying to shrug off the hasslers - that's pronounced 'hass' not ''hazz'' -  but they're friendly enough.

There a good smells and bad smells wafting around here too; sometimes the smell of fresh tar, which is pleasant, but then a waft of something resembling rotten eggs, and then a pleasant perfume. It's a city of contrasts on so many levels.

It's approaching 2000hrs and I really ought to be thinking of dinner. It's a shame that the Shangri-La hotel is just a little too far to walk otherwise I'd head there now and sample another of their food and beverage operations. I had my afternoon tea and cake in the appropriately named Mister Chai.

A colleague has just texted to ask whether I've had the shits yet. No was my response. And on that note, it's time for dinner!

In New Delhi, Day Two...

Well let's start with the end of day one: after about three hours' sleep I got up and moseyed around, checked things out. I took a look at the pool. Miles too cold and nobody else looked interested so I contented myself with touching the water, as if to confirm my suspicions that the water was cold, off-puttingly cold.

There are two restaurants here at The Park: Fire, which is the Indian restaurant – and by this I think they mean the place where the Indians like to eat, or possibly the place where you can get proper Indian food – and Mint, which is more mainstream, but still offers Indian food. Mint is where breakfast is served.

The pool at the Park Hotel, New Delhi...

Prior to any of the above taking place, I had an amazing rain shower. Not as invigorating as the one I took in the Act Hotel in Japan in October, but invigorating enough to make it excellent. Later, after everything that has happened in these three paragraphs, I headed outside. One thing I do know about India is that wherever I go, I'm hassled. Taxi drivers, auto rickshaw drivers, people trying to sell me something, it's non-stop. While walking, however, I met a nice guy, whose name I can't pronouce now, but he worked at the hotel at which I was staying, the aforementioned Park, as a cleaner. Seven hour days and he's happy. He lives in Delhi, has a wife and two children of school age. He likes cricket. He walked with me and at first I thought he was after something (money) but he wasn't, he was very friendly and took me to an emporium where I bought a small elephant and a fridge magnet. He gave me directions home, but I was soon lost and had to resort to the iphone's GPS (God knows what I would have done without the iphone).

One thing that amazes me about the Indians is there ability to put themselves in danger on a daily basis – simply by crossing the road. You must remember that here in Delhi (and in other big Indian cities) there is a lot of traffic and no rules of the road. People simply get behind the wheel and put their feet down. It's down to the pedestrians to keep out of the way (as I found out last night when I was nearly run over). I swear the guy accelerated, but there you go. This new pal of mine simply stepped out into advancing traffic and advised me to do the same. "It's alright, it's alright," he said as I bravely followed. And he was right. They have nine lives or charmed lives or both and yesterday it seemed that I did too.

I'm pleased with my elephant and fridge magnet and have put them in the hotel safe as somebody I know claims he stayed in this very hotel and had a pair of sunglasses stolen from his room. Whether that's true or not, I don't know. In fact, the hotel is very nice and so are the people that work in it. Mind you, all Indians are nice, they're all very polite and helpful, especially my friend from yesterday who I hope I'll meet again some time over the next few days.

When I got back to the hotel I had dinner. I'm a little paranoid about eating and drinking here as so much has been said about not drinking the water (I only have bottled water), cleaning your teeth with mineral water (yes, I did that yesterday and will be doing it again very shortly) and washing your hands all the time. Well, yes, I've been doing that too. I've had two rain showers in under 24 hours and washed my hands too and I'll probably wash them again in a second.

The food here is amazing. I opted for the Mint restaurant and it's one of those self-service buffets offering wonderful food: cooked vegetables, curry, rice, such an array of stuff that I can't remember exactly what I had to eat. Suffice it to say that I ate well, washed the lot down with bottled water and then went back to my room. I hit the sack at around 2200hrs (certainly no later than 2230hrs) and while I woke up around 0200hrs I got back to sleep and woke up at gone 0800hrs. Outside the fog was so thick that I could see nothing from my hotel window. It's clearing a little bit now at 0943hrs, but the air quality here is very poor (it even says so on my iphone).

I had a shower and shaved and headed down for my first breakfast at The Park. Brilliant. Everything I dream of: curry for breakfast and again I can't remember the names of the dishes, but some kind of potato-based curry, fresh vegetables and vegetable strudels, little ones, like mini sausage rolls but hot. I also had porridge, which tasted like porridge – and by that I mean it tasted like the porridge I remember from when I was younger. Somehow the porridge I have at home is thicker and less 'oaty' in taste, but here in New Delhi, while the porridge is a little more runny that I like it, it had taste. There were some incredible pastries: mini ring doughnuts with icing, croissants, pastries, mini muffins (I don't like muffins, although oddly I dreamed of eating a chocolate muffin either last night or the night before). I had some weird 'root remedy' tea, which was nice, plus a couple of slices of toasted brown bread without butter (I couldn't find any butter). Mint is a buzzing place full of people, mainly Indians because, hey, I'm in India, but a few westerners. In fact there are a lot of westerners here and you know what? I hate it when I see a western person with one of those red dots on their foreheads. It's not a good look! Unless you're Indian. Talk about 'cultural appropriation'!

I've watched a bit of Indian television and it goes without saying I can't understand a word of it, but who cares, it's just for background at night and first thing in the morning. It's the same as British TV except that it's Indian, get over it. So now I'm back from breakfast and a little annoyed that I haven't managed to see the Taj Mahal, which is something like three hours away by car. The problem is money. Yesterday none of the cashpoints wanted to give me any money and I'm going to need some for tomorrow. Without money I was unable to pay for a trip to the Taj Mahal and as a result I've felt rather despondent about things. I went to bed feeling depressed and anxious, but feel better today. I put my inner misery down to being away from home and also being so far away from home, but also the jet lag, although I'll be honest, I feel fine this morning, much better than I felt when I was in Japan. In Tokyo I was tired and sleepy virtually all the time. Here I feel better, much better. In fact, shortly I'll be heading outside to sort out the money situation and then I'll check out other places to visit, like the Red Fort, although time is not on my side, but I've got to do something, see something, go somewhere other than just my planned meetings tomorrow.

At night all I can hear is the sound of train horns. During the day it's car horns. The sun is trying to break through the mist (or the smog) and I'm ready to hit the road, sort out the money and go somewhere 'touristy'. Or perhaps I'll just mooch about. The iphone's fully charged if it's needed, but if I have money I can always get a cab, although I don't really want to do that if I'm honest, I don't like being ripped off and while I'd imagine the taxis are metered, the rickshaws aren't and I remember in Bangalore getting into disputes with the rickshaw drivers.

Incidentally, there is a bike share scheme running here in New Delhi, but if you saw the traffic on the roads you'd steer well clear, I can tell you. Photos to follow...

In New Delhi...mad driving and monkeys

The last time I visited India was Christmas 1987. I had flown Turkish Airlines to what was then Bombay (now Mumbai) and I spent around three to four weeks in Bangalore, Mysore and the surrounding area. It was great. There are two types of person: those who can't deal with the poverty and those who can. I fell into the latter group, which was just as well as the journey by taxi from the airport to the centre of the city crammed in plenty of poverty.

Poor air quality – the view from room 522...

It's 32 years later, I'm back, but this time in New Delhi, in the north of the country, and it all comes flooding back to me – except that I've yet to see any poverty. As I write this it is 1407 here in India, five and a half hours ahead of the UK where it is just 0835hrs in the morning. Yesterday evening (Saturday 2nd February) I flew out of the Heathrow Terminal Five on BA 257. Eight hours and very smooth all the way. I watched John Boorman's Deliverance with Burt Reynolds and John Voight, but that was when there were three hours and 58 minutes of the flight left. The film was roughly 107 minutes long so I'll leave you to do the maths on that one. Did you know that Charlie Boorman was in Deliverance? Prior to watching the movie I had eaten a kind of airline version of a roast chicken dinner and then spent a considerable time reading the free newspapers I had picked up prior to boarding the aircraft. I stretched out in seat 26C and discovered things I never knew: like Amber Rudd being married to AA Gill and having two children with him before he upped and left her for another woman; and how the Iranians are getting around – or planning to get around – US sanctions by using BitCoin. I found the latter story intriguing.

Things got a little clearer a few hours later...

Once Deliverance was over I watched Alan Partridge and Fawlty Towers and then found that breakfast was being served and it was soon time to disembark. Rather worryingly, thick fog and smog over New Delhi meant that the plane had to use automatic pilot to land and all electronic gadgetry had to be switched off. The smog was so thick that I never saw the ground until we had physically touched down. The plane made its way to the terminal building of Indira Ghandi Airport and after some minor faffing with immigration I was being met by a pleasant chap who was holding up my name, written in felt pen, on a sheet of A4 paper. He presented me with a garland of flowers and I remembered that Indians were very nice people. I felt mildly annoyed with myself for not having any money to give as a tip. We chatted about India and it's 29 states and he pointed out a few buildings as we travelled by taxi to the hotel. This guy was some kind of chaperone for me, which was nice and much needed. I was tired having lost a night's sleep virtually and probably would have found it difficult to cope with the chaotic driving that I had all but forgotten about. I've always thought that Indians lead some kind of charmed life, overtaking on bends and surviving as well as other misdemeanours, like nearly running over pedestrians who appear to think nothing of being killed by a taxi driver who is seemingly driving in a trance-like state. Although that wasn't the case with my driver, he was fine, it was other road users I had to worry about. In addition to mad drivers there were monkeys. Alright, I saw one, but you wouldn't see any in London. The Indians like the monkeys, they find them amusing and I know what they mean.

Room 522, Park Hotel, New Delhi, India...

When I arrived at the hotel the front desk was busy checking people in. There were lots of people around and fortunately, once all the necessary paperwork had been done, I took the lift to my hotel room and after working out how to use the safe (and depositing my valuables in it) I hit the sack for a three-hour sleep and a dream so strange that I simply can't think of words to describe it. Needless to say it was fretful and I woke up with a racing heart. And now here I am, sitting at the computer writing this my first blogpost from New Delhi.

The hotel is fine, although there are a few rough edges. Well, one so far: the button that flushes the toilet is stiff, but it works. There's a huge flatscreen television and when I first arrived I watched around 30 minutes of The Spy Next Door with Jackie Chan before hitting the sack. I had roughly three hours' sleep and feel a little better than I felt three hours earlier. I've just eaten a bar of Cadbury's Fruit & Nut "Everyone's a fruit and nut case, crazy for those Cadbury nuts and raisins," I remember Frank Muir singing back in the day.

What I find slightly amazing is that I've been paranoid about going down with so-called Delhi Belly, but somehow managed to get 'the shits' while still on the plane and eating English food. How did that happen? Perhaps my arse is preparing me for worst to come, giving me a little taster of what it might be like later in the week when I'm firing on all cylinders. Somebody in the office told me to wash my hands every time somebody shakes my hand. That seems to me to be a little over-paranoid. The last time I was in India I was never ill as I chose to eat a naan bread alone if I felt the food to be a little suspect. Well, so far I haven't eaten anything in India apart from the aforementioned bar of Fruit & Nut, so we'll see what takes place. I will have a shower in a second (it's one of those rain shower affairs so it should be good) but I'll remember to keep my mouth firmly shut. I'll probably clean my teeth using mineral water too, although I didn't do that back in 1987 when I was last here and I seemed to survive. Back in those days I was told that it was best to drink beer and eat a naan bread than risk an upset stomach. That ploy worked, but this time I'm not drinking alcohol, so it looks as it bottled water will be the order of the day.

Phone calls using the mobile cost £2 per minute to receive and to make, it's 50p to send a text and it costs nothing to receive them, so I'm going to be communicating by What'sApp (when I've got WiFi) and by email on other occasions. Right now I'm feeling a little more 'chipper' than earlier and might venture out of the room to check the hotel. There is a pool, but somehow I don't think I'll be using it. The key is to be ultra-hygienic. I bought some Immodium at Heathrow. I hope I don't have to use it.

One thing worth remembering about India is that the power sockets are the same as the UK AND they drive on the left, just like us Brits!

Bearing in mind the cold and snowy conditions I've left behind in the UK, I find it hard to believe that I can walk outside with jeans and a tee-shirt on. I wonder if there's a bike share scheme?