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?

There's nothing worse than a weekend without cycling...

Last week Andy mentioned he wouldn't be riding on Saturday, which was fine, but it left me with a dilemma: do I rest up or go out? I could have taken a ride over to mum's to enjoy a slice or two of fruit cake, or a trip to Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. Instead I switched off the alarm before going to bed on Friday night and ended up remaining in bed until just before 0900hrs.

Having around eight hours of sleep is fine and believe me I needed it. For God knows how long I've been getting to bed around 2300hrs – after sitting in front of the television watching Newsnight or Question Time (isn't  Fiona Bruce awful) or something – and then waking around 0600hrs, sometimes earlier. Once I'm awake I find it very difficult to simply lie there trying to get back to sleep, so invariably I get up, come down stairs, make porridge and tea and toast and sit on the computer writing something, like this, or scanning the BBC website for the latest news. With Brexit, however, it's all very boring and depressing.

It was destined to be a lazy weekend of doing very little. It was so lazy that I've forgotten what I didn't do, if that makes sense. I remember watching TGD – The Greatest Dancer in the evening. How depressing can you get? Cheryl Cole with her festering arse tattoo and that bloke from Glee who looks like 'Jock', an old associate who I used to think looked like a rifle. What the hell was I on? It all gets a little blurry after that as sometimes the TV is just on for no reason.

During the day, I've just remembered, I went to my old home town of Sutton. Now there's a place that's seen better times, but it's no worse than where I live now. If you live in the burbs you get used to mediocrity and it's even worse if it's been raining and everywhere is wet and dripping. Multi-storey car parks – wrong on so many levels, but soon I'm behind the wheel, heading home in the dark.

I had planned a ride today (Sunday) but the weather stood before me and the bike. After a strange dream (see previous post) I found that I couldn't get back to sleep after hearing something go bump in the night. I lie there listening to the rain and hoping it would stop before morning, but soon dawn arrived. I'd managed about 45 minutes of sleep before the alarm went off – the sound of birdsong on the iphone – and then I got out of bed, wrote up the weird dream (I like to keep a record) and noticed that it was still raining. An 'abort' text followed and that was it: no cycling for the entire weekend. The most annoying thing was that the sun came out and it was quite a pleasant day. I toyed (briefly) with the idea of a late ride to mum's, but the motivation had seeped through the hourglass and I resigned myself to no cycling – and I know I won't be going next week or possibly even the week after, we'll see how things go.

So it became a weekend of slobbing around, not even reading. Today, Sunday, was lazy, but not in a good way. Not going cycling always puts me out of kilter for some reason. I found myself in a DIY superstore, very depressing, especially as the light was fading and Monday beckoned. But now I'm listening to Joy Division. Transmission. That's the great wonder of streaming. Metal Guru by T. Rex followed. When I was younger I used get mixed up with Trex, the cooking fat, but the two were chalk and cheese, of course they were. Bolan's last hit was a tree in Richmond, Surrey, tragically, but his music lives on.

There's not much more to say, especially now that David Bowie's sad and depressing Blackstar has come on; I think it was written when he knew was going to die, but I'm going to let it run its course. I was never a great Bowie fan.

I wonder if my bike is nursing a puncture in the garage. The last time I used it I remember taking the off-road path along the 269, always a risk. Who knows what's going on in the garage? The bike's out there all alone, or rather it's out there with the Kona. They're probably chatting. The Kona is likely to be talking about its rich ride history – just check back over this blog pre-November 2016 and you'll see what I mean.

Blackstar is a long track, almost 10 minutes. It's still on now. "I'm a black star," sings Bowie.

There's nothing more to write about if I'm honest, although one of my favourite tracks has just sprung to life: A.M.180 by Grandaddy. What a band! The song featured in the movie 28 Days Later, a film I've never, ever watched all the way through. There was a great live version of this track recorded at Glastonbury way back when. Not that long ago, but I can't remember the exact date, was it the late nineties or early noughties? It matters not. What a great band and they're still around. I'd love to go see them next time they come over from Modesto, California.

Now it's Every Day I Write the Book by Elvis Costello, equally great and evocative of times long past. Happy times in the late eighties. 1989 to be precise – the magical year of trips to Suffolk and curries in Woodbridge. A small cottage in Kettleburgh, drives along country lanes, Framlingham Castle, Orford Quay, the Jolly Sailor, real fires and cornfields, long walks. Days of innocence in many ways. Swimming in the sea at Felpham on the Sussex coast, seaweed, the deep end challenge, Lyme Regis, pals. It was another world.

Babies by Pulp has just come on, the bass line is tremendous. Sometimes I wish I could play bass. I keep thinking about buying one and taking lessons. One day, perhaps. The trouble is there's always something else to spend the money on.

Now The Wizard by Black Sabbath is playing, another great track and nobody's complaining, which is good. The trouble with a lot of rock stars is they blot their copybooks. Ozzy Osbourne is a case in point. He could have kept his reputation intact, but he did that television programme – The Osbournes – and then his wife, Sharon, got far too involved with the likes of Simon Cowell. It's the same with Pete Townshend. I tried reading his autobiography, Who I Am, and found it pretentious and annoying beyond belief, especially all the stuff about how he fancied Mick Jagger. Seriously. And when I discovered that all that smashing of guitars wasn't spontaneous, but some kind of artistic statement and not just smashing up guitars for the hell of it, I thought, no. No, no, no! When myths are exploded, dreams are invariably shattered.

I've never liked Genesis, though. There's something 'real ale and Jeremy Clarkson' about them that I can't abide; and they always remind me, for some reason, of The Chequers, a pub in Tadworth, or was it in nearby Walton? Who knows? The only track I did like was the one that uses the phrase "Me, I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk." And it's just played.

I often wonder what happened to Phil Smith and Pete Jones, two old associates. I wonder if they're still alive, lots aren't. There's no point Googling them, nothing comes up and probably never will.

It's nearly 1900hrs. Outside it's dark, the curtains are drawn and some coloured lights in the fireplace are glowing. Icicle Works' Love is Wonderful Colour is playing, dinner is being prepared and my mood is changing, becoming more upbeat, which is good.

Dreamer by Supertramp has just come on. Now that brings back some good and bad memories. Good because it's a great track – but not as good as School – bad because of an embarrassing play put on by the college 'thespians'. Again, it's amazing the way certain associations can ruin things. Something that can never be ruined is Tiny Dancer by Elton John. I don't know why, it's just amazing, no matter what.

Mum's going into hospital on Thursday for a hip replacement. She's 89 going on 90 and I won't say I'm not a little worried about it. The operation is routine, she'll be in for about a week and after a spot of recovery she'll be fine. I went round there today for tea and fruit cake and she seemed fine about it. Of course I wish her well, we all do.

Let it Roll by UFO always reminds me of Keith Collins and it's on now. Keith died of a heroin overdose back in the early nineties. It was a track they always played at the Croydon Greyhound in between bands on a Sunday evening along with Nobody's Fault but Mine by Led Zeppelin, another track (and band) that will always remind me of Keith. We used to get the bus to Croydon (the 154) to watch all manner of different bands: Stray, Edgar Broughton Band, Thin Lizzy, Kokomo, Climax Blues Band, the list is endless.

All good things come to an end. The music is off (well, I've had a good run) and, sadly, Dancing on Ice is on the television. 'Pip' Schofield. Ugh! But now it's off and a documentary about Indian railways is on. Perfect. I remember taking a train from Mysore to Bangalore back in the late eighties (a year or two before the magical year of 89). I'm going to stop writing now and watch the television.

Another strange, but vivid, dream...

I remarked the other day that whenever I dream about the family or something to do with where I live, I never dream of the house I'm currently living in; it's always my old house in Milton Avenue, Sutton. Until last night.

Last night I had a very strange dream. It involved lying in bed and awaking to find a man trying to exit the house – my current house – through my front bedroom window (the room is double aspect, we don't have a 'back bedroom'). The man in question was a murderer and was trying to push the body out of the window too. The odd part of the dream was that it kept recurring. I think he did the same thing a handful of times until I woke up and reassured those around me that all was fine, he'd gone. But he hadn't gone. He was coming back in through the front door and making his way upstairs, and this time he was not alone. I heard myself making it clear to the man and his cohorts that I meant him no harm – an odd thing to say considering he had invaded my house – but the next thing I knew we were all in my bedroom standing in front of the window and chatting about this and that; there was about six individuals, one of whom was wearing a boiler suit with the name of the company he worked for printed on the back.

When that part of the dream simple ran out of power and stopped, it transpired that whatever the men were up to had something to do with the whole road. The dream resumed further down the road in, I think, number 21, which now seemed to be where I lived. There were a lot of people from the road saying things, covering things up, it was hard to comprehend, but then I woke up and heard a loud thud downstairs. On awaking I remembered the dream and started to think it might all happen for real, but after searching around downstairs and finding no sign of an intruder I went back to bed, but left the bathroom light on. I didn't sleep too well. In fact I was still awake at 0506hrs and must have eventually nodded off, only to be awakened by the song of birdsong, it was 0600hrs and my iphone's alarm was tweeting at me. Time for a ride on the bike.

A strange but vivid dream...

I was a policeman with a flat-top hat and high-viz clothing and I was accompanying a woman who I'm guessing was in her 40s to a house called Twigs. On the outside it looks like a pretty normal house, it's mid-terrace, there is a front garden with low, evergreen hedges and a path leading down to the front door. There is a porch with a tiled roof and the front door has a large window through which it is possible to see the rest of the house. It is a very pleasantly decorated house and as I approach the front door I spot somebody, possibly the homeowner walking from a room to the right of the hallway to a room on the left hand side of the building. I've pressed the doorbell, but he hasn't answered and I turn round to look at the woman who has brought me here. There's concern about the kidnapping of a child. The next thing I know I'm inside the house and moving through the hallway towards the back of the premises. I'm amazed at the size of the house. It opens out towards the rear into a huge function hall with high ceilings, like those found in old social clubs, and here I find a lot of people celebrating. I move forward as I am looking for somebody, possibly the owner of the house, who might be in the garden. It's a summer's day, the sun is shining and I find myself amazed at the amount of land attached to the house. There are fields ahead and a vast expanse of lawn on which people sit and enjoy the sunshine as they might in a public park. I find who I am looking for: a man in his 50s or early 60s with a full head of hair and a squarish head, he has a five o'clock shadow and isn't showing many signs of greyness. He's quite pleasant and somebody asks me about nearby schools. We appear to be in North Wales as Liverpool is mentioned and I say that it's too far to go for school. We move to the left and I turn around to see the back of the house, which has been rendered and then painted a deep mustardy yellow colour. There is another vast expanse of grass to the left of the house. The man tells me it's all part of his property and talks of the many times he's been asked by developers to let go of some of the land for a new housing development. He is standing in front of a roughly cut hedgerow that separates his land from the road across which I can make out another street and more houses.

Then I'm with my dad and we're discussing the dream. I tell him about the policeman's uniform I was wearing. I'm with other people I don't know and for all intents and purposes I'm in a pub garden, but there's no grass, just concrete and I'm sitting at one of those wooden pub tables with integral bench seats and a hole for an umbrella in the middle. Those around me are suspicious. They think I'm a policeman. The sun continues to shine and then, from behind a wall, somebody I know but can't identify, appears wearing a fleece, it's similar to a Christmas present from my mother-in-law, but a different colour.

I'm taking a wash, naked, in some kind of baths but I have an audience of 'mumsy' types and have to continue as best I can, keeping my back to the audience. I soap myself and want to simply wipe off the soap and get changed, but I can't do that and instead pour water over myself to get rid of the suds. Then I put on a strange-shaped, mustard-coloured tee-shirt. At this point the clock radio alarm goes off, it's 0600hrs and time to get out of bed before I have to listen to George Osborne, who is being interviewed by Simon Jack in Davos.

Freezing cold as we head for the bus stop...

I didn't ride Saturday, needed a lie-in after Rome, but I was up at 0600hrs on Sunday and soon found myself on the bike. It was cold out and I didn't have a balaclava or a scarf, which had somehow disappeared. When I say it was cold, it was brass monkey weather and it made my face ache.

On a solo ride on Saturday, Andy finds Bullbeggars Lane...

We rode to the Tatsfield bus stop, the slow way, but decided against riding down Hesiers and along Beddlestead mainly because of the risk of slippery roads and, of course, the high chance of falling off the bikes, like Andy did a week or two ago. Instead we followed Beech Farm Road to the 269, turned left and continued on our way, passing Botley Hill and then turning left on to Clarks Lane. Soon we were sitting down and drinking tea. I've decided to avoid biscuits, but not forever. Why munch biscuits after eating a big breakfast of porridge, tea and toast?

Flytippers closed this road, but not to bikes!

En route we stumbled across a Road Closed sign. It normally doesn't affect bicycles and we pass on through, as we did a week or two ago on Ledgers Road. This time, as last time, the reason behind the closure was the same old story: fly tippers. Basically, people come along, probably in the dead of night, and unload a pile of rubbish on the road – they're too stingy to pay for its disposal. It could be anything: old fridges, seat cushions, you name it. Once dumped, the rubbish in question then stops other cars from using the road, hence the Road Closed sign. It's becoming a common occurrence and it's very annoying to see. Sadly, of course, it sums up the UK mentality.

We relaxed at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

We chilled at the bus stop, sitting on our gloves in order to keep warm and in the process warming our gloves up for when we put them on and head home.

Andy was going back via The Ridge and he won't be riding next Saturday. After saying goodbye I sped along the 269, using the off-road path. The council has recently cut the hawthorn bushes along the way, so I was risking a puncture. Fortunately nothing happened, but who knows what state the bike is in right now, in the garage? I might have two flat tyres out there, but I won't find out until next week.

A point worth noting is that signs have sprung up stopping us from reaching the cottage. Last week we found gates shut and on my way home along the 269 I noticed that our usual entry point to reach the cottage now has a sign reading 'No Bikes'. We've been rumbled!

After a ride in the icy cold weather, this is what I needed most...

I was so cold as I rode home along the Limpsfield Road that I started saying, out loud, but when nobody else was in ear shot, "Fucking cold! Fucking brass monkeys! Sausages! I want sausages!" I don't know why, but it makes things better. I couldn't wait to reach Sanderstead, I needed to get home and fast, I needed a hot cup of tea, and most of all, I needed sausages! I don't eat sausages from one month – or year – to the next, but this week I visited the Flowers Farm shop to buy some food (a roast chicken, the aforementioned sausages and a few vegetables). I knew that when I got back I'd make up a Full English breakfast and that I did. It was incredible and later in the day I made the roast chicken dinner – we ate really well, that's for sure.

The weather is getting colder, as promised by the TV weather forecasts. When I woke up this morning there was a frost on the ground, just like yesterday. We cycle throughout the year so at this time it's not as pleasant as the summer, for obvious reasons.