Don't worry, I am going...

Well, I have two days before lift off. Tuesday and Wednesday. Well, I guess I have most of Thursday too, to get really panicked and a bit scared and have my parents run around worried - convinced that I’ve forgotten to pack enough tampons.

No, it’s good. I’m starting to feel vaguely prepared. I did a big shop yesterday in Leeds and spent heroic amounts of money on stuff. Bits of things. Detritus. Expensive crap. Etc. I’m pretty sure that all the stuff I bought I could have got cheaper in India but, d’you know what, I’m not going there to go shopping. I want my shit with me!

But looking at my ‘to do’ list for today, it mostly involves phoning people I want to speak to before I leave; checking that my stuff will fit in my newly-acquired rucksack and playing a bit of guitar.

I can’t decide if I’m going to bring my guitar. The more I think about it, the more I want to bring it. My grand plan was to buy one when I got there. But what about the first night? I suppose I’ll be in a big city – Mumbai (population 15million. That’s big, right? Yes.) but I don’t know if I’ll find a nice cheap one quickly. Oh, of course I will. Fuck it. I’ll leave it.

Sorry. I don’t think you deserve to read my inner monologue about every decision I make. Who am I kidding, you deserve all you get.

So, I’m off. Five months in India await. Perhaps I can keep going for a little longer, but my visa will run out after five months (bit annoying) so I will be forced to leave the country one way (East) or another (West - home).

I’m finding a few coincidences keep propping themselves up in my face, like pencils in my nose. For example, at the weekend, I bombed around the country trying to see as many people as possible. I managed pretty well, touring the backwaters of Ilkley, Leeds and Manchester and drinking my arm’s weight in tequila. I had a lovely time and spent far too much money for a man without an income.

So, coincidences. Within minutes of arriving at The Attic in Manchester (nice little club) for some squelchy techno, I was on the dancefloor. (Tequila had already been drunk) Within minutes of being on the dancefloor, an attractive woman danced up to me (as you do). Within minutes of the attractive woman dancing up to me (or did I dance up to her, I dunno, it’s my story and I’m sticking with it), I said “hello, who are you?” Herein ensued a slightly distressing opening of a conversation as I couldn’t hear a freaking thing she said.

She kept trying to tell me her name and I kept having to perform that odd gesture which involves waving a finger near your ear and making your eyes go all squinty. Basically, feigning total deafness.

Or, signifying - in order to save a potentially painful experience - that you are completely insane.

Eventually I figured out that the sodding name she so desperately wanted me to know wasn’t one that I recognised. I asked her if she had a nickname. Her answer, distressingly, baffled me even more. Add to that the distressing fact that, despite the loud music, she always seemed able to tell what I was saying and you have a man wracked with total distressedness (new word). By all rights I should have collapsed from the anxiety. But no, I am not insane, I am cool.

Daddy cool.

Having decided that this was a fairly fruitless exercise – about forty five minutes had passed and her patience was clearly beginning to wear thin. (“Do I really want to tell this deaf idiot my name that much? He can’t even afford a haircut.”) I asked, “where are you from?” and her answer like a message from the God I have no interest in believing in, was “India.”

I’m fairly sure that I laughed out loud. Ha ha.

With the casual tone of a man who likes popping over to Asia of a weekday, I said, “I’m off there on Thursday.”

We had a good chat about Southern India (the things I don’t know about Southern India could fill a Lonely Planet guide. And thankfully do.) and she eventually buggered off to see her boyfriend (sounds like a tosser) in the pub downstairs.

And that was that. I drank more tequila. No coincidence there.

Other coincidences include wanting to buy the novel The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy (as it’s about India) and finding it on the bookshelf in my room. Don’t worry, my memory isn’t completely shot, the copy belongs to my dad (not any more!). So I have begun reading that.

Also, as I sat reading that novel in bed, I glanced again over at my book shelf and the novel Life of Pi by Yann Martel looked at me. Gave me that beady stare that says “pick me up, big boy.” (I get that a lot) So I picked it up.

Page one, paragraph three: “So I flew to Bombay.”

Weird.

Last Indian-related coincidence, and I admit that this one is fairly tenuous and a little preposterous and a tad, well, shit. Yesterday in Leeds I was educating my friend Rob in the glorious convenience of the self-service cheque deposit box in HSBC. As I was doing so I noticed for the first time that his initials are RAJ. Raj Cunningham. Hehe. I’ve known the guy for just about ever and I never knew that.

Ok, you’re right. That’s pretty shit.

Screw you.