Dangerously fey

Shit, my mind has gone blank. It probably doesn’t help that I have Lucy sitting on the computer next to me, and a nondescript Sikh man glancing over at my screen every other minute.

Well I’m feeling better. That is good.

Oh, and I saw Duncan again a couple of nights ago. His beautiful holiday fling (Noa) was not accompanying him, but it gave us a chance to have a good chat. He is a good man. He is probably reading this too. But he is a good man. He read me some of his writing – a rather funny tale about getting knocked around on a long-distance bus ride. Ok it sounds boring, but it wasn’t. I think the problem here is that I am being rather boring right now. Blogging should not be allowed during such a cerebral low ebb. But yes, Duncan is a man worth keeping in touch with I think. I want to read his novel for a start.

Plus I want to be able to associate more frequently with people who look like metal drummers.

It makes me look normal.

Last night was quite fun. I went to the Cocoon restaurant (my restaurant of choice) and I had a really good chat with the owner, a particularly learned man called Fez. With Lucy we talked for hours about books, music, travel, girls. It was much fun. He wants a couple of guitar lessons, for a start. I’m sure some free food arrangement could be made.

He even offered to go halves on petrol for a lift to Pushkar in a couple of weeks time. The camel festival is approaching and the chance to see the arrival of thousands of painted and decorated (DIY) camels accompanied by their desert folk masters is one not to miss. Actually staying for the duration of the festival is not recommended as hotel prices multiply by ten. Hmm.

Just met another English man. I think it is now the season for English folk. I was so ahead of the game. He is a rather nervous-looking man called Adam. Oh Newcastle Adam, if only it were you. You would not be nervous. You would be buying bananas, wives and bhang simultaneously, with just one eye. The other eye would be on the Arsenal score. By the way, what’s happened to your blog? It doesn’t seem to be working again. Have you got pissed off with it already? Or is it just temporarily down? Or is it India-phobic?

Jaipur Adam is a week into two years of travelling and has decided to spend three weeks in India. He’s spending a year in Australia. And three weeks in India.

Australia: year.
India: three weeks.

Three.

Phew. That is some interesting maths. So far he’s ‘done’ Bombay, Goa, Bombay and Jaipur in about six days. This man is living in the fast lane. And yet he looks rather scared to be on the road. Ah, give him a couple of days with me (yes, he will clearly be sharing my room come tomorrow night) and I’ll toughen him up. He’ll never know he could be so mean to strangers.

For example yesterday I inadvertently insulted a rickshaw driver. He was about the tenth driver to ask me and Lucy as we left the palace.

Here is my faithful rendering of the dramatic tale:

Rickshaw driver, clearly aware that we don’t want a rickshaw and frankly trying his luck: “Rickshaw?”

Curly haired man irritated by stomach and sun: “No rickshaw.”

Typically unaware of the meaning of the word no: “Rickshaw sir?”

Deeply aware of the meaning of the word no: “No rickshaw.”

Now asking a ridiculous question for which there is a couple of simple responses: “Why not?”

Being quite reasonable: “Why not? I don’t want a rickshaw. Ok? Walking, you see.”

Clearly entering into dangerous territory with a man prone to bouts of spontaneous and irrational sarcasm: “Why no rickshaw?”

Samson discovering the ironic voice usually reserved for blogging: “I don’t like your rickshaw.”

Incredulity personified: “You don’t like my rickshaw? Why not?

Starting to enjoy himself: “It’s rubbish. I don’t like it.”

Anger now. Pure anger: “It’s rubbish! Where is it rubbish?”

Pointing to various parts of what, on closer inspection, was actually a lovely-looking piece of machinery: “Here it’s rubbish, here it’s rubbish, I especially don’t like this bit. This bit's crap.”

If a face could pull a gun, his would pull a bazooka: “You don’t talk like this?. This rickshaw it provides food for my family. I have two children.”

You fucking asked for it mate: “Ok, whatever. No rickshaw.”

Honestly, I’m so polite most of the time, but push me and I WILL TAKE THE PISS.

Lesson learnt there. And for once, not for me.

Tonight there is a party at the hotel. Some rich dude who has his own luxury apartment in one of the rooms is throwing himself a birthday bash for the whole place. I told Teena I would not be making my music lesson tomorrow. I think it’s for the best.

Right, I should go, I’m feeling about as inspired as an empty bottle of gin.