It's Very Nice to go Trav'ling...

Right, I’m fed up with being on holiday now; I want to get back into a routine. I’ve been dragging this sorry suitcase around Europe, Asia and the Middle East for two and a half months and I’ve had enough! I miss my remote control and my comfy chair. Also, it’s time to impose a bit of self-discipline as the boozing is out of control. The “I’m on my holidays!” excuse is wearing thin.
Yes, it’s very nice to go trav’ling, as the song goes, but it’s so much nicer to come home. Well, I say home, I mean the place where I keep most of my newer stuff. My older stuff is quietly disintegrating or being eaten by moths in dusty suitcases shoved under beds in various relatives’ houses in the UK.

One day I would like collect all my old stuff (if I can remember where I left it) and introduce it to my new stuff and live happily ever after in a nice big house…..one day. Meanwhile, in the desert outside Dubai, I met some Bedouin tribe’s people and found myself jealously eyeing up their tents, lovely carpets, ceramic pots and clay lamps. I felt more like a nomad than they did!

In England, Spain and Italy I stayed with friends and family, varying the weight of my luggage according to which airline I was using. At the Ryan Air counter in Valencia, I was half a kilo over and had to remove a single wedge heel and carry it in my hand. I had been careful only to buy fridge magnets as souvenirs but they must have tipped the scale. I still don’t know how I managed to travel around Europe for two weeks with only 15kgs of luggage; I usually take more than that in toiletries!

One of the problems with this expat lifestyle is that you often have to impose yourself on people when you travel home. You also have to keep moving on because you don’t want to overstay your welcome. Even so, the time together can be intense and sometimes you spend far longer with a person than you normally would, and that can lead to over-familiarity, which is never good. The whole thing is a recipe for disaster.

 A low point for me was arriving at my brother’s house after a day’s train travel, changing in London, with a child and two heavy suitcases in tow, to that chilling question: “Can I have a word?” Apparently I should have organized myself better and arranged to stay at his house longer than the allocated two days as it wasn’t fair on the kids. (Duly noted, but I was only in the UK for a week and in that time had to visit my parents in the West Country, in-laws in the South and collect my son from boarding school!) Tired and emotional, I exploded with rage and stormed off to TK Maxx where I sat on a low wall weeping. I didn’t even have the heart to go in and buy something because I knew whatever I bought wouldn’t have fit in the suitcase anyway.

And so, having (unwittingly) royally pissed off various family members, I headed off to Mumbai with the kids where we were reunited with Daddy for two days of unpacking and repacking, before we set off for a fortnight’s family holiday in Dubai. Many people have asked me why on earth did we choose Dubai? Surely it’s just a boiling hot shopping paradise? Yeah, exactly. And it’s easy to get to and organized, with a massive Waitrose.

Because we are that kind of family, we didn’t even realize it was going to be Ramadan half way through the holiday which, in fact, turned out in our favour as the hotel was half empty so they upgraded us to a palatial three bedroom apartment overlooking the Palm. It was way bigger than our flat in Mumbai with baths and showers that actually worked. We spent the first two days in Carrefour and Waitrose buying legs of lamb, mince beef and even bacon! We went into the very well-stocked Virgin Megastore and bought up a load of TV box sets, pulled the curtains and hunkered down with snacks, snacks and more snacks. The lack of alcohol for sale in the shops wasn’t even a problem as we had stocked up in Duty Free on the way in.  We needed a couple of extra trolleys for all the booze but it meant that once we reached our new home, the Oasis Beach Tower, we didn’t have to move again for quite some time. (FYI, we calculated perfectly the amount we would consume in two weeks. I mentally congratulated myself on the last night as I lay in bed at 3.am finishing the last of the Tanqueray while watching the Olympic Opening Ceremony! )

After living in Mumbai, it is so nice to have order. Yes, I am a bit of a control freak, but I just love walking to a shop without falling down a hole and buying a decent (?) newspaper, a packet of in-date cereal and a litre of semi-skimmed milk. Such simple pleasures but alas, denied to me here in Mumbai.

When I was a kid, I used to play ‘house’ in the garage with my next door neighbour, Jeremy Goodwin (who, for some reason,  always wanted to be ‘mum’ or big sister’ - he grew up to be a concert pianist!) Anyway, in that apartment in Dubai, I felt like I was playing ‘house’ all over again, except this time I was allowed to be ‘mum’ and get the dinner ready and stuff. The kids had their own space and we could all go to the toilet at the same time if necessary. Yeah, I love Dubai. It is a bit hot though. One Sunday morning I got up early and sneaked off to the Spa at Atlantis the Palm. As my family lay sleeping in their Super king beds, I found myself submerged in a rose petal filled Jacuzzi, awaiting a Body Scrub, Fake Tan and Blow Dry.  I chose to wear a new beige silk dress for the occasion. As I left the Spa with my big, bouffant hair and sun-kissed skin, the therapist told me to avoid getting wet for a day. Of course I won’t get wet, why would I get wet? In the time it took me to step into an AC taxi, dear reader, I was drenched in sweat and the ‘tan’ seeped through my dress, staining it beyond repair. When I got back to the apartment, my hair was a frizzy mess sticking to the back of my neck and forehead and my dress was ruined. I didn’t have the heart to tell Mick how much my little jaunt had cost him. I just had a shower and got back into bed. That’ll teach me to get up before noon on holiday!

Back in Mumbai, with only a week or so left of Hugh’s school holidays, we went to Bhandardara for the weekend. Just three hours out of Mumbai, this holiday village nestled in the mountains is nothing short of stunning. Everywhere is verdant, lush and fresh, with spectacular waterfalls cascading from the mountains, a very dramatic place to experience Monsoon. We stayed at a lovely resort with delightful staff but, boy, was everything wet!  Being the sort of family we are, we (I) had not brought any waterproofs or warm clothing (obviously Mick had brought all the requisite clothing for himself and was very pleased about that!) so other than a couple of trips out to the waterfalls with nothing but three partially knackered umbrellas to protect us from the elements, we sat in our dark, damp cabin watching the Olympics on a hissing 1980’s telly and playing Scrabble. We had a fabulous time! I guess what’s important is who you share your home with, not the home itself. But on the other hand, I’m still dreaming about that rose-covered cottage. One day, Linds…..

Summer in the City

It is at this time of year that we can observe the migratory

patterns of the ‘Lesser-Spotted Firangi Bird of Mumbai’ as

she prepares to fly west to escape the monsoon.  Before the

journey can begin, an elaborate titivation process usually 

occurs in the spas and salons of Mumbai, ensuring she is in

tip-top condition for the flight.

Then, as the monsoon draws closer, an eerie silence descends

over mah jong and bridge tables across the city. The

chattering of the sparrows is but a distant echo and

tumbleweed sweeps though Palladium Mall. Nature’s Basket

is empty and Powai is a ghost town. Save for a few hardy

souls, the expat ladies have flown the coop and will not be

seen again until August.

I have been planning my own migration for some months

now and I am counting the days until I fly. Don’t get

me wrong, I am very happy to live in Mumbai most of the

time but when it gets this hot and humid I have had enough.

I am exhausted through lack of sleep as I spend my nights

turning the AC on and off. One minute I’m boiling, the next

I’m freezing. I wake up drenched in sweat and pretty much

stay that way all day.

I have nothing but admiration for anyone who goes out to

work in this heat and even more for anyone who goes out to

work and is actually productive. Mick had to change his shirt

twice before going out this morning; it was as much as I

could do to lay face-down on the sofa under the AC. I

wouldn’t go so far to say that my husband hates me on these

mornings but there is definitely a simmering resentment in

the air.

 “What are you doing today?” He asks. It sounds like an

accusation.

Let me see…yoga, coffee morning, facial, meet friend for

lunch and shopping, nails then home in time to watch ‘Come

Dine With Me’ circa 2005 on BBC Entertainment. Hmm, a

busy day then.

Obviously I can’t say any of that as it would make me look

like a frivolous lady-who-lunches without value or purpose.

This is not how I see myself but I realize this is how it might

come across. Also I am far too hot and bothered to justify my

existence to him now.

“I am going to take your suit to the dry cleaners, buy

something lovely for dinner and call the plumber to fix the

tap.”

This placates him for another day and I am free to go about

my business unscrutinized.  Samir and I can get that little lot

done in about two minutes, no probs. To be honest, I don’t

know where the time goes. When I first came to Mumbai

three years ago, I brought, in my shipment, two suitcases

filled with thousands of loose photographs going back 15

years. I was going to buy some albums and arrange them all

in chronological order. In the days when I used to work, I

dreamed about how nice it would be to have the time to do

this but not only have I not even started the job, but during

the past couple of monsoons, the photographs have all stuck

 together, each suitcase contains one amorphous blob. I’ll

wait until after this monsoon and then I’ll tackle it. I promise.

So this year, the plan is to head off to Cornwall for a seaside

holiday with some old friends. We are very much looking

forward to some sea air, beautiful scenery and sitting in a

pub having a good laugh. I will look at them and envy their

settled life in rural England, their home-improvement plans

and their pets. They will look at us and envy our

international jet-setting but I wonder, if it came down to it,

would any of us really want to swap? At this moment, I am

sorely tempted.

Sadly Mick has to fly back to Mumbai after a week while Polly

and I go on an extended tour of Europe, visiting friends in

Italy and Spain. Apparently there’s going to be a lot of

football on the telly in June so he won’t miss us. I know when

I come back, everything in the apartment, including Mick,

will be covered in monsoon mould but that’s all part of life

here in Mumbai, we’ll laugh about it one day.

I have just seen this month’s Mumbai Connexions classifieds

and it seems that a lot of people are leaving for good this

monsoon. The ‘staff available’ section is chocca-block with

folk recommending their maids, cooks and drivers.

Hopefully, a ‘fresh batch’ of expats will ship in after the rains

to employ them all. I have spoken to several people who are

moving on to places like Canada and Australia and they

seemed more than a little demob-happy. I must admit to

feeling a tinge of jealousy listening to their excited talk of

clean air, countryside, homes and gardens.

If nothing else, Mumbai has made us realize how much we

miss all that stuff. Perhaps we didn’t appreciate just how

much until we came to live in this polluted city. However, I

am guessing that within a couple of months of setting up

their dream homes elsewhere, there will be things about the

Maximum City that they will miss. They just don't know it

yet! 

Wishing you all a fabulous summer, wherever you are.

Mi Casa es tu Casa

I have just received an email from our estate agent in the UK who tells me that my property is being maintained in a ‘reasonable’ order (I don’t like the sound of that!)

He says: “The tenants feel that an annual rent increase, regardless of currently prevailing economic conditions, would be unfair. An increase this year may be uncalled for.”

Co-incidentally, within the hour, our landlord here in Mumbai called to tell us that we can expect a ten per cent increase as from next month. End of.

Mr. Malkani is a businessman and only speaks English when it suits him. You can be in the middle of a sentence when he will suddenly say “hello, hello” and walk off. This leaves me perplexed and lost for words, which is exactly why he does it.

I tried telling him that we had made many improvements to his property at our own expense. We’d had every room painted and put up shelving and safety bars at the windows. We keep the place immaculate and pay 12 months in advance. We are perfect tenants and therefore (using our own tenants’ words) an increase this year may be uncalled for.

“Hello, hello” he says, “rent is ten per cent more” and off he waddles.  I am not going to fight this because the idea of going through the whole business of moving house again is too much to bear. I am also going to acquiesce to my tenants because; on the whole they are good and pay on time, even though the rent for my lovely home does not quite cover the mortgage. We are taking the hit from both sides.

Of course, Mr. M is a professional landlord who bought a white box and stuck some tenants in it. Mick and I, on the other hand, are emotionally attached to our Kent home, it’s where we brought up our children and invested all of our savings.

I wonder if our tenants read one of the ridiculous stories about us in the British press recently where they had us “living like royalty in a five-star luxury compound” with an obeisance of servants. (As regular readers will know, we spoke to a freelance journalist who asked us to say a few nice things about Mumbai and then contorted the facts to suit himself and the nationals) Anyhow, maybe they read it and decided we didn’t need the extra money –who knows?

If only they knew that in reality I have to sit under a tap to wash as the shower has never worked; the toilet seat regularly slides of the toilet and the raised gas hob is so precarious that once again this week I have suffered third degree burns to my hand. (A pan of boiling oil slid effortlessly off the hob and onto my hand, which now looks like something out of a horror film. The kids won’t let me anywhere near them with it!)

Sometimes,  as I sit under the tap, I think about the two state -of-the-art bathrooms we had fitted only months before we knew we were coming to Mumbai. Or when I am cooling my poor, blistered, skinless knuckles in a bucket of ice, I think about my kitchen at home and my five-hob Britannia oven. I used to be able to cook a leg of lamb and all the veg all at the same time. There is zero chance of doing that here when all I have is four dodgy gas rings and a microwave. Even if I knew where to get a decent joint of meat, I wouldn’t attempt it for fear of blowing myself up. No, if it’s the maid’s day off, I’m ringing for take-out.

Can you tell I am having a Bad India Day? Sometimes when I miss my home and family life as it used to be, I ask myself why we are doing this. Why are we living 4000 miles away from friends and family in a two-bedroom white box?

And then I remember… it’s great for Mick’s CV, we are putting money away for the kids’ education and there is also fantastic opportunity to travel. So shut up Lindsey and take the crunchy with the smooth!

Let’s talk about the good things!

When my son came out for the Easter holidays we went to Indonesia and Singapore. We stayed in a couple of fabulous hotels and did all the touristy things: Sentosa Island, the Night Safari and Universal Studios. The children were happy and our short time together as a whole family again was very special and dear to my heart.

I tell you what else was very special and dear to my heart…..THE SHOPS!

Whoaaa! How many malls does Singapore have?  What I loved about it was that every one (except my husband) was in a mad, shopping frenzy. I even saw a group of Buddhist monks swooning in the window of Louis Vuitton.

Yes, yes I know buying designer stuff is only an attempt to fill an unfillable void in my soul but whatever, it makes me happy. It makes up for having to sit under a tap to wash or for having to take my life in my hands every time I fry an egg.

I look around Mumbai and I see people who would have to work for a year to earn the money it costs to buy a designer bag. It’s enough to make you weep. I get that, I understand, but something deep inside me still wants the bag.

So…. some news…..there has been a new addition to the family. One minute I was walking along Orchard Street in Singapore and the next I was in the Mulberry shop buying an Alexa. WTF? I didn’t even see it coming. There was no planning for this baby, it was a happy surprise, unlike my oldest, a classic Bayswater, which, like a longed-for IVF baby, was years-in the planning.

Now my two babies are sitting next to me on the chair and I cannot decide which of them to take out today. It’s Monday morning, 32degrees outside, and I’m off to the Burns Unit for a new dressing. I am going to stop worrying about my house, there’s more to life than bricks and mortar….like bags!  Come on then, Alexa, you’re coming with mummy today!

Are You Being Served?

                                                       

 A little fantasy of mine is that I am approached by one of the big retail companies, let’s say whoever owns Shopper’s Stop for example, and asked if I would like a job as customer services advisor. I can think of nothing that would make me happier. I would get stuck into that job like a pig snuffling for truffles only coming up for air when the profits had doubled.

This is not new territory; many regular readers will already know that I am often exasperated by shop assistants who follow me around a store at a distance of less than an inch and have once or twice even stepped on the backs of my shoes.  Yesterday an assistant actually leapt into my path, causing me to jerk backwards, knocking over my daughter who was walking behind me.

I do not wish to be rude but my patience is wearing thin. The one thing that is sure to send me straight back out of a shop is a pushy assistant offering me: “Something in bags?” It doesn’t even make sense. I understand customer service in the retail industry is a relatively new concept in India but it is a million miles away from where it needs to be.  For the sake of a little investment in basic staff training, millions of sales must be lost each year. I have lost count of the times my husband has calmly put down would-be purchases and walked out of the shop empty-handed after being made to wait for more than 10 minutes to pay. (Quite often where there are three tills or more, only one is manned)

There are exceptions of course, namely Zara and Good Earth.  Assistants at these stores have obviously been trained well and leave you alone to browse unless you specifically ask for help. The wait to pay is minimal and the retail experience is, on the whole, pleasant.

This month I had intended to write about either, my trip to the Mountains of Bhandardara or my full medical at Dr L H Hiranandani Hospital, both thrilling topics, but a last minute change was effected after a visit yesterday to Infiniti Mall Two in Andheri. It is with heavy heart, dear reader, that I feel we must revisit this perennial issue of poor and sometimes downright frightening customer service.

The moment I darkened the doors of Infiniti Two, a security guard gave me the once over with her security wand and then burped in my face. Charming!  First stop Zara. That was easy enough and out we came a half hour later with Polly kitted out for our upcoming holiday. In retrospect, it was a mistake to go  to Zara first as this meant we had to leave the bag at the entrance of every other store we visited, going through the whole rigmarole of handing it in and collecting tokens.

 In Accessorize the assistant legged it over as soon as we crossed the threshold: “Something in jewellery, madam?” What is the answer to that? “Yes, just give me something in jewellery, I don’t care what it is.” I gave her a curt smile and asked if I might be allowed to browse. She smiled back and continued to stand the customary inch away from me. I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my skull as I handled the trinkets. The security guard also had his lasers locked on stun.  Finally, we selected a hairgrip for 445 rupees and took it to the till. I handed over a 500 note and you know what’s coming next.

“Do you have exact money please?”

And here begins my rant about till floats and it being the responsibility of the shop to provide change, not the customer. The security guard is dispatched with my 500 to find change but the shop girl, in a desperate bid to escape my tirade, darts into the staff room to get her own purse out in search of change. Polly has long since fled in embarrassment (with the token) and it is left to me to negotiate the return of the Zara bag without the token when the guard comes back, sans change. What a kerfuffle!

I catch up with Polly and we have a little look around some clothes shops where most things are sized S or XS. That’s good news for Polly because she is a petit 12-year-old girl so the women’s clothes fit her perfectly but I am an outsized hefalump because I am a size 10 -12. We are ambushed by assistants wherever we turn and when I make a joke about being too big for the clothes; it is met with confusion behind a rictus smile. I can almost see the thought bubble coming out of her head: “What is this foreigner saying? Her face looks happy but she is making negative comments. I do not know how to interpret this.”

For lack of anything better to do, we wind up in Pure Living which is a bit like a poor man’s Ikea without the self-assembly element. On the plus side, it is clean and seemingly organized. In the 15 minutes we are in the store, we are approached by no less than seven assistants. Each time I bat one off, another arrives until I lose my rag and wail: “For the love of God, just let me browse.” As I am filling my basket with candles, an assistant arrives to helpfully inform me that “these are candles, madam.” Bless him.

At the till, each candle is laboriously packed separately and then the fella gives my card to another fella who runs off with it out of the store.

“Where’s he going with my card?” I enquire

“Card machine is not working, madam, he is taking card to Puma to swipe it there”

Whatever, I have no fight left.

On the flip side, I was in Bangalore last week and spent a glorious two hours with a rug seller in his opulent showroom. He laid out one silk rug after another until I fell in love with a 6ftx9ft Kashmiri beauty.  I had one figure in mind; he had another, so we chatted and drank chai until it was time for me to go. I offered him my best price, he made the pretend phone call to his “boss” before claiming that, sadly,  he couldn’t accept such a low offer, so I left.  I had reached the top of the second escalator before I heard him calling after me. Puffing and panting, he accepted my offer, herded me back to the shop and the deal was done.  I think we both enjoyed the experience and both came away feeling that we had stitched the other up –  shopping in India at its best!

My Big Fat, gin-soaked, Ex-pat Life

One of India’s leading make-up artists, Stafford Braganza, tells Elle Magazine: “If you want to fly, you’ve got to give up all the shit that weighs you down.”

A fine sentiment, Stafford, but not one to which I can easily adhere. You see, I am a bit like Emily from Bagpuss, I never quite know what I’ll be dragging home with me from one day to the next. This week, for example,  I bought a temple, some leeches for my maid’s husband’s severed finger, four compression garments (buy two, get two free) and a kilo of marigold heads (for the temple)

And this wasn’t even an unusual week. Last week I bought, amongst other things, a rosewood circus lion standing on a ball! I just like it. It reminds me of my childhood, not that I ever saw a lion standing on a ball but I did have some circus-theme curtains.

The flat is very small and is beginning to look like a storage area for a props department. As much as I enjoy collecting all this random stuff, I wonder, is it the thrill really in the chase?

I subscribe to a website called Tiny Buddha which sends out words of wisdom every Friday afternoon: This week it read: Humans Beings are in danger of exchanging ‘being’ for ‘having.’

There is certainly truth in this but is it not possible to ‘have’ and ‘be’ at the same time? Do I have to choose?

I bought the temple from a junk shop in Jogeswari street market. It was covered in dust and unloved sitting high atop a pile of junk. I took it outside, blew the dust off and could see it was made of rosewood. It was beautifully crafted and I wanted to bring it to life again. The old gentleman who sold it to me spent three days restoring it and now it sits resplendent and filled with marigolds and candles in my living room, bringing pleasure to me and my family.  Hopefully it will have pride of place in any house in any country I live in, in the future and remind me of our happy time in India.

I bought the leeches (Rs 150 each!) because my maid’s husband severed his finger in a car door, had it sewn on again, but needed the leeches to suck out the poison.  And talking of sucking, the compression garments were to aid in the contouring of my (hot?) new bod after having 6.5 litres of fat ‘liposucked’ out of it following years of people asking when the baby was due. I only wish I’d done it years ago.

So, all my purchases have made me happy. But do I have to get rid of everything to find true fulfillment? Is the pursuit of material things wrong?

I was inspired to write this today, not just because I read the make-up artist’s wise words in Elle, but because I am, as I type, being crucified in the comments section of an article about my family in The Mail Online for, it seems, getting my priorities wrong.

In December, I wrote about how a journalist in Delhi had contacted me about ‘doing a piece’ on reverse immigration as a nice flip side to the doom and gloom in the UK press. We agreed, had our photo taken and said some very positive things about Mumbai.

Today, the article appeared online, written by a person I have never even spoken to. She has me ranting: “Britain has gone to the dogs, the country’s bankrupt” etc.  The story was peppered with inaccuracies and left me feeling a bit gloomy.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, the comments started to roll in from Daily Mail readers calling us ‘chavs abroad,’ ‘hideous people taking advantage of cheap labour.’ But worst of all the comment that we sent our son away to boarding school in England, neglecting his feelings, so that we could pursue material wealth.

The article was a rather skewed version of reality, written to satisfy the Mail’s agenda to claim that everything in the UK is terrible.

I don’t know why I am surprised. I know that a journalist must tailor the story to suit both news agenda  and publication. All I can say is Thank God for Facebook and Twitter so I could let our nearest and dearest know we didn’t actually say those things.

The people who commented have no idea of what it is like to live in Mumbai, no idea of my son’s educational requirements and no idea of all we have had to give up to be here.

We are not the ‘vilest of expats’ or ‘chavs.’ We are just here to make a living like everybody else and if I want to buy a flippin’ temple or a lion on a flippin’ ball, leeches or liposuction, I will do.  I can ‘be’ and ‘have’ at the same time. The only shit that weighs me down is people who think it’s ok to pass judgment on other people when they only know them through shit they read in the Daily Mail.

The funny thing is, we have now been approached by one Sheldon Lazarus, Creative Director, who wants us to consider participation in a BBC documentary entitled: ‘Brits in Bollywood.’ Can you imagine? It will be like ‘My Big-Fat-gin-soaked-days-of-the-Raj  Ex-pat Life,’  a fabulous mix of ‘Desperate Scousewives’, ‘Porridge’ and ‘It Ain’t  ‘alf Hot, Mum!’ A quality production I am sure, but this memsahib for one ain’t doing it!

Sleepless in Mumbai

In the words of British trip-hop and trance band, Faithless: “I can’t get no sleep.” Night after night I lay in bed listening to what sounds like dogs ripping each other’s ears off and also, to my husband’s incessant,  monotone snoring. The pile-driver on the adjacent building site is more pleasing to my ear.

It’s the same night after night. I go to bed in all good faith at 11ish, read my book and turn the light off. I lay on my back; I lay on my front, then on each side and then on my back again, open my eyes and stare at the ceiling as the orchestra of dogs tune up for the night’s performance.

Ten minutes later the steady breathing next to me reaches a crescendo; there is a brief pause, and then an almighty, earth-shattering snort. From this moment onwards the snoring comes thick and fast and is quite relentless. Sometimes there are accompanying funny, little whistling sounds. Other times it is as though he is possessed by the devil, so deep and guttural are the noises. There have been times, when, had he opened his eyes, he might have seen, by the light of the moon through the crack in the curtains, me, hovering above his face with my pillow, just deliberating. If I didn’t love him so much in the day time, God knows I would have smothered him by now.

I believe the snoring is actually absorbed into the mattress and amplified ten-fold by every spring and fibre. It is at this stage, when the bed is actually vibrating with the snoring,  that I usually pick up my pillow and cotton blanky and schlep into the lounge where I make up my trampy little makeshift bed on the long bit of the corner sofa. The only other bedroom in the flat is occupied by my daughter who talks as much in the night as she does in the day, yattering away in the darkness about Justin Beiber and shoes. I can’t go in there.

But, sadly,  it is a case of ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’ as the lounge comes with its own set of unique problems. The crack of light under the front door illuminates the room and the constant ding-donging of the lifts drives me nuts. Who is travelling up and down in the lifts at three in the morning? I guess it’s the same people who take their kids out to play in the playground beneath my window at midnight and later.

So I lay on the sofa, blinded by the light, and listen to the dogs and the lifts until I finally drift off into a fretful, shallow sleep.

The incidence of mosquitoes is naturally much higher in the lounge as they gain entry from all sorts of nooks and crevices, not to mention the half-inch crack below the door. (Anyone know where to buy one of those sausage-dog style draught excluders?)  The buzzing in my ear will start literally seconds after I fall asleep. There is no point in getting up and trying to swat it with my special electrified mossie-killing racket because we both know it will disappear the minute the light goes on and carefully camouflage itself in the fold of the curtain, waiting patiently for me to go back to sleep so it can return to my ear hole.

Delirious with fatigue by this time, I have to choose between a rock and a hard place. I pad back to the bedroom, clutching my pillow and banging into the coffee table as I go. By now the snoring is bouncing off the walls and I lay there thinking about how hard my husband works, the early morning flights and the long hours he keeps and then I prod him sharply in the ribs and hiss: “stop snoring.” Like an obedient child, he stops immediately, only to start up again a minute later.

When it gets to four o’clock and I am still awake, I feel I am within my rights to order him up and out into the lounge. Let’s face it, he could sleep on a washing line and the mossies never bother with him.

It is not just at home that I have difficulty sleeping. On long haul flights, I walk up and down the aisle deeply resentful of everybody who is asleep. How can people sleep on a plane?  I manage to drink six or seven half pint plastic cups of white wine and still remain sober and wide-awake while my husband and daughter are crashed out either side of me. No rest for the wicked, eh?

I do have a guilty secret, however. Shall I tell you? Every Tuesday and Thursday, when my presence is not required at eight am yoga, I get up, make the sandwiches and pack the family off to school and work at 7.45. Then I slink back into bed with the Mumbai Mirror and a cup of tea. Sometimes I don’t wake up until one pm and that’s only because the coconut man rings the bell. Lucy goes about her house-keeping business very quietly on those mornings and we never speak of it.

On Saturday evening we went to see Sherlock Holmes at the cinema and apparently I was asleep shortly after the National Anthem. I slept sitting up and through noisy scenes of charging horses and gunfire.  I am a conundrum to myself!

Apparently, I missed a great movie.

Happy Families

You know those happy families whose smug mugs feature in the Daily Mail, showing off about how clever they are because they moved abroad before the recession, well, that’s us, that is.

At the time of writing we have not yet appeared in said rag but I am told it will be soon because of the current media trend of ramming India’s great booming economy down the throats of everyone who stayed at home. Even Jeremy Vine off of Radio Two came to Mumbai last week to broadcast his show from Café Leopold.  He was running up and down “Colaba Street” comparing the Gateway of India to the Arc de Triomphe and punctuating his blather about Tata and Tesco with Katie Perry records. From the way he was waxing lyrical about Mumbai, I imagine everyone listening at home will be on their way right now. Will the last one leaving Britain please turn the lights off?

So how come we are lined up to be in the Daily Mail? Mick wouldn’t normally wipe his arse with my mum’s newspaper of choice but soon he will be gurning at her from its centre pages, extolling the virtues of living in Mumbai. She’ll choke on her egg!

 A journalist from a Delhi-based news agency read my blog and contacted me about ‘doing a piece’ on 'reverse emigration' as a nice flipside to all the doom and gloom currently in the British press.

He went on to ask me why we had made the move and how our lives had improved since making it. To be honest, I spend so much time moaning about all the things I don’t like about living here, I hadn’t really thought about the positives. But now he comes to mention it...

Obviously the main improvement in my life, since coming to Mumbai in 2009, is the acquisition of my Mulberry handbag. I used a variety of plastic bags when I lived in the UK, so this is definitely an improvement.

And here’s another good thing. It’s 3.20 pm now as I write and instead of driving like a lunatic to the school, I am here in my office sipping tea (thanks Lucy) while Sameer does the honours. Nor do I have to worry about going to Asda or what’s for tea.

I am being flippant, of course. Although I wouldn’t say life is infinitely better than it was in the UK, it is infinitely different. Last night, for example, Mick was invited to the MI 4 world premiere with Tom Cruise. He most definitely would not have been afforded that opportunity in London.

And on our son’s last visit from boarding school, we flew to Nagpur and drove on to a tiger safari in Madhya Pradesh. This is not a sentence I ever thought I would write.  Our annual holiday used to be a fortnight in a caravan in France but here we are taking ad hoc hols to hitherto unknown destinations. (We didn’t see any tigers, by the way, and it was galling, at G and T time, to hear the tall tales of those who did: “Yeah, we couldn’t believe it; it took down a deer in front of our very eyes!” Hmmm, we only saw a leopard pooh).

On the second week of Hugh’s visit we hung out on the beach in Goa and knocked back some Long Island Iced Teas. Yeah, it’s not so bad living here, is it?

Back to the Delhi journalist’s question: Why did we make the move?  I think I said that it was a fantastic opportunity blah for Mick to work in a burgeoning economy with its young and dynamic population blah, blah or something pat like that but the truth is, the opportunity arose and we took it. You go where the work is. We were lucky; I don’t know what would have happened had we stayed in the UK, maybe nothing. I am beginning to hear of friends who have been made redundant and, there but for the grace of God’ I suppose.

Just the other day, after a Mumbai Connexions do in town, a group of ladies and myself went off to the Taj to look at diamond earrings. Again, that would have been a sentence alien to me a couple of years ago.  Time was, not so long since, I wanted a cardigan from the Boden catalogue but couldn’t afford it. I waited and waited and ended up getting it in the sale. Good things come to those who wait.

The acquisition of material things is, of course, one positive aspect to making this move but sometimes I feel I am acquiring them as compensation for not having other things - fresh air, walks with the dog, dinner with old friends or chatting with my mum at the kitchen table. What price these?

The one thing that we are all getting in spades here is life experience as well as diamonds, new teeth, liposuction and bags. We are the pioneers who lived in India before the days of Tesco and Wal-Mart, before it became as homogenized as any other country in the world and then we'll have some tales to tell, gnashers gleaming, diamonds a-twinkling.