Here follows promised information on the Indian situation.

Julie and I have invested in another Fiat motor car. This time it is a later 1989 model that still wears the same 1970 body (see attached picture for the car in its original state). We have bought it from a short Muslim man who is a certain contender for the Nicest Man in the World title. Owner and proprietor of M Motors, Mister Kahn is the first man I have met here in the subcontinent who fully understands the notion of time and the doing of things within specified frames of this time. He is, in short, (and he is short) the perfect Gentleman of Cars and the only Gentleman of Actually Returning Phone Calls. He has sold us a fairly shoddy looking vehicle and is undertaking a complete body-off restoration on our behalf (the car obviously, not the man,). The car should be ready for us in around three weeks. He guarantees to buy the vehicle back from us should we no longer want it at any point, at a depreciation of just over ten pounds per month, and agrees to maintain the vehicle free of charge, including anywhere in the city breakdown cover. The total bill for this is under 400 pounds assuming we keep the vehicle. I saw the vehicle today as a patched a primer’ed shell ready for paint. The welding alone is 400 pounds in English money, such a Gent. I am looking into exporting it back to England at a later date and he is most excited by this, he is a very proud man indeed. He is also the only man I have ever met with a waterfall forehead (clean sweat) and the only man with whom I have ever had a (thoroughly enjoyable) conversation about steel torsion, metallic elasticity and the need to counterbalance weight on a central tenet for solidity in a vehicle structure.

While we are waiting for the Fiat, he has loaned us a 996 cc1962 Triumph Herald that was flat packed in England and assembled in India (see attached picture). This is a particularly ridiculous vehicle – it is too small, too slow, too hot and mostly it doesn’t work. But we had to have it because it has a horn so loud that it makes other people fall off bicycles. It is an air assisted Klaxxon of the OOEEERRGHH, OOEEERRGHH school. Driving it is like driving a cake, it has oversprung suspension and ineffective steering. It has broken down three times in the last two weeks, on two occasions it has cut out on the main road (four lane traffic) as I was turning right into oncoming traffic. Traffic here is unlike elsewhere, it does not stop when something in front stops, it simply goes round it while sounding the horn. This is most disconcerting when you are the ‘it’ in question. Altogether this is a hopeless car, but our Mr Khan is most apologetic and has turned up within twenty minutes each time it has stopped working. Tomorrow he is coming to our house to fit a new carburetor and will then take the vehicle for a long drive to be sure it is running OK. After this he will no doubt return it to me and I will drive it for a day after which it will again break and the cycle will recommence. Strangely a most agreeable cycle, in no small part due to the efficiency and overall agreeableness of Mr Khan.

With much delight we have joined the Poona Club. This is on old Colonial Club started over 200 years ago by our erstwhile forbears as a place to relax and get away from the Bloody Wogs (apologies, but it is the term used by the belligerent Captain Dyer, and his conceited colonising peers in the East India Company). This wonderful relic boasts a golf club, swimming pool, cricket field & pavillion, squash courts, lawn tennis, card rooms, billiard rooms, three restaurants & bars and affiliated membership to the Delhi Gymkhana Club, London Victoria Club and of course the London Army & Navy Club. The waiting list for membership currently stands at six years and is exclusive to the point of having to be forwarded, seconded, referenced and vetted prior to being approved by the committee. We are able to bypass all of this, simply on the strength of being Whitey Johnny Foreigners. It is difficult to believe, but in this country, being an immigrant actually elevates one’s status above that of national – we get preferential treatment in pretty much all circumstances. This is of course, partly due to our inherent class, or rather our assumed class. The assumption of class is easy to sustain – I have learned a great deal about how to be aristocratic in the past six months. It is easy to stand out from the local crowd, the basic rules are:

· Be white.
· Carry more cash than everybody else in a big wad and flash it ostentatiously at every opportunity.
· Be angry all the time.
· Nod for a stern ‘Yes’ rather than wobbling the head ambiguously.

Dining at the club is our current favourite pastime. Excellent Indian staples served up by proud old waiters in embroidered tunics, who have themselves worked at the club since they were boys.

One of the poolside attendants is a tall, scruffy forty year old man from Ooty called Felecious, or at least this is how he says his name. He has the most broken shoes I have ever seen worn and a remarkable take on English. I really enjoy the man’s directness. A recent conversation between us went:

“I go to Jew, you go to Jew?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You go to Jew, animals are there, many animals are there.”

“Oh, the zoo? No I have not been.”

“One big monkey is there, like me. Children’s food is bringing to cage, hand comes out, hand comes out for food.” (Thrusting his arm out in front, palm up and open, looking crazed with wild bulging eyes, serious as anything).

“You mean a gorilla?”

(Phonetically) “Goo-rill-er. Yes, maybe. Hand comes out for children’s foods.”

In addition to the club, we have joined the British Library, a fantastic institution the world over, you will concur. The uniquely Indian take is that the library only stocks items of British origin. All books, CDs, DVDs, periodicals, etc are only by British authors, pop bands, directors, etc. This throws up some unlikely choices. We currently have out: Life is Sweet, Rising Damp, Best of The Old Grey Whistle Test and Butterflies on DVD, along with books by Will Self and Iain Sinclair and CDs by Mr Scruff and a UK Garage compilation.

Amusing library tale: Julie tried to hire The Office First Series on DVD but was alerted to the fact that it is available on corporate loan only. She was told that it was available only to companies for training purposes. She started to explain that it was a comedy, etc, then decided to leave it, imagine the situation…