Must first mention we’re safe and sound here in the Sub despite the big splashing catastrophe. Indeed the disgracefully opportunistic Government of Goa has seen fit to alter its tourismic strapline from ‘Goa – 365 days of tourism’ (catchy eh?) to ‘Goa – 365 days of natural calamities-free tourism’. The insensitivity is astounding, typical Goans, anything to make more money.

Another year draws to a close and I imagine you are looking a year more distinguished in your sharply creased Gieves and Hawkes mohair and camel Crombie. I regret to inform that I myself have succumbed to the arduous heat and have been forced to jettison the tie and resort to Khakis. It has been tough to match the shade of homespun to the pith helmet you sent, but my tailor has done his best, also you’ll be glad to hear my dhobi made short work of the blood stain on the rim. I took your advice on having metal hoops stitched into the hem of the shorts this time and this is certainly quelling the chaps – good sandalwood talc is seeing to the blemishes that remain.

I was delighted to hear that Mildred enjoyed the funfair on the common. Julie and I attended a treacherous Konkan version of the same only yesterday and to say that the Ferris Wheel was going fast is to make an understatement. We attempted to board no rides despite the clamouring efforts of the disheveled nomadic attendants. Being made to go in circles on the back of gaudy papier mache effigies to Disney is not a Darjeeling I wish to sip.

During the ten day International Film Festival of India here in Goa, (or IFFI as the Indians involved must refer to it in their inability to circumvent acronyms) one Dr Kerkar had been commissioned to position a half mile long installation of beach art as an addendum to the main attraction of film. Julie had been engaged in the same from the outset, having also taken on the role of curating the man’s art gallery and generally trying to help sort out his slightly drunken affairs. The spectacle comprised a number of enormous holes in the sand lit by bare bulbs, myriad clay nipples of really some magnitude, an enormous bamboo gallows strung with saris, some twenty thousand green lipped muscle shells and a most fantastic arrangement of interior lit vulva-like constructions which I made the terrible mistake of likening to surfboards. Julie’s own daubs are selling like hot cakes down at the gallery, she even sold a picture of my good self with some goats.

Another distraction for many has been the exposition of St Francis Xavier, which saw over 2 million Christian nutters visit Goa this year. The spectacle entails the body of a dead saint being taken from a sealed glass box and placed on open-air display for all to maul. It is said by the insane that the nails and hair are also cut at this juncture which occurs each decade. One arm is apparently in Rome. This really amounts to Christians behaving like Hindus, honestly, we’ve only been out of India for fifty years and the osmosis is already frightening. Still we are back now, dividing to conquer.

Back on the domestic front things are proving most excellent at Penedo Da Soudade, our colonial Portuguese mansion. The sheer corpulence of the place allows us to breathe to a degree unprecedented in both of us. We have even accepted the countless inescapable livers-in that we must accommodate, the imperious jungle crows with their incessant squawking are the most brazen, barking orders at each other and taking the kitchen by storm rather than stealth. Last week they got two full chicken breasts and eighteen eggs over a three day sustained assault. The squirrels could never manage such military pluck, settling for the easy spinach and overlooking the plastic bag sealed carrion.

We also have the most fantastic array of birds one has ever seen. While most of these are way up in the canopy, many visit us at ground level for an inquisitive poke about, most notably we saw a male Paradise Flycatcher last week with its impossible rainbow of tufts, curls and tails. While I miss the Dark Ales of home, I am continually rewarded for my presence here by the most amazing flying show- offs imaginable.

Recently we took in a small cat. I am not generally in favour of felines as a direct result of their indiscriminate bird killing, but I took pity on this tiny specimen, filthy and bloated with starvation as it was. One evening we met this dying horror, helpless in the street and took it home. We gave it a box, some rags and some fine chicken liver pate. Over the next eight days we fixed it with food and it flourished, transforming from hopeless into boundless hope. On the ninth day it was killed by a neighbour’s dog. Life and death, absolutely nothing one can do about it. In truth it upset me a good deal, having to tell Julie that it was dead was the worst part, or maybe my neighbours got the worst of it, having to endure a volley of abuse while I wielded a pickaxe toward their cowering mutt. In fact it upset me enough to bury the cat, my emotions denying the food chain that it should have at least supported, had we left it to perish it might have at least been useful as food. Last week I threw a steak into the street in an attempt to compensate.

Christmas and New Year passed without incident. Amateur Night was very subdued this year as one might imagine. We did manage to get to a huge ‘Rave Party’ however, at the will of some Punjabis who were our guests. In truth it frightened them to death, two thousand Israelis dancing in frenzy. Julie and I yawned at it.

On the work front things remain palatable. I recently took a trip to Delhi and therein my taste for all things British in India was assuaged. It was at the behest of my new ridiculous business boss who has the countenance of an ape and the face of an ape’s ancestor. This lumbering klutz feels that I am not ‘pulling my weight’ sequestered here in Goa and feels the need to request my presence at ‘meetings’ in other places. While this doesn’t suit me, I at least get to fly business class all over the place and stay in Mosquito-free business hotels. Two weeks ago I completed a seven day Goa-Bombay-Pune-Delhi-Pune-Goa trip and achieved nothing useful from a business perspective at all, but during the whole week I spent only twenty pounds English from my own pocket, a fine achievement considering I was able to earn ten times this amount in the same period.

Delhi is a gigantic and fine place, nothing more, nothing less. Lutyen’s Delhi, built by our boy in an attempt to recreate Paris is such a removal from the Indian norm that I felt myself almost become casual and off guard whilst there. I know that you advocate this municipality yourself, and on seeing it I’m actually surprised, for Tunbridge Wells it is not. But didn’t your great uncle marry one of Lutyen’s daughters?

In Delhi it came to my attention that there are only really two races left in the world other than us thoroughbreds – The Irish and the Punjabis. The Mick and the Paddies we know all about, but these bloody Punjabis really are something, they are everywhere. The Essex Men of the East, brash and flash with a pocketful of cash. I can’t say I approve but their food is damn fine.

I went to the Red Fort and was tickled by the way they had tried to deny any Imperial influence there. But in Delhi the Lotus Temple is really the superlative, how come you have never mentioned it? I saw it come into vision as we drove toward the brow of the hill and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. It is perfectly modern and yet still magnificent, and they even keep it clean. Don’t tell Mr Dyer I said that.

Back in Goa the car has been playing games. Indian engineering being what it is, transporting a vehicle from one place to another does not mean that said vehicle will subsequently work. The salt air has played havoc. The float pin in the carburetor was getting far too sweaty and not taking in petrol at all and the exhaust was sounding like an Eton schoolboy’s raspberry each time I accelerated. In my efforts to find a mechanic I went through too may chumps to name, nobody in wealthy Goa was interested in tinkering about with an Old Fiat as they dared to call my shining desi vehicle. In truth no one had a clue how such a master’s chariot worked. Eventually I became availed of the services of one Dilip, a Hindu bodge-master extraordinaire who has transformed the vehicle through the laborious method of trial and error. While he was dismantling the engine piece by piece I hung around with his kids playing tablas and constructing impossible toys from home made Meccanno and pieces of string. The ‘superbike’ they were building from a child’s cycle and the farings from a scooter made me want to kiss their father’s influence. One of them showed me paintings that were either copied or very good.
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For light hearted relief, and in the interests of coexistence, I’ve been learning Hindustani songs in a terrible not-understanding-the-words way. I have no hope over the language, I cannot even fathom the alphabet despite my efforts. I can however watch all the films and enjoy them precisely for the fact that I cannot understand them. It strikes me that the songs inherent to Bollywood blockbusters would probably sound terrible if I knew what the words meant. I imagine they would be just like Andrew Lloyd Webber’s horrors if one were to be able to take them literally. So instead I have been watching, listening and trying not to fathom. I have found a preference for the period between 1965 and 1973, which may come as no surprise. I think it is true to say that Indian Soul has been very much overlooked and I think it due a revival. Asha Bhosle may yet make India credible.

So we’re on the final stretch of our sojourn here in the Sub, in fact we have a little over nine weeks left before we head back to that Land of Dark Ale. In truth we are counting the days. But we have one final experience to experience – the Thurlow Experience. Messrs Thurlow and Cook arrive soon, quickly followed by the Beds Family Whiting. We must show these British Greats around town and we must ensure that they are enrapt. For these are the next batch of New Colonials, and we must convince them to stay. Let us not forget our Imperial duty, as my father said before me ‘these bloody Wogs need discipline’.

With a strong arm and a strong heart.

Restoring order as always.

Curzon Jr.