Indian Slummer Strikes Back

The countdown to India has begun. Visa and flights are sorted. My old backpack has been dragged down from the attic. And I’ve started hoarding a serious supply of hair mousse.

There’s just the small matter of pulling myself together.

The mottle-faced, dribbling, empty husk I’ve become shouldn’t really be let out of the house, let alone the country. I could effortlessly terrify small children. Time to excavate head from arse. This trip is my “Eat, Pray, Love” moment. I need to get expedition ready.

The next few weeks are a blur. I render smoking, drinking and crying strictly verboten. Hot yoga, Buddhist chanting and a draconian diet of All Bran (nuked in the microwave until it resembles a kind of mucilaginous lava) are my only reinforcements now. My therapist (who I strongly suspect hates me) suggests that wild swimming might be a good way of clearing out my remaining anxieties. I embrace his guidance with gusto and begin a regular regime of early morning dips at the Ladies’ pond on Hampstead Heath. It’s late October and unseasonably cold. Needless to say, my friends and family think I’ve gone completely crackers.

But I don’t care. I feel great. I’m finally starting to turn a corner.

Two days before departure I receive an unexpected call from a bloke called Simon. Not the smarmy life insurance salesman I initially have him down for, Simon actually turns out to be a God. I discover that since my flight is overbooked, the airline has had to rejig some of the seating arrangements and as a frequent Virgin flyer, I’ve been selected for an upgrade - I shall now be flying to India in a flatbed! I feel like I’ve just won the triple rollover. I want to kneel down and worship at the altar of Simon. As good omens go this one is major. Any doubts I may have had about the trip have now been promptly skewered.

The big day has arrived and my inner princess goes into overdrive the minute I step into Heathrow airport. My upper class status leaves me queuing and wanting for nothing. I seamlessly sashay from check-in through a fast track security channel directly into the loving bosom of Virgin’s swanky Club Lounge. Within moments, I’m sipping something called a Black Russian, which Jack, the rather striking (but clearly gay) head barman informs me is the pre-flight tipple du jour. Who knew Guinness and champagne could taste this good?

More champagne as I board the plane, turning left to find not so much a seat, but a whopping great big suite waiting to engulf me. I raise the glass to toast my grandma, if only she could see me now…

It’s just over 8 hours before I'm due to land so after take off I slump into my flatbed and sleep pretty much the rest of the way. As we touchdown in Mumbai a small bubble of panic wells up in me as I realise the magnitude of what lies ahead. I’m about to become Indian slummer again. Holy. Mother. Of God.