Top 5: Bad bedding

Bit slack on the old blog front, but when you see what I've been dealing with I'm sure you'll understand.

Since finally moving into my new apartment in the glorious climes of Pali Hill, I've been on a one woman quest to uncover soft furnishings that don't leave me bereft of hope for the Indian textile design industry.

Despite its rich artistic heritage, India's department stores really do harbour some questionable bed linen. Finding something to suit my vanilla palate has required multiple trips to every known shopping precinct in wider Maharashtra.

For a country renowned for its cotton, I beg of you please just produce something plain or at least that isn't inspired by a 1960s acid trip.

A bemused acquaintance finally tipped me off about the existence of FabIndia and the Bombay Store, which thankfully stock traditional block printed sheets. I'm now merrily ensconced in a cacophony of paisley and wondering why I made such a fuss.

Anyway to share my woes I have compiled my top 5 'the designer should be ashamed of themselves' bedding sets.

 

5. The cast of Saved By The Bell called....they want their bedding back.

Taking it's inspiration from the opening credits of every 90s child's favourite Saturday morning show, this bed linen would have been best abandoned in a decade not renowned for its style. The only saving grace? If you were to face-plant yourself on the pillow at least you wouldn't be able to see the rest.



 

4. Life's a beach...

 

If you want your bedding to look like the background to a Playboy calendar shoot. All that's missing is Pamela Anderson dangling upside down from the palm in a red swimsuit. What actually perturbs me the most is that I can't shake the feeling that I might drown if I lay down on it.

 

 

 

3. Call PETA! Someone's made a patchwork out of Tony the Tiger.

The old adage of less is more was thoroughly abandoned in this design. Orange tiger print is probably best used sparingly, but I don't think this is an excuse to weave in the rest of the big five and accent it with a fake Gucci print. Even Donatella Versace, who is not one to shy away from a pattern or two, might weep and say it's all too much.

2. I would do anything for love...but I definitely won't sleep in that

You'll be delighted to learn this silky set comes in a range colourways and floral tributes - from viburnum to protea. There's even interesting variations incorporating planets and leopard print, which sorely tempted me, but in the end I plumped for something that wouldn't be out of place on the set of a Meatloaf video.

 

 

 

And in at numero uno, a bedding set so astronomically hideous I almost, for the briefest of moments, went full circle and themed my room around it. If anyone in the whole world can top this, I'd like to see it.

1. I give you, Lady with Crab.

 

 

I've quite often wished on a Friday night that a handy crab would carry me home from the pub.

Challenge Annabel: McDonald's Chicken Maharaja Mac

It might seem strange in a land with a rich patchwork of gastronomic delights, that I would hot foot it down to McDonald's in my first month of living in India. Well I did. But there is a little tale behind this sacrilegious escapade.

 

Soon after I found out I was moving to Mumbai, I was lolling on the sofa in Camberwell-of-dreams with one of my closest friends, Rachel, and we got to talking about things I might miss. Food, as always, was the first topic on the agenda.

 

After a Friday evening in the pub, I may have been known to swing by the golden arches for a cheeseburger on my way home. How would I cope without my post-pub snack?

 

Well we discovered via the McDonald's India website that the only conceivable option was the rather questionable looking Chicken Maharaja Mac - described by Business Week as on of the world's most original burgers.

 

Original...not necessarily a moniker that you want to describe food.

 

Now Rachel's boyfriend, who is possibly one of the few people that likes food more than me, really took this to heart and asked for a critical review. So Russell, this is for you.

 

 

The Chicken Maharaja Mac has two grilled chicken patties smothered in what looks like curry sauce (I later discovered this was actually 'smoke-flavoured' mayonnaise) with fresh onions, tomatoes, processed cheese in a toasted sesame seeded bun.

 

It looked so unappetising that I must admit I nearly bottled it. However, a challenge is a Mc-challenge...

 

THE VERDICT: Whilst it's no Quarter Pounder with cheese, the Chicken Maharaja Mac is surprisingly delicious. It feels a little less artery blocking than a normal Big Mac, but I'm under no illusion that it's nutritional value is probably limited. I think the Maharaja and I could be post-pub friends, but luckily there's not a Maccy D's on every corner in Mumbai. 

Adventure to Elephanta Island

Yes I realise this sounds like the plot of a budget Jumanji spin-off, but please bear with me. I thought it was time I embraced by inner tourist this weekend by seeing some of the sites of Mumbai, so I jumped in a taxi to the Gateway of India.

 

It was actually my second visit to the grande arch, erected to commemorate King George V  and Queen Mary's visit in 1911. I first went back in February, before I lived in Mumbai, whilst inappropriately dressed in heels and a suit. I looked so out of place that one family must have mistaken me for Kate Middleton because a baby was promptly thrust into my hands for pictures.

 

This time round the Gateway was absolutely heaving with extended families, vendors, guides, photographers and the obligatory groups of young men showing off. This was actually a blessing as it meant I stood out far less than the real travellers and tourists, who looked completely overwhelmed.

If I could’ve offered them one piece of advice it would be this – JUST SAY NO, KIDS. Nothing is free, the holy men will expect a donation and never ever take the first price you’re quoted.

 

***

 

As all of those that have holidayed with me can confirm, I love a boat trip. I decided not to opt for the upmarket tourist boat, which costs an extra 50 rupees but comes with a guide, because I couldn’t find it. The ferry I boarded was great and made all the more amusing by a friendly group of Thai tourists and their guide. The poor man spent the entire journey frantically running round the boat prying cameras out of people’s hands, as you’re not allowed to take photos on the water.

 

A few minutes in and we were treated to a beautiful view of the Gateway and Taj.

Everyone rushed to a small stall when we arrived at Elephanta and being too stubborn to ask what it was selling, I blindly waved my 10 rupees and was issued with a ticket. This turned out to be for the small steam train that drops you at the bottom of the stairs – well worth it in the heat, although it only takes you a mere 600m.

Climbing is not my thing and given that I had not done any research, I was less than pleased to be surprised by relatively steep flight of stairs to the caves. However, my hatred of physical exertion in 30 degree heat is far outweighed by my love of markets and I thoroughly enjoyed flitting between the stalls that line the stairway to the top.  

When I eventually paid my 250 rupees to pass through the gates to the caves, it was like walking into an Indiana Jones movie. The temple is carved into a hillside and guarded by monkeys. I declined the offer of a guide and made do with the 100 rupee guidebook I’d purchased at the gate, which I thought explained everything in enough detail and meant I could explore at my own pace.

It also turns out that my Kate Middleton moment wasn’t a one off; if you’re blonde and ‘Ruben-esque’ prepare to be asked by everyone for photographs. I politely declined because I had visions of appearing on people’s Facebook pages looking sweaty and unkempt, and no one objected. I now know how Britney feels.

I’ve since read some of the reviews on Trip Advisor and I think these are completely unfair. The carvings of Shiva are damaged - they’ve been around for hundreds of years and caves are damp - but I loved the atmosphere. It's also nice to see some jungle as it feels a million miles away from the city.

 

 

The cost seemed to irk a few foreigners because you pay more if you're not an Indian national. Get a grip. A ticket to the caves is under £3, which is significantly less than you'd pay getting into most heritage sites in Europe with the obvious exception of London museums.

For those with one eye on the paisas, the breakdown of rupees spent on my little adventure was:

 

Overall I’d give Elephanta Island an 8 out of 10 for 'visitors from home will definitely get dragged here with a picnic'. If you still need convincing, frolicking monkeys should do it.

 

 

 

Travels by tuk-tuk

On my first night out with the expat fraternity, I was unceremoniously hustled into a tuk-tuk to transport us to venue numero deux. Never one to shy away from an experience (especially after two gins) I nestled my ample behind into the seat and gaped in disbelief as another two people piled in after me.

I'd love to tell you that my first journey was an exhilarating roller coaster ride that left me feeling more alive than ever, but I was far too conscious of taking up three quarters of the backseat. As a result, I was clinging on for dear life with one ass cheek perched precariously on the seat and the other hanging out the door. Thankfully it was dark for the sake of all the pedestrians we passed at break neck speed.

The real revelation came when we went to pay; it cost us a mere 20 rupees. Whilst everyone else was scrabbling around for change, I was so shocked I paid in a gallant flourish and told the driver to keep the change. Please take note that this is thoroughly frowned upon, but I was overcome by the wad of Monopoly money burning a hole in my wallet.

Fast forward a week and I couldn't find a cab for love nor money after dinner in Powai. I'd had a glass of wine and lost my umbrella somewhere in greater Maharashtra earlier in the day so thought to hell with it, I'll get a tuk-tuk before I get soaked.

What followed was a bumpy adrenaline rush punctuated by incessant beeping. My driver wove expertly in and out of traffic, came to abrupt halts inches from the vehicle in front and occasionally swore (I presume) at other road users. I might write to Boris to suggest he bins the bikes and gets Barclays to sponsor a few London tuk-tuks instead.

I made it back to the hotel in record time for a fraction of the cost of a taxi. I long to travel by tuk-tuk every day, but unfortunately they're banned from central and south Mumbai so it'll have to remain a weekend treat. Anyway, I thought I would give you a little taster of the experience during a relatively gentle bit of the trip.

Chav Barbie to blonde bombshell

I felt a bit melancholy yesterday, so to avoid wallowing I stuck on a bit of Aretha Franklin and pulled my inner diva together. The only thing for it was to go and get my hair done. My locks were long overdue, as I'd opted for a myriad* of London leaving dos over basic self-maintenance and I was thus sporting roots that would've made Cruella de Vil proud.

I booked an appointment at Vanaddict after a spot of googling because it fulfilled the key requirement of being next to a major landmark in Andheri East (see my traumas with taxi drivers). The salon was positioned on the first floor of an average-looking apartment building, but I am learning swiftly not to judge a book by its cover.

Pushing the door open I found a little oasis of white walls, leather armchairs and forest noises with a massive queue in reception. I was ushered to a seat and the consultation commenced. I have never been very good at directing hairdressers at the best of times - I have a back catalogue of questionable hairstyles to prove it - and now there was the added dimension of my only knowing five words of Hindi.

Thank the lord for the receptionist and her perfect English, as my rather fabulous stylist  Mohad was soon toiling away. The highlighting seemed to go without a hitch. That was until he washed off the dye and I looked like this:
 

 

Pure chav Barbie with obligatory ginger hue and random dark bits. Mohad disappeared, I presumed to guffaw in the back room, and I just stared at myself.

Well I wanted to be blonde.

Could I get away with it?

No, you're not Lindsay Lohan.

This is actually hilarious.

No it's not.

How am I going to get it fixed?!

Just as I was concluding some basic arithmetic in my head to establish if I could afford to fly back to the UK for a day to get it fixed in Soho if I went on Jeremy Kyle, my delightful hairdresser reappeared with a little pot. I must have looked like I was going to cry as he went running off to reception to get our translator.

'Is it meant to be this...blonde' I whimpered. The irony of going into my Soho hairdresser for years and asking to be as blonde as possible was completely lost on me at this point. 'No' she said eyeing me warily, 'He still has to put the dye on.'

Hallelujah!

I'd clearly missed this stage at every other hairdresser for the past 10 years. This is the point where London hairdressers tactfully say that they are going to apply a 'toner'. What they actually mean is that you look like the offspring of Lily Savage and a zebra, and they are desperately trying to rescue the situation and possibly their career.

'Ash?' Mohad asked me pointing to the swatch that he'd quietly slipped into my lap whilst I was gaping open mouthed at my reflection. 'Yes' I gasped nodding vigorously.

*Further to a grammatical disagreement I had on Facebook the other day, for anyone in doubt, myriad is both a noun and an adjective so if I want to use it as above I damn well shall. To all those 'traditionalists' shaking their heads in disgust; language grows and develops with time otherwise we'd all be speaking like Chaucer and to be clear, the word in question was actually a noun in English before it was used as an adjective. I win.

Trials and tribulations with taxis

It never ceases to amaze me how taxi drivers in Mumbai have absolutely no idea where they're going. I realise that I was probably spoilt to death in London; being able to leap into a black cab and declare a relatively obscure destination with a cry of 'Tally Ho' and a wave of my less than manicured hand is definitely one of the things I miss most about home.

The amount of times I've got into a cab in Mumbai and the driver has known where to take me is definitely in single digits. Before you even think it, it's not the language barrier. Most of the significant places in this City are still referred to by their English names, post-Colonial renaming or no renaming. Plus I can parrot a formidable Hindi accent by which to pronounce them.

An average journey generally goes something like this:

• I approach the cab, state my destination and ask if he knows where that is.
• He nods, I get in and then we spend the first ten minutes driving around till we find someone who actually knows where it is.
• We drive around at high speed along a myriad of back roads until I've completely lost my bearings (as you can all attest with my sense of direction this doesn't take much).
• He then asks me for directions and I have to resist the urge to cry or beat him over the head with my Blackberry.

Anyway, when sharing this frustrating discovery with a fellow expat she calmly confirmed that it's true; the taxi drivers don't have a bloody clue where anything remotely useful is. She then imparted a pearl of wisdom, in fact it was more like a nugget of pure gold, that I have clung to ever since.

You have to give the driver's landmarks. Eureka!

And this is what I've been doing ever since. The only problem is, is that I then need to rely on my own appalling sense of direction to journey from said landmark to the real destination. I think this could finally be the moment I crumble to peer pressure and purchase an iPhone simply for its relatively infallible GPS system.

In the beginning...

Sunset from the Four Season's rooftop bar
 

And so begins the promised blog I vowed to write for my nearest and dearest before I fled London town to the wild east of Mumbai.

Over the last two weeks I've learnt five words of Hindi, accidently drunk tap water (and survived), been drenched in several monsoon downpours, looked at every available apartment in Bandra and been asked when I'm getting married more times than I care to recall.

Yet, I've only questioned what I'm doing here twice. The fact that Australian Masterchef and Grey's Anatomy are on every night probably helps.

The hardest thing so far has not been the language, the food or the sheer chaos; it's the fact that I am now solely responsible for my own office IT. Hell, it's taken me two weeks to work out how to get this blog up and running...