Just for Mrs Fogg in celebration of her curry love:
There’s a little cafe that they call the Gungha Din,
In a dark part of the city that’s renowned for vice and sin,
And all around the tables when the lights are growing dim
Walks the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.
He staggers round the tables with madness in his eyes,
Following the waiters. “Water, water!” is his cry,
But all the light-ale cavalry think he’s one of them,
As he walks in the Cafe Gungha Din.
They say he was a parson who came in drunk one night,
And that vicar, full of liquor, had his heart set all alight
When Fatima, the chef’s young daughter, he caught in his sight.
They fell in love in the Cafe Gungha Din.
Now, this Arthur curried favour with that girl called Fatima,
But that erotic cleric did not score with her papa.
When he caught them having a rogan josh, he thought they’d gone too far,
Behind the coats in the Cafe Gungha Din.
“You cassocked Casanova!” he said. His eyes were full of hate.
Then Fatima saw her papa had hands chock-full of plates.
She shouted out, in Bombay, “Duck!” but it was too late.
Now he’s the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.
“Oh, what’s my papa done?” she said. “That poor chappati’s dead,
‘Cos a flying bowl of mulligatawny’s cracked the back of his head!”
And he swallowed a gallon of vindaloo. That’s what the coroner said.
Now he’s the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.
So, if you go into that cafe that they call the Gungha Din,
Where the drunks fall asleep in their dinners, you might catch a glimpse of him.
He staggers round the tables with madness in his eyes.
His parson’s nose is all aglow. “Water!” is his cry,
And from out his Khyber Pass you can see the hot sparks fly.
He’s the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.
And the prize for the least amount of food eaten today goes to me! This was the food from the company canteen where I am working. All vegetables and all in a burn your mouth sauce. Served delightfully on prison trays.
It is early evening here and I am sat by the pool resting and feeding the midges. This is the view of the hotel from the pool and of my room (open curtains half way up).
Ah the luxury of air con. Our expert driver promptly loaded us into the surprisingly posh car for the hotel and set off on the 45 minute journey to the hotel. Mr Italy found it hilarious that I buckled up instantly telling me that Italians are of course aggressive drivers so this should be Childs play. Wow. There are no lanes to drive in. You look in the direction of travel and aim for it. Buses crammed with people, little put put taxis, cyclists galore, cows, pedestrians, old cars, new cars, old men and men in tatters with battered and shredded pedal taxis, all aiming somewhere. The trick, according to our driver is to be clear where you are going and inform everyone else by using your horn. All you can hear are horns blaring. Vehicles weave toward each other, cows pick the odd blade of grass in the middle of the main road, sellers peddle their wares at the edge of the roads- a makeshift outdoor restaurant, mobile phone shops made from tarpaulin and two bits of string. The poverty and squallor here us visible just from the car.
Greetings from Kolkata. I arrived this morning at 7.30 to the grubbiest airport I have ever seen. Arriving was a simple affair and my colleague
Ah Mrs Fogg, how much of India will you actually see, can’t eat onions, pepper or mayonnaise, hate curry or anything spicey. Wow are you in twubble then. 
Having spent the best part of the night standing on us, pawing us and generally being a right royal pain, it would appear that Mr Spike is now tired and making most of the sunshine streaming in.
So in approx 48hrs I’ll be in Kolkata (that’s Calcutta to you and I) working. I’m nearly packed and have all the vitals in hand:
Ah back to London with a bump, after a 1 hour delay setting off from Changi (waiting for passengers and luggage from another flight), which is pristinely clean, no dirt, perfect airport. 
What a fantastic week, we are sat here for one last drink in the Shangri-La lobby before the trip to the airport and then megaflight home, well to Heathrow initially, then it’s the Yotel for a few hours before the motorway slog.