Having made my daily and pointless call to British Airways, I set about persuading myself that it was somehow acceptable to stay in a hotel far more expensive than any I’d ever spent a night in before.
Having accomplished this to some extent, I prepared for my evening of eating and watching the IPL semi final.
“Do you want to try the buffet?” asked the waiter.
My bowels had twice woken me in the night, so this seemed a bad idea. A greater number of different dishes increased the likelihood that I would eat something that disagreed with me. It’s a numbers thing.
“You get unlimited beer with it,” added the waiter and it suddenly occurred to me that more dishes meant less of each one. Surely that was a good thing?
While waiters and customers hovered watching the match, I ate too much – largely because staff would repeatedly bring me the dishes I had purposefully rejected in a vain attempt to “be sensible”.
After a slightly disconcerting conversation with a man from Kolkata about cheerleaders which repeatedly featured the phrase “white skin” I went to bed.
At 6am, I resolved to eat the blandest, least enticing food until such time as BA let me go home. Then I went downstairs and had puri bhaji, sambar and pork medallions in red wine jus for my breakfast.