Wishing I’d bought shares in a tarpaulin manufacturer

This blog’s been quiet recently, what with having a vaguely proper job to do and stuff, but also I kept thinking “monsoon’s just around t’corner, I’ll write about that. Sweet.” Nice idea, except that there isn’t any monsoon. It’s now about ten days late (but that's Bombay timekeeping for you: it'll probably try and blame the traffic). The humidity's up to about 300 per cent, and the city is sweating more than a priest in the altar boys’ changing room.

And if you think that English people mostly talk about the weather, you should hear Indians in June. The gathering storm is the only topic of conversation, of journalism, of planning one’s life. My inbox is bulging with invitations to monsoon festivals; my in-flight magazine back from Kolkata features ideas for weekend breaks where the deserts suddenly bloom in June; government signs multiply to warn against drain blockages and water stagnation; and everywhere the tarpaulins seem to be breeding, slum-dwellers reinforcing their corrugated rooves, street-sleepers improvising for shelter from the storm.

They say that the first rain of the season is a moment to savour: the aroma more evocative and joyous than anything you’ve ever smelt (better even than my personal favourite, a bakery at dawn on a crisp May morning in a northern English town). But thanks to my fortnight in the UK starting tomorrow night, it looks like I’m going to miss it, and just return for the drabness of a city consumed by damp.

Ho hum – as football fans are wont to say, there’s always next year.