In which Ainsley Harriott grows an elephant's trunk

It was the first day in our new office today. There are bits of wire still coming out of the wall and I can’t fathom out how the taps in the bathroom work (though to be fair, those are still the case in my flat and I’ve been there eight months). But there are phones, computers, and comfy seats that aren’t that comfy so you don’t stay in them too long, so we’re ready for action.

We had a holy man come in to perform a puja. Ganesha was honoured, and there was a colourful offering featuring a pomegranate, a coconut, an apple and an onion. That would be a nightmare on Ready, Steady, Cook, but it’s a dream for the gods and it keeps you in their good books.

Then there was a Catholic prayer, a Muslim recitation, a sprinkling of Zoroastrianism, and an arch raised-eyebrow for the English atheist in the corner. All the gods were happy, even the ones who don't exist.

Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?

I walked down a shopping street this evening. 17th December. A week before Christmas Eve. But I must have been on an alien planet.

No lights above the road showing flying reindeer: perhaps no runner-up from Big Brother 5 had turned up to turn on about a month ago.

No Salvation Army band, bang on the money after practising for this moment for 11 months. (You know they spend weeks just planning the staggers in their breathing so as to keep the dynamics even in Silent Night?)

No German markets to peruse the overpriced wooden toys and then just buy another gluwein.

And I couldn’t see my breath, what with it still being over 25 degrees and that.


Christmas doesn’t really happen here – at least not publically. There are over half a million Christians in Bombay, and they’ll certainly have a cracking Crimbo – although they probably don’t have Noddy Holder or Morecambe and Wise, which frankly seems like missing the point to me. But not one of the hundred irritating adverts on telly at the moment is festive-themed; you can walk through a supermarket without seeing a single drop of spray snow or an inch of tinsel; and there’s not nide nor hair of any double issue of the Radio Times with a lame cartoon of Father Christmas on the front for the 82nd year in a row.

But it’s the weather that’s the greatest dampener on things, if you’ll excuse the inappropriate terminology. How am I supposed to start panicking about presents like I normally do at this time of year, when I’m walking around in a t-shirt and sandals? I tell my brain to do it but it just says ‘yeah whatever, turn up the aircon, snowboy’.

So I close my eyes and gently daydream about what I really want for Christmas .

My favourite Bombay road signs

3) Just off Jacob Circle - and sadly ignored:
"Honking Will Not Make The Car In Front Disappear."

2) On the approach to the Bandra-Worli Sealink:
"No Two-Wheelers. No Three-Wheelers. No Buffalo Carts."

1) On the famous accident spot the Western Express Highway:
"Overtakers Often Meet Undertakers."

Just one more thing

Colombo is a pretty town, all lush and verdant in sharp contrast to Bombay. Life here seems to be good: there’s no evident vast wealth, but there’s also little sign of the extreme poverty that scars every city in India.

Six months or so ago, the Sri Lankan civil war finally ended. Everyone reports that life is infinitely more relaxed, as you’d imagine now that the threat of suicide bombers and air raids has receded. But the signs of recent conflict are still everywhere: the ubiquitous soldiers with big guns, a two-mile late-night car journey stopped three times at checkpoints by security forces (one of whom seems to be pissed). Next morning, the Daily News under my hotel door is blatantly just government propaganda: Pravda in paradise.

Getting off my late-night plane back, there’s a large party of tall young men in matching suits just ahead of me in the immigration queue. They are getting a lot of attention for 3 a.m., and I suddenly recognise one or two of them: it’s the Sri Lankan cricket team.

I can exclusively report that their Aussie coach Trevor Bayliss argued with the immigration man about his swine flu declaration form; that mystery spinner Ajantha Mendis had to wait ages for his suitcase, holding up the rest of the team; and that star batsman Mahela Jayawardene is surprisingly short.

Good spying work. I should be a detective. Where’s my trenchcoat?