Got up early to see the helpful people at Thomas Cook about airline tickets. They'd been hopeless with train tickets but planes are very much more their bag.... Or not. Apparently, they aren't the best with flights either. A bit rubbish of them but I'm sure if you wanted a weekend in the Cotswolds, they'd be tops.
To improve our mood, we went to a modern coffee shop and as well as my darjeeling, I ordered a pink cup cake (Yes, screaming I know) Unexpectedly, the top of the cake slid off and further investigation revealed that it had been warmed.
Since when has anyone, let alone your average Indian in 35C heat, wanted a warm fairy cake?
On the way back, Carruthers was a accosted by a tuk tuk driver who told him that he shouldn't waste his time with gaudy tourist shops and instead, he should go to the Open Market. He'd only charge 10 rupees for the privilege of taking us there. Can anyone else hear warning bells?
Soppy as the day is long, we trotted along and gave the honest tuk tuk driver 50 rupees for his troubles. He then drove to his brother's tat shop and proceeded to stalk us for the next 30 minutes because we didn't go into his chums' shops. Eventually, the phrase "Will you cluck off and stop following us, or we'll call a gendarme?" seemed to work and we could explore the market in peace.
...Well, except for the toy-drum sellers. Do I look like a toy-drum sort of person? But these chaps don't take "No" for an answer. Fortunately I found an phrase which they did take for an answer.
Walking back, we found a second home brew pub but this time it was hidden deep inside an abandoned shopping mall. Genuinely, no other shops were occupied and the escalators were switched off - Very Scooby Doo. We ordered a couple of stouts and even more of a mystery was: Who thought that this foul brown filth would pass for stout?
With an early start on Sunday, we weren't at home when Mr C called, however, we did nip out for a cheeky couple, early doors. We popped to our local for "cricket and ladies' night". After two days they had finally got a new cylinder of gas so they could serve something other than bottles. Scarily, they pretty well chucked the cylinder into the cellar and without any of that shroud nonsense we have in the UK to stop the valve breaking off. Carruthers and I were poised near the door for a sharp exit, should they have dropped it.
Obviously we then nipped over the road to "Bar Heineken" where of course, they only sell Tuborg and Fosters. Mind you, they sell it to an impressive crowd:
Oh and less you think that I obsess about tigers, here's a street banner depicting one of the first recorded cases:
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