Reluctant to leave, we sprung onwards to kochi - a town colonised by Portuguese traders, with a 400-year old Jewish community and remnants of the British raj.
We checked into Spencer's home, a hotel within the civilised area of fort Cochin, which Lissy rightly likened to clapham - you need a visa to visit both, after all. Beside Spencer's was a huge playing field on which local boys were playing football and cricket: I was eager to get involved, but they totally blanked me - perhaps news of my last footballing venture (during which I knocked out the front tooth of a 9-year old - he was being cocky (I joke, but I genuinely did maim a child...)) has spread to these parts. #whyalwaysme
We've frequented a cafe called teapot, whose walls are adorned with teapots. Worryingly British vibe, but we never mention the C word out here. (Colonialism). Having heard about the buzzing art scene of kochi, we were pretty excited when a man approached us promising free entry to his friend's "art exhibition" - it soon became clear that we'd been scammed, unless one artist genuinely mass-produces miniature scale tuktuk souvenirs as a form of social commentary... Ironically, many shops hassle you to advertise their "hassle free shopping" - I ought to teach the shop-owners 'sausage' so at least they wouldn't be breaking their promises; sausages are quite a foreign concept here, however, and 'chapatti' hasn't quite got the same ring to it...
For those doubtful of father christmas's existence, be assured - I've found him: we ate in the fantastic dal roti, run by the indian incarnation of Santa himself, beard, minor alcohol problem and all.
With love
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