Arrival at 2.30am was unanticipated to say the least. We stumbled off the sleeper bus wondering where on earth to go and what to do in the eery silence of the deserted streets. (Un)fortunately we were soon mobbed by a group of hotel managers begging to take us to their concrete-cell hotels. We uncomfortably napped in Alcatraz for several hours, before relocating to the cheerful Milkman hotel (named so due to the vast amounts of cows clogging the surrounding narrow passageways), run by Anil. Cue laughter.
At the centre of Pushkar -surrounded by hills beyond which stretches the desert - lies one of the holiest lakes in India, which is fringed by numerous ghats for offering prayers to the gods. It is an astonishingly laid-back place, and most of one's time is spent wandering the bazaars and, much to our disgust, eating tofu - there is no alcohol, meat, or even eggs because of the holiness. Sound pretty horrendous? I developed a worrying taste for steamed vegetables.
On the morning of our second day we visited the Brahma (the creation god of Hinduism) temple - falsely advertised as the only one of its kind in India. Sadly, "advertised" is a pretty fitting word, as the whole affair became centred on the "priests" taking our money. Having been led around the temple by a "training priest" (questionably dressed in designer jeans), we were led to one of the ghats for a 'puja', blessing.
It was clear from the moment that we were separated - Lissy sat on one side of the steps and I on another - that something was afoot. My priest then started pasting my face with various foods, and making me repeat his blessings, paying little attention to the fact that I couldn't understand him:
Priest: "swagahayumba"
Me: "shmeeehhgyabuma
Priest: "Hannavayapuja"
Me: "hanavajajayapu"
Priest: "shreethattapeeyuna"
Me: "shreeeehhhh..." Etc etc
As to whether it was a blessing or a coercion to give loads of money became suspect:
Priest: "orphans very hungry
Me: "orphans very hungry"
Priest: "give them lots of money"
Me: "give them lots...?!"
Priest: "chappatti rice vegetables"
Me: "....."
He then proceeded to try and extort a bomb of money from me (he partially succeeded), as I became increasingly angry at his shamelessness. Although Lissy's priest was apparently nicer, this only allowed him to get more "donations" out of her.
On the brink of a religious crisis, I turned to gap trash for stability, almost buying some heinous clothing. Fortunately I was calmed by a haircut/head massage from a man with triple-jointed fingers - I didn't appreciate just how freakish this was, though we were both a little unsettled by the customer comments book which described how "this mutha knows how to nibble an earlobe!"...
That evening we ate at the garden hote; on sitting down at the rooftop table I saw opposite me a boy from my year at school - Charlie Bodenham - who had been travelling around India and Burma, and was too headed for Nepal! An incredible coincidence, and slightly reassuring that the world seems still small in this humungous country.
With love
Sunday 31 March 2013
Sunday 24 March 2013
Jaisalmer - camel trek
We were collected early in the morning and ferried into the desert, 12 people packed into a rusting jeep.
The process with which we were assigned our camels was a little like the "sorting hat" of Harry potter, but more of a turban. I was matched with Julian, a good-looking and sturdy camel.
The children of a local village were as welcoming as a kick in the balls, demanding pens, rupees and adoption. One relatively cute child had an injured foot, and so we gave him a bandage - one of the more cunning kids then asked for a plaster and proceeded to pretend to have a similar foot injury, hobbling around asking for money.
We continued across the desert. Scrubby plants and cactii scraped against our legs as our camels brushed pass. People say riding camels is fantastically painful, because it is so - it's like some form of ancient torture weapon, leading to "scrambled eggs" as named by my camel driver.
At lunch we ate by an oasis (no water) under a large tree, as the camel drivers cooked. An ancient local farmer turned up with his female camel, hoping for it to be mated by one of the rare dark brown camels - we watched with horror as "Victoria" proved he should in fact be named "Victor", engaging in lunch time camel sutra. The old man ate some of our lunch, smoked some weed, and left, thoroughly contented.
After a siesta we tramped onwards, straight into the sinking sun. The sand dunes lurked far over by the horizon, somewhat spoilt by the looming wind turbines - the desert is host to countless turbines, which power the Indian army presence. Eventually we arrived at our resting place - settled on top of a bank of sand dunes with only dung beetles to keep us company.
And the beer boy: mid-evening on the isolated dune a lone local boy appeared from nowhere with a bag of cold beers for sale. He'd walked several miles from his village - fantastic form.
"I'm a camel man, in a desert land, it's so sandy, it bloody crazy" sang the camel drivers in a twisted rendition of barbie girl, using an empty water canister as percussion. We ate under the vast spread of desert stars as they sang their versions of western classics - "no woman no cry, no chappatti no chai" was a favourite.
We then headed to bed, "bed" consisting of a blanket lain upon the sand, and the sky above. An occasional camel grunt would interrupt the otherwise silent night. We awoke at sunrise, remounting our camels and feeding them - Julian kindly decided to share some of his grain with me, spitting it all over my head.
Riding for several hours at pace was fairly brutal, but I maintained a collected, Lawrence-of-Arabia image - fortunately I opted against the turban, I may have looked like a bandaged sore thumb.
The jeep stole us away from our humped friends, returning us to jaisalmer. There we spent the remainder of the day (before catching a 5pm sleeper bus to pushkar) with astrid and Josephine, our new Danish friends.
With love
The process with which we were assigned our camels was a little like the "sorting hat" of Harry potter, but more of a turban. I was matched with Julian, a good-looking and sturdy camel.
The children of a local village were as welcoming as a kick in the balls, demanding pens, rupees and adoption. One relatively cute child had an injured foot, and so we gave him a bandage - one of the more cunning kids then asked for a plaster and proceeded to pretend to have a similar foot injury, hobbling around asking for money.
We continued across the desert. Scrubby plants and cactii scraped against our legs as our camels brushed pass. People say riding camels is fantastically painful, because it is so - it's like some form of ancient torture weapon, leading to "scrambled eggs" as named by my camel driver.
At lunch we ate by an oasis (no water) under a large tree, as the camel drivers cooked. An ancient local farmer turned up with his female camel, hoping for it to be mated by one of the rare dark brown camels - we watched with horror as "Victoria" proved he should in fact be named "Victor", engaging in lunch time camel sutra. The old man ate some of our lunch, smoked some weed, and left, thoroughly contented.
After a siesta we tramped onwards, straight into the sinking sun. The sand dunes lurked far over by the horizon, somewhat spoilt by the looming wind turbines - the desert is host to countless turbines, which power the Indian army presence. Eventually we arrived at our resting place - settled on top of a bank of sand dunes with only dung beetles to keep us company.
And the beer boy: mid-evening on the isolated dune a lone local boy appeared from nowhere with a bag of cold beers for sale. He'd walked several miles from his village - fantastic form.
"I'm a camel man, in a desert land, it's so sandy, it bloody crazy" sang the camel drivers in a twisted rendition of barbie girl, using an empty water canister as percussion. We ate under the vast spread of desert stars as they sang their versions of western classics - "no woman no cry, no chappatti no chai" was a favourite.
We then headed to bed, "bed" consisting of a blanket lain upon the sand, and the sky above. An occasional camel grunt would interrupt the otherwise silent night. We awoke at sunrise, remounting our camels and feeding them - Julian kindly decided to share some of his grain with me, spitting it all over my head.
Riding for several hours at pace was fairly brutal, but I maintained a collected, Lawrence-of-Arabia image - fortunately I opted against the turban, I may have looked like a bandaged sore thumb.
The jeep stole us away from our humped friends, returning us to jaisalmer. There we spent the remainder of the day (before catching a 5pm sleeper bus to pushkar) with astrid and Josephine, our new Danish friends.
With love
Jaisalmer
A late morning bus took us westwards to Jaisalmer, 90km from the Pakistan border, passing into increasingly camel-congested territory.
The fort sticks out of the desert like a childhood sandcastle, and the twisting alleys within it are home to 4000 locals and countless sketchy hotels - as a result the fort is at risk of crumbling back into the desert.
On arriving in the late afternoon, we headed for a Fairly Disagreeable Lassi before venturing into the fort for dinner - unfortunately, we both felt fairly rough and retreated to our hotel.
The following day we explored the fort - enjoying unparalleled views from the roof of the palace down over the slowly crumbling ramparts. Small boulders lining their edge (to be rolled onto attackers as a form of defence) looked a disaster waiting to happen. Again, I felt bizarre in the evening, forgoing the fantastic Italian food found in the desert.
With love
Ps. This post has been unusually rather short/unhilarious as I've decided to do a separate one for the camel safari we embarked upon.
The fort sticks out of the desert like a childhood sandcastle, and the twisting alleys within it are home to 4000 locals and countless sketchy hotels - as a result the fort is at risk of crumbling back into the desert.
On arriving in the late afternoon, we headed for a Fairly Disagreeable Lassi before venturing into the fort for dinner - unfortunately, we both felt fairly rough and retreated to our hotel.
The following day we explored the fort - enjoying unparalleled views from the roof of the palace down over the slowly crumbling ramparts. Small boulders lining their edge (to be rolled onto attackers as a form of defence) looked a disaster waiting to happen. Again, I felt bizarre in the evening, forgoing the fantastic Italian food found in the desert.
With love
Ps. This post has been unusually rather short/unhilarious as I've decided to do a separate one for the camel safari we embarked upon.
Friday 22 March 2013
Jodphur
We arose and climbed the winding road that leads up into the battlements of Mehrangargh, the fort towering over, and dominating, the city. Orange handprints on the final gateway memorialised the sati - when women throw themselves on their maharaja's funeral pyres - of the citadel's women.
The palace was pretty fantastic, packed with the wealth of a maharaja, and a collection of opium-smoking guardsmen. The blue city sprawls beneath the fort hill, and it is outstandingly blue - not due to blue being the colour of the Brahmin caste, but because it deters Mosquitos/termites.
Concluding our tour, we found our hands (and more perhaps - see photo with lissy) being groped by a fairly creepy man. Normal day at the office? Nope, we paid for this. Following the hype of friends, we decided to give "palm-reader" Mr Sharma a run for his money. Or our money, at least.
In short, we was crap, calling Lissy "very prudent with money" which was proved untrue by our paying him...
Sharma: "you often suffer from bad headaches...?"
Jack: "no, I really don't"
Sharma: "but you do get them sometimes...?"
Jack: "I don't think I've ever had a migraine."
Sharma: "ok... That is a relief".
Etc
The accordion music drifting over the Jaswant Thada - a marbled royal cenotaph outside the fort - lent it a creepy air, made all the worse as a group of French started clapping along and whooping. Goose pimpingly cringe. We swiftly left, mouthing our apologies to the accordion-player.
Walking down to the bazaar, we were jumped upon by a man asking for photos. Not just any man, a man with an open-topped jeep. Hitch-hiking isn't particularly legit, not least in India, but it was an opportunity. We bargained a ride into town for a short photoshoot - in hindsight a bad move as the guy was pretty creepy, two-armed hugging Lissy which, although hilarious, was a bit sketchy.
When we arrived at the clock tower - beside which lie streets of chaotic bazaar - he started articulating (I think I could speak more Hindi than he English) that he wanted a lassi (a yoghurty drink) as repayment. Having given him a years' worth of creepy photos (...) we said hell no, and disappeared amongst the stalls - he was a greedy mother, and pursued us for a while yelling "Lassi! Lassi! LAAASSSSI!" It was pretty comical.
We soon lost him, and eventually opted for a lassi of our own - as we emerged from the shop, he drove past and excitedly shouted "lassi!?!" from his blue jeep. Having tasted them, I can partially understand why he was so set on their yoghurty fantasticness, but they're not worth sacrificing one's public rep for.
We spent most of the afternoon wandering the bazaars, harangued by endless shopowners whose fabrics were supposedly sold in Liberty. Richard Gere and Sting also seem to have shopped in every tailor's between jodphur and jaipur, which is quite a feat.
In the evening we ate next to some nondescript footballer at the Pal Haveli, enjoying cracking views despite the drone of footballer's voice over my shoulder. The city noticeably changes at night, and we rickshawed back to the hotel, half-expecting a madman crying for Lassis to jump at us from the shadows.
With love
The palace was pretty fantastic, packed with the wealth of a maharaja, and a collection of opium-smoking guardsmen. The blue city sprawls beneath the fort hill, and it is outstandingly blue - not due to blue being the colour of the Brahmin caste, but because it deters Mosquitos/termites.
Concluding our tour, we found our hands (and more perhaps - see photo with lissy) being groped by a fairly creepy man. Normal day at the office? Nope, we paid for this. Following the hype of friends, we decided to give "palm-reader" Mr Sharma a run for his money. Or our money, at least.
In short, we was crap, calling Lissy "very prudent with money" which was proved untrue by our paying him...
Sharma: "you often suffer from bad headaches...?"
Jack: "no, I really don't"
Sharma: "but you do get them sometimes...?"
Jack: "I don't think I've ever had a migraine."
Sharma: "ok... That is a relief".
Etc
The accordion music drifting over the Jaswant Thada - a marbled royal cenotaph outside the fort - lent it a creepy air, made all the worse as a group of French started clapping along and whooping. Goose pimpingly cringe. We swiftly left, mouthing our apologies to the accordion-player.
Walking down to the bazaar, we were jumped upon by a man asking for photos. Not just any man, a man with an open-topped jeep. Hitch-hiking isn't particularly legit, not least in India, but it was an opportunity. We bargained a ride into town for a short photoshoot - in hindsight a bad move as the guy was pretty creepy, two-armed hugging Lissy which, although hilarious, was a bit sketchy.
When we arrived at the clock tower - beside which lie streets of chaotic bazaar - he started articulating (I think I could speak more Hindi than he English) that he wanted a lassi (a yoghurty drink) as repayment. Having given him a years' worth of creepy photos (...) we said hell no, and disappeared amongst the stalls - he was a greedy mother, and pursued us for a while yelling "Lassi! Lassi! LAAASSSSI!" It was pretty comical.
We soon lost him, and eventually opted for a lassi of our own - as we emerged from the shop, he drove past and excitedly shouted "lassi!?!" from his blue jeep. Having tasted them, I can partially understand why he was so set on their yoghurty fantasticness, but they're not worth sacrificing one's public rep for.
We spent most of the afternoon wandering the bazaars, harangued by endless shopowners whose fabrics were supposedly sold in Liberty. Richard Gere and Sting also seem to have shopped in every tailor's between jodphur and jaipur, which is quite a feat.
In the evening we ate next to some nondescript footballer at the Pal Haveli, enjoying cracking views despite the drone of footballer's voice over my shoulder. The city noticeably changes at night, and we rickshawed back to the hotel, half-expecting a madman crying for Lassis to jump at us from the shadows.
With love
Wednesday 20 March 2013
Udaipur to Jodphur
Early in the morning we climbed into our taxi alongside Yolanda and Marcus, a Swiss couple who we'd photographed on Jagmandir. Over the next few days they'd become our principal stalkees.
We wound our way north through fields of cows, villagers, and camels carrying forests (see photo). Our first stop was Kumbal Garh fort, a huge citadel set on top of towering hill, whose defensive walls are the second largest on earth (after the Great Wall of China). From the top of the fort you could see the Thar desert stretched out to the horizon, as well as the mass of locals waiting below for a photo.
Lunch was a buffet consisting of several UMOs (unidentified meaty objects) which had been brewing for several hours before our arrival. Dericious.
Next we stopped at the Jain temple of Ranakpur - a vast marble structure held up by 1444 unique pillars, one of which was wonky ("as only god is capable of perfection" explained our guide/priest - clearly hasn't watched much professional snooker). Our priest led us (now dressed in goofy trousers - temptation suggested I lose the 80rp deposit and take them as gap trash) round the temple, showing us it's hidden secrets: barring the Ganesh-shaped root, the highlight undoubtably came when the priest stood under one of the marble domes in the ceiling and started to meditate - his humming caused the dome to vibrate like the top of a giant wine glass. Very trippy. Needless to say, we tried and failed.
Worn out, we eventually arrived in jodphur in the evening( having been argued over by several drunk tuktuk drivers, we arrived at our awesome hotel - Singhvi's Haveli - and headed to bed.
With love
We wound our way north through fields of cows, villagers, and camels carrying forests (see photo). Our first stop was Kumbal Garh fort, a huge citadel set on top of towering hill, whose defensive walls are the second largest on earth (after the Great Wall of China). From the top of the fort you could see the Thar desert stretched out to the horizon, as well as the mass of locals waiting below for a photo.
Lunch was a buffet consisting of several UMOs (unidentified meaty objects) which had been brewing for several hours before our arrival. Dericious.
Next we stopped at the Jain temple of Ranakpur - a vast marble structure held up by 1444 unique pillars, one of which was wonky ("as only god is capable of perfection" explained our guide/priest - clearly hasn't watched much professional snooker). Our priest led us (now dressed in goofy trousers - temptation suggested I lose the 80rp deposit and take them as gap trash) round the temple, showing us it's hidden secrets: barring the Ganesh-shaped root, the highlight undoubtably came when the priest stood under one of the marble domes in the ceiling and started to meditate - his humming caused the dome to vibrate like the top of a giant wine glass. Very trippy. Needless to say, we tried and failed.
Worn out, we eventually arrived in jodphur in the evening( having been argued over by several drunk tuktuk drivers, we arrived at our awesome hotel - Singhvi's Haveli - and headed to bed.
With love
Thursday 14 March 2013
Aurangabad/Ellora
En route to Ellora, we stopped at the 12th century hilltop fortress of Daulatabad - infamous from 1328 when the sultan of Delhi dubbed it the new capital, marching the entire population of Delhi 1100km to populate it! We climbed to the top of the bastion, passing through ridiculous defenses, including a pitch-black, spiralling, bat-thick tunnel. Exhausted, we triumphed at reaching the top and the sweet views, having mounted seemingly endless staircases.
Ellora was more amazingly carved than ajanta, but in a less impressive location - 34 caves (Buddhist, Hindu and Jain) lining a long rock escarpment. The highlight was definitely the Kailasa temple, which is absolutely huge and hewn out of one rock! One of the weirder carvings was of Shiva emerging from a huge phallic symbol - we didn't really know how to react, and moved on swiftly.
On our way back into Aurangabad we stopped at "the poor man's Taj" - basically a junior, budget version of the Agra Taj, whose construction cost 1/200th of the real thing's. Personally I thought it was a dick move calling it a "poor man's" construction - it was fairly massive, had its own tout horde, and certainly beats any modern equivalent: a "love u mum" tattoo, perhaps.
Near to achieving inner peace, I rarely get angry. I was fuming that evening, however, when our hotel charged us for an extra night having promised not to do so (#polishinstincts), and we left Aurangabad on our sleeper train feeling cheated. Petty as ever, we launched a cyber attack on the hotel's tripadvisor, leaving scathing reviews under the guise of an honest old man.
With love
Ellora was more amazingly carved than ajanta, but in a less impressive location - 34 caves (Buddhist, Hindu and Jain) lining a long rock escarpment. The highlight was definitely the Kailasa temple, which is absolutely huge and hewn out of one rock! One of the weirder carvings was of Shiva emerging from a huge phallic symbol - we didn't really know how to react, and moved on swiftly.
On our way back into Aurangabad we stopped at "the poor man's Taj" - basically a junior, budget version of the Agra Taj, whose construction cost 1/200th of the real thing's. Personally I thought it was a dick move calling it a "poor man's" construction - it was fairly massive, had its own tout horde, and certainly beats any modern equivalent: a "love u mum" tattoo, perhaps.
Near to achieving inner peace, I rarely get angry. I was fuming that evening, however, when our hotel charged us for an extra night having promised not to do so (#polishinstincts), and we left Aurangabad on our sleeper train feeling cheated. Petty as ever, we launched a cyber attack on the hotel's tripadvisor, leaving scathing reviews under the guise of an honest old man.
With love
Udaipur day 2
On the second morning, we boated across to Jagmandir island - effectively a floating, overpriced garden. I got hat envy of the plumed guards, unsure of the stylishness of my "JACK" baseball cap.
After a brilliant lunch at Savage Garden, we perused the markets, set on a higher calibre of G-trash. En route to sunset point, we passed a sketchy tailors, outside of which stood a photo of one of their "happy" customers, looking drunk and minorly violated. We entered.
If ever there's a moment when you realise a joke is running out of your control, contorting into a terrible reality, I experienced it within that shop: stood, literally surrounded by furls of material that the proprietor had excitedly taken out for my choosing, I saw Lissy watching on in horror, quite unable to help. The man was hell bent on making me an awful suit, and my excuses became increasingly strained: "my dad may not want me to... I'll go talk to him... No he can't come here ... he has no legs" etc etc. Liss was also pounced upon, and had a tablecloth/skirt "tailor made".
The man's persistence was infuriating, and I soon fled the shop as he pursued, yelling "I visit your father with yooouuu".
We walked up a hill to Sunset Point, pursued by an excited troop of Boy Scouts who stuck their camera phones in our sweaty faces at bad moments, seeking their "annoying foreigners" badge.
The view down over the city was fantastic, all the more so at sunset - we descended into town (again pestered by the tailor) for a dinner at Ambrai, a smart restaurant where my wearing a polo shirt landed us with a sweet table, and a massive bill.
With love
After a brilliant lunch at Savage Garden, we perused the markets, set on a higher calibre of G-trash. En route to sunset point, we passed a sketchy tailors, outside of which stood a photo of one of their "happy" customers, looking drunk and minorly violated. We entered.
If ever there's a moment when you realise a joke is running out of your control, contorting into a terrible reality, I experienced it within that shop: stood, literally surrounded by furls of material that the proprietor had excitedly taken out for my choosing, I saw Lissy watching on in horror, quite unable to help. The man was hell bent on making me an awful suit, and my excuses became increasingly strained: "my dad may not want me to... I'll go talk to him... No he can't come here ... he has no legs" etc etc. Liss was also pounced upon, and had a tablecloth/skirt "tailor made".
The man's persistence was infuriating, and I soon fled the shop as he pursued, yelling "I visit your father with yooouuu".
We walked up a hill to Sunset Point, pursued by an excited troop of Boy Scouts who stuck their camera phones in our sweaty faces at bad moments, seeking their "annoying foreigners" badge.
The view down over the city was fantastic, all the more so at sunset - we descended into town (again pestered by the tailor) for a dinner at Ambrai, a smart restaurant where my wearing a polo shirt landed us with a sweet table, and a massive bill.
With love
Udaipur day 1
Morning, we walked through the old town towards the palace; for such a spectacular city, it's odd how the locals take most pride from the fact that it featured in "Octopussy" - most restaurants honestly have a nightly showing. We touristed the fantastic city palace, to which Ben Patel is the heir (see photo...); due to absurd ticket/camera prices, I took a load of sneaky iPhone snaps - appreciate the views over lake pichola, and my abstention from Instagram.
In the afternoon we visited the acclaimed vintage car collection - wasn't a good sign that the guide was more excited by the free mango juice. Rightly so - there were some sweet cars, but they simply made us homesick. Jokes aside, there was a worrying amount of rust in their description of "vintage".
Afterwards, we visited the Bagore-ki-haveli, a truly bizarre museum set in a restored "haveli": we entered puppet land, featuring a puppet version of the royal court and a boy who evidently rarely spoke to real humans (although he was ace, and let Lissy Jiggle His Puppets); we admired the largest turban on earth, and I finally acknowledged I'd look a goon if I pursued my dream of wearing a turban; finally, there was a collection of world monuments (Big Ben, Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal) made of polystyrene. Just baffling.
Lissy got a nose piercing, and I a place at Edinburgh uni - I considered a celebratory nipple piercing, but settled for a milkshake instead.
In the evening we ate at the Jagat Niwas hotel, an awesome restored haveli; unfortunately we had the fortune of being sat in the sought-after window seat, necessitating crossed legs - having the gangliness of a baby giraffe, this proved phenomenally awkward for me. Mum stayed here on her travels when she was my age - no more chat to be had about budgeting.
With love
In the afternoon we visited the acclaimed vintage car collection - wasn't a good sign that the guide was more excited by the free mango juice. Rightly so - there were some sweet cars, but they simply made us homesick. Jokes aside, there was a worrying amount of rust in their description of "vintage".
Afterwards, we visited the Bagore-ki-haveli, a truly bizarre museum set in a restored "haveli": we entered puppet land, featuring a puppet version of the royal court and a boy who evidently rarely spoke to real humans (although he was ace, and let Lissy Jiggle His Puppets); we admired the largest turban on earth, and I finally acknowledged I'd look a goon if I pursued my dream of wearing a turban; finally, there was a collection of world monuments (Big Ben, Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal) made of polystyrene. Just baffling.
Lissy got a nose piercing, and I a place at Edinburgh uni - I considered a celebratory nipple piercing, but settled for a milkshake instead.
In the evening we ate at the Jagat Niwas hotel, an awesome restored haveli; unfortunately we had the fortune of being sat in the sought-after window seat, necessitating crossed legs - having the gangliness of a baby giraffe, this proved phenomenally awkward for me. Mum stayed here on her travels when she was my age - no more chat to be had about budgeting.
With love
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