Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
What if journalism could wear a digital face? Or sing?
It is unlikely you have come across bere bannocks if you haven’t been to Orkney.
So I waited to board the ferry, rubbing my hands in glee. I was in a place called Scrabster. It is difficult to be overwhelmed with excitement when you are in settlement with a name that is a cross between a skin ailment and a crustacean with five pincers, but I swear there was glee all over my hands when an attendant waved me on board.
I used to drink instant coffee. In those days, I thought it tasted good. It was cheap and convenient, and I drank it black and piping hot the way they did it in manly movies.
Sometime in the late 1930s or early 40s, a newly minted Canadian schoolteacher by the name of Laurence J Peter saw a door sign in the august institution he was then employed at. It said: ‘Emergency Exit. Authorised Personnel Only’.
During an intermission in the lockdowns last year, for want of better entertainment, my wife and I moved house, swapping the seaside town we had long inhabited for a quieter place inland.
The MacLeods of Scotland have much in common with the Malayalees of Kannur. In fact, they are practically cousins.
Thinking of Jesus, I climbed into the ferry at Fowey Town Quay, paid £2.50 to the captain, and set sail for the distant shores of Polruan which loomed out of green waters some 365 metres away.
A favourite fictional detective of mine these days is Inspector Salvo Montalbano. He is Sicilian, the creation of Andrea Camilleri.
It was high noon and scorching when I rode into Oatman. “Feed and water him,” I told the boy who came running to take the reins. “Curry him down with the saddle on.”
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