Once in a while, I hear about someone being caught in the rain during a visit to Europe and feeling an overwhelming urge to dance in the street. Beneath the sort of heavy downpour that makes English summers so special, I felt not the least impulse to skip and sing, or even to present a brave face to the wet world through which I was splodging. My misery certainly had something to do with having just witnessed my football team reward me for the long trip home with perhaps its grimmest performance in recent memory. But even a barnstorming victory would not have made it seem fun to walk for a kilometre through pouring rain from the stadium to a friend's house.
With luggage needing to be retrieved for the last train to London, there was no time to take shelter. On the congested streets around the ground, no taxis could be had - why did that remind me of Abu Dhabi? - and there were no shops selling umbrellas. The torrent had me soaked to the skin in minutes. Every layer of clothing was wringing wet; sodden shoes squelched through the puddles of northern streets, mascara streamed down the cheeks of my poor wife, for whom attendance at a football match (in honour of my birthday) had already been ordeal enough.
True, I was not back in the UK for the weather, but to see family, friends and football. Yet the sense of victimhood deepened when the time came to board the train. Lunch suddenly seemed a long time ago; still only partly dried out, we were hungry. It is fair to say no one travelling on a Grand Central express expects catering fit for royalty. But as we pulled clear of Sunderland, annoyance did not seem a disproportionate reaction to news that if we wanted hot food, we would have to share the last Cornish pasty.
Half a pasty later, my spirits rose at the thought that at least there would be time for an Indian meal before the return to the Middle East the next day. Now there is something worth going back to Britain for, something we - or, more accurately, Asians in Britain - do better than anyone in the world, India included, if my experience is a reliable guide. Surely that would make up for all this privation.
For my fix of prawn puri and chicken tikka, I nipped into a west London restaurant where I had eaten well in the past. It just wasn't meant to be my weekend. The prawns were off - "yes, I thought they didn't smell good," the waiter helpfully replied when challenged - and the chicken came in bland rubbery chunks.
Two consoling thoughts occurred on the flight home to Abu Dhabi, I could probably count on not getting drenched, and soon I would be reunited with trusted Indian restaurants in Salam Street and Airport Road.
@email:crandall@thenational.ae
