The Indians don't make it easy to visit their country.
First there is all the palaver with the visa. Why can't you just pitch up in Delhi and buy one? Then they discovered I was a journalist, so I had to pay extra even though I had no intention of writing anything and was just going to a wedding. Having paid for the privilege, I feel entitled, almost compelled, to comment.
I have never been a fan of the kind of foreign correspondent who judges a country by its airport or taxi drivers. Just like doctors who see only sick people, taxi drivers see only people going somewhere quickly.
But when you land at Delhi airport, you are struck first by the air. It is thick with pollution, fog and the odour of wood fires, charcoal and even cow dung.
That they use cow dung as a cooking fuel in the capital of one of the world's fastest-growing economies is just one of its pleasant ironies. Our taxi driver spoke no language known to man - or at least not this man - but we managed to get him to take us on a little tour.
I may have indicated before that I hate my bank. I still do, but I am beginning to have a grudging respect for it. Within minutes of my wife walking into the first shop, they were on the phone to me.
"Are you by any chance in India," they asked.
"Worse," I replied. "My wife is."
Her mobile phone was broken, so we ended up in search of somebody who could fix it. We were directed down potholed roads, by open sewers and drove past donkeys looking like Eeyore in search of a thistle. There was a sign that said "Mobile Phone Can Wait Not Death", but I'm not sure my wife agreed.
Eventually, we gave up on the phone and headed for lunch. We considered it a success to find an Indian restaurant among all the McDonald's, KFC and Domino's Pizza establishments.
That afternoon we ended up in Khan market. We told the driver we would be back in an hour. Seven hours later, laden down with kurtas, Punjabi suits, saris, shoes, bags, books and followed by a helpful chap from the Good Earth shop carrying a teapot, tea cosy, coffee cups, candles and cushions, we found the poor fellow asleep in the car park.
"You have to be careful in such cases or you can end up buying all sorts of rubbish," my wife told him.
The rupee may be falling against the dollar, the World Economic Forum may be endlessly chattering in Mumbai and the government may have reduced the price of petrol, but rising GDP for this quarter should reflect one thing: my wife was in India, shopping.
