The next day I wander down a lane towards the beach to find a Lonely Planet recommended eatery good for brunch. I’m fantasizing about a Shoreditch-style poached egg and avocado combo since curry has been my staple breakfast up until now. I don’t get that. And whilst there I hear (before I see) a middle-aged women with a thick Bristolian accent at the next table. She seems to be a Palolem regular by the way she’s confidently chatting to locals (with no moderation to her usual speech speed or intonation) and running up to them with open arms like an overbearing aunty ….She’s either a regular or very much she wants me to think she is.
I then head to the beach where I sunbathe (for all of 30 mins before I think I’m going to die of heat exposure).
In a beach bar I hear English voices in a sea of Russian so I beeline and sit down next to them in the hope that we’ll get chatting. We don’t. Or at least not for a good 45 minutes, in which time I pretend to read my book but really I’m staring at the page as I rehearse different opening introductions like some kind of nervous, sad character in a shit Adam Sandler film. Eventually we do speak and it’s nice and I get invited to a 40th birthday celebration the next night in a nearby bar.
That night, after a solid 8 days of curry morning, noon and night I allow myself a cheeky carbonara in an Italian restaurant. It is life.