Three weeks in India and as a comparatively well off white European man I am still am not comfortable with being addressed as Sir (or Sir Mr Matthew) or waited on hand, foot and finger. In all the hotels we’ve stayed in there have been staff everywhere. It makes it very hard to do anything yourself. If I go to open a door, someone does it for me. Go to pick up my bag, someone’s got it for me. It all got a bit silly yesterday when I went to make some toast at breakfast.

I did at least manage to cut two slices of bread without anyone wrestling the knife and cutting board from my hands, but that’s where my involvement ended. As I approached the toaster and tried to insert the bread, a man appears and takes over. On insetting the bread he decides that the toaster isn’t adequate, so removes the toaster from the table and disappears with it. Another person appears almost instantly with another toaster. Man number one inserts the bread. After a short while a third man appears and decides the second toaster is still not up to the job. He removes my bread and goes off behind the counter to toast it on a grill. I stand there for about ten minutes until man number three returns with my toasted bread. I thank him and return to my table.

I sit down and look for a mini pot of jam on my table – but Michael has eaten the jam. All I am left with is mini jars of ketchup (yuk!) and honey (no thanks). I glance over to the other table to see if there is jam there. Almost instantly a woman appears, asks if I need anything. I say I’m looking for jam. she picks up the jar of jam from the next table, but rather than hand it to me she insists on opening it. She is quite slight and but stands next to me wrestling with the lid on the mini jam jar, which she can’t undo. I say ‘they’re quite stiff – shall I try’ but no, she will not be deterred. Breathless, and a bit red, she finally undoes the jam jar lid and passes it to me. I hold onto my knife with a firm grip determined to spread the jam on the toast myself!