I remember an early morning cycle rickshaw ride to Old Delhi station, rucksack on knee. There was a “Public Carrier” by the side of the road with a bloke lying under it messing about. But he wasn’t.

He was impaled thru the chest with a steel bar, it having slipped off the jack, pool of blood round him, people walking past. I thought to myself nonchalantly, “Oh there’s a dead bloke”.

I then thought, “Fuck ! you’ve been in India too long, Carl if that doesn’t bother you”.