Melissa Kite: Should I date the Flemish tuna merchant in Bombay?

The Indian bellboy was sweetness and courtesy itself as he took my bags and escorted me to my room. But even he, with his impeccable manners, could not disguise his horror at my appearance. The word dishevelled doesn’t do it justice. My hair was standing on end, my clothes were rumpled, my eyes were red and puffy — the result of all the crying and tossing and turning I had done on the eight-hour flight.

Understandably, the Oberoi is not used to welcoming guests who look as if they have made the journey in a cattle truck. Having known me for only 15 seconds, the bellboy couldn’t help himself: ‘Ma’am,’ he said, his brow furrowed in confusion, ‘what happened to you, ma’am?’

I toyed with the idea of saying I was just tired or suffering from hay fever. But then I decided to tell him the truth, on the basis that as India is my spiritual home I cannot help but tell the truth here and thereby throw myself upon the country’s considerable mercy in the hope that she will restore me to sanity.

‘I’ll tell you what happened to me,’ I said to the bellboy, as we proceeded through the ornate lobby. ‘I was born in 1972, and it has been one thing after another ever since.’

The bellboy looked distressed. ‘Ma’am, I am very sorry, ma’am,’ he said.

Once in my room, things started to look up. I worked out how to give the rest of my party the slip. I texted that I was sick and unable to come with them to sightsee and do other group activities. I needed to stay in bed until dinner.

When they had all gone out, I crept downstairs and installed myself on a sunbed at the side of the pool.