Currying favour

I write this, waiting for a biryani at my desk.  In an hotel in India.  I'm here for work and feeling a bit sorry for myself.  Despite the hotel room being incredible (ginormous bed, a stylish (if immodest) glass cube of a bathroom, a chaise longue and a desk) and emphatically not what I'm used to for work. 

I'm sorry for myself essentially because I've had two and a half hours sleep; this is not enough.  I was the only person who travelled economy and apparently business class was lovely and premium economy was bearable: economy was UNbearable.  There were a lot of small children who were allowed to run up and down the aisles, screeching, everyone else seemed to have an extraordinary view of what constituted hand baggage (bigger than the case I checked), I had a rubbish seat and the food was the worst airline food I have ever had - and it was BA!  Really, truly inedible.  And the flight was expensive.  So I arrived, hungry, sleepless and cross, got 2 1/2 hours sleep and then worked for 10 hours, missing dinner. 

And I know it's only because of the sleep deprivation that I feel left out that I couldn't find the others.  Since my day starts again in 9 1/2 hours, an early night would do me no harm anyway.  My nerves are already shattered by the journey here and could do with some re-building - they make the Syrians seem like crazily cautious drivers.  My colleague wondered how quickly they go through their brake pads; I reckon they probably write the car off before that becomes an issue

Biryani has arrived.  How can rice be so hot?  That's spicy, not in terms of temperature.  Wow.  The man was so pleased I'd ordered Indian food too!  I've stuck with veg in an attempt not to get ill before the wedding.  To be honest, my body must be a hostile place for germs with this biryani ripping through me like an inferno; ouch, ouch, ouch, not sure I'll be able to eat it all, hungry as I am.  Ohhhhhh, the pain.