In March 2004 I was 25 years old. With not a care in the world, no particular place to be and zero commitments to speak of, I packed up a rucksack and headed off to India. The future lay sparkling and I thought it would last forever.
‘‘Hey, you want Bond?’’ asked the goofy man, shoving a paper menu into my hand. ‘‘Yes! yes! … shaky shake but not stirring’’ he continued, directing his charms towards a sniggering Lindsay. It was the third time in as many minutes that we’d been accosted by a restaurant tout championing delicious home-cooked dishes, ice-cold beers and around the clock screenings of the classic James Bond movie Octopussy. In fact, just about every restaurant in town offered up exactly the same deal.