My name is Louise and I am an addict

Breakfast at the Salvation Army Red Shield Hostel has not changed in the six years since my last stay. Guests are given four slices of white bread, a hard boiled egg, a small dish with some butter and a blob of luminous strawberry jam, a banana and a small cup (European coffee cup) with hot water and milk, with a teabag on the side. (Not bad for the price.) Of course I had my jar of squeezy Marmite with me, marking me out as one of those Brits who can't cope without a few home comforts; but of course anyone who has read my book knows that there is a reason for carrying Marmite around India.

After a night of broken sleep, disturbed by Mumbai's young and partying, car horns, dogs barking, Bollywood music blaring, I was still wondering why I had come. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, and now I wasn't so sure. So at breakfast I had my tea and thought about what I would do next. Soon my tiny cup was finished, so I refilled it with hot water from an urn; and as the teabag had sucked up enough milk from the previous cup, sat down to enjoy what was a pretty good cuppa. It was then that I noticed my mood improving. And by the time I had finished the little cup, I felt rather happy to be where I was and ready to take on the day.

My name is Louise, and I am addicted to tea. Clearly.

I've been wandering around Colaba on my own. There are plenty of other travellers in the hostel - I saw one young female Brit, who has only just arrived venture out in the tiniest mini skirt and spaghetti-strap top. She is young, pretty and curvy so although Mumbai locals are pretty used to tourists I wonder how many road accidents she will cause once she hits the backpacker trail - or if she ends up getting frustrated at being stared at or harassed, without understanding why.

I'm not sure what category of traveller I fit into (probably the 'know-it-all' type), but Europeans definitely go a bit funny out here. Yesterday at the train station I saw a young European woman dressed almost for purdah in a sari with the pullu covering her head. She had red threads galore on her wrist and no shoes on her feet, and to be honest she looked like the living dead. She looked ill and lifeless - there is a fictional description of such characters in a book called Are you experienced? (Author: William Sutcliffe), and yet they do exist for real.

This morning I headed off to the Prince of Wales Museum (now called the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya... no I did not remember that off the top of my head). This is a glorious homage to the British Raj with a rather beautiful collection of sculptures and paintings. I had specifically gone there to see if I could find an ancient stone tablet that marked a land covenant. According to the translation when I read it years before, the tablet said that anyone who broke the land covenant would be lurved by a donkey, in a Barry White type way. Although the wording was almost faded, there was still an engraving of a man with an animal on top of him that looked like a cross between a donkey and a bullock. Either animal wouldn't be fun. Anyhow, I paid my Rs300 to get in, plus another Rs200 so that I could take photographs inside, just in case I found it.

Of course having a camera pass is a bit of a pain because the moment one whips out one's camera a security guard comes rushing up to check the pass and then scolds, 'No plash!' (sic). One guard watched me with an evil expression after I failed to be taking photos illegally, clearly hoping I would do something naughty and liven up his day. Even when I was leaving another guard wanted to check my camera pass, so I guess everyone does a day's work.

The museum is definitely worth visiting. Rs300 is a bit steep when on a backpacker's budget but the entrance price includes an audio tour that is actually worth listening to.

After the museum I headed across the road to the National Gallery of Modern Art. Apart from the fact that this place is cool (ahh, aircon!) and quiet, it is well worth visiting for what is on display, showing that Indian art is more than gods and goddesses.

That's it for now. I am now off to refuel and contemplate how I am going to get a taxi to Dardar station this evening without too much of a haggle with the taxi drivers. That is the bit that I really hate about India... and which I don't think I will ever get used to.