In the absence of roads in the Keralan Backwaters all haulage is by lake or canal and with profit margins thinner than the locals, overloading is the norm. These two are shifting sand for construction with a freeboard that would have Samuel Plimsoll turning in his grave. Nifty bailing with a handy saucepan is the only way to prevent sinking from the wake of passing rice barges which is maybe why the skipper’s taken up smoking.

After shooting a feature at Calcutta’s Future Hope School which rescues street children from Hell-on-Earth slums, we felt ready for R&R in Pondicherry, staying at a colonial gem in the French Quarter described in its brochure as ‘a hotel that never ceases to surprise,’ a claim born out as we entered Room 15 when a rat ran past our feet, under the bed and into the bathroom, causing Alex to immediately down her remaining Gynergene tablet, preciously reserved for severe migraines or rodent sightings, while I had to settle for a stiff lime and soda to aid recovery – being dry for nearly a year now, this proved the greatest test of resolve to date.
Once Alex’s eyeballs re-aligned and a new room was found free of wildlife we dined alfresco and, mindful of the Basil Fawlty episode, I suggested we skip the Cheese Platter lest opening the savoury biscuit tin produced a second sighting.

Alex’s passport shot was 2mms. too small, mine had grey lines in the white background. On their advice, we used their instant photo-booth which turned us into Fred and Rose West. Worse still, I looked like Rose and….. no, let’s not go there. They’re fine, said the clerk. So now, immigration will either laugh out loud or ask for the name of our plastic surgeons.

Next day, I submitted the original versions for an Indian visa and wasn’t certain they’d been accepted till the clerk punched a staple between our eyes. Professionally, I feel back on course.

Talking of death, the Italian journalist Roberto Saviano, has written of life in protective custody since threats from the Camorra in 2006 when his mafia exposé ‘Gomorrah’ was published. Moving writing in beautiful English from a man who, despite a team of armed guards and forever on the move, can die at any moment.

While soldiers face the same, they have occasional lulls in battle or R&R behind the lines; not for Saviano who, at twenty nine, faces an open-ended 24/7 threat of execution for writing the truth in a First World democracy. Read the full article here.

‘It is still an astonishing image. It captures, or as we now know purported to capture, the very moment of death; legs and torso in a shocking tumble of forced imbalance, seemingly impossible in life, the face neither shocked nor pained, but wholly unknowing; and life, fields, vistas and skies, going on, but suddenly without.’

No it isn’t. Though Capa subsequently produced an amazing body of work, this is a blurred snap of a bloke with a gun falling over.

Lured once more to Henley Regatta for the blazers and caps shrunk in half, worn by ex-rowers who’ve doubled in size.
The ludicrous Stewards’ Enclosure dress code of no visible ladies’ knees remains inviolate; two years ago I watched an ejected girl vainly pleading she’d driven all the way from Wales who proved to be Tiggy Legge-Bourke, nanny to Princes William and Harry.

The lashed and loutish grow annually, like the bobbing jetsam that laps the banks throughout the Regatta which should be receiving the attention at present devoted to ladies’ knees.

A sad day as, after two years, we left our home on the River Thames at Henley to move four miles away. Not only has it been the perfect location for walks and cycling, but the river is a daily joy of photographic surprises…

Fortunately, the loss of the River Thames has been appeased by the Harpsden countryside and the pleasure of looking out each morning at the rare sight of a bison herd, one of which gave birth today ten feet from us, opening the listless sack and licking the young male upright within three minutes; incredible to watch.