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am I kidding? I’m absolutely terrified.
    Gripping my sister’s hand so tightly I’m probably going to cut off her circulation, I try to steady my thudding heart. I’m all for new experiences, but driving in India is something else. Forget pedestrian crossings, pavements, even traffic sticking to their side of the road, it’s like a game of fairground dodgems. Cars, tuk-tuks, motorbikes, trucks, all swerving around each other, in one constantly flowing insanity. It’s a miracle everything doesn’t collapse into one big pile-up, I wince, as we narrowly miss another crash.
    And then there are the horns. Everyone has their hand on one, our driver included; there’s constant honking and blasting at everyone and everything to get out of the way. It’s like being in the loudest club I’ve ever been in, and then multiplying it by a thousand. My eardrums are pounding. My nerves are shredded. My eyes are . . .
    Argh . . .
    As the tuk-tuk swerves violently to avoid a couple of cows, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. There are cows everywhere. I read a bit of my guidebook on the plane and it explained how, because they are sacred to Hindus, cows are allowed to roam freely. Not having to stay stuck in a field, they can stand anywhere they want, go anywhere they want, do anything they want. It’s as if they’ve been given a VIP all-access pass. Unlike in the West, where they’re just walking beefburgers, here they’re worshipped, revered, untouchable.
    Opening my eyes I see a couple of tourists taking their photograph . . .
    . . . and a great big truck heading towards us – Fuck!
    Finally, after the hair-raising, white-knuckle ride, we pull up outside where I’m staying for a week. At least, I presume it’s where we’re staying. My eyes are still screwed tightly shut in fear as the driver turns off the engine on the tuk-tuk and suddenly, there’s silence.
    ‘Rubes, we’re here,’ prods Amy, elbowing me sharply in the ribs. I open my eyes and clamber out after her. The brightness hits me. The sun has risen during our journey from the airport and I blink rapidly. After the British winter and months of it getting dark at 3 p.m., I’m unused to bright light and hastily rummage for the cheap pair of sunnies I bought at the airport.
    ‘So, what do you think?’ she asks impatiently, hopping up and down on one leg, just like she used to do when she was a kid.
    Sticking them on, I take a deep breath and look out through a gap in the palm trees. I can see the glint of the ocean beyond, shimmering in the distance. My heart’s still racing after the journey, but all at once it’s as if the adrenaline just disappears and is replaced by a warm, calm feeling of joy.
    So what if it’s a yoga retreat, it’s also paradise.
    ‘I think it’s beautiful,’ I murmur, taking in the view.
    ‘I told you!’ she beams. ‘I knew you were going to love it here.’
    ‘See, we do agree on something,’ I smile, turning back to her. ‘Though I’m still not sure about that bindi,’ I tease.
    ‘Well, I’m not sure about those sunglasses.’ She pulls a face. ‘They’re like something Mum would wear.’
    ‘I was in a rush!’ I protest, clutching at them. ‘Are they that bad?’ Being ten years younger, my sister is my fashion stylist. She’s saved me from more than a few horrors, including a pair of furry boots that I thought were really nice but . . . well, anyway, the least said about those the better.
    ‘Worse.’ She pulls a face. ‘In fact, I’m not sure even Mum would wear them.’
    I glance at my reflection in the window of the tuk-tuk. Oh god, she’s right. They’re terrible. What was I thinking? I look like Elton John during his Rocket Man era.
    ‘But it’s the only pair I have,’ I wail.
    ‘I promise I won’t take any photographs and put them on Facebook,’ she grins.
    My sister is a Facebook fanatic; she’s forever tagging me in embarrassing photos. She can be very annoying like that.
    ‘ Promise ,