Tipping in India. Tim Wells, an Epistle to.

Poet extraordinaire. Humble and modest. And, more importantly, a damned fine Stamford Hill skinhead.

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You're great.

In all the years since I've known you, when you first appeared, as if by magic on a bar stool at the end of the micro U-shaped Victorian counter at The George, D'Arblay Street, Soho, W1 - you have remained in many senses, a conundrum, to me. After a night's long shift, and your repeated appearances there - always in the same spot, or sat at the same stool - I eventually started to take notice of you. You weren't just one of the fly-by-nights. One time, you even made an appearance during the day. Dropping a heavy box of chapbooks. You had been lugging them around town. You were tired and probably needed a drink. Phil served you - even if the bar was closed. That was the least of his misdemeanours. Phil was a maverick and a bit of a nutjob*, and I guess he must've been a good mate of yours back then, looking back.

Today, the particular conundrum I would like to address has taken me a good 20 years to work out. Going to Chinatown and the Question of Leaving Tips.

Tim: "Francesca's mum told me tipping is a sign of weakness." You have repeated this on many occasions. It's good to repeat. I often don't hear the first time, or simply don't understand. In this instance, it was the latter.

No doubt during our sporadic meetings, over plates of rice and Cantonese roast meats, over the decades, I have probably come out with countless repetitive protestations over that pearl of wisdom. At the very beginning I may've taken issue that this was someone's mum I hadn't even met, so why bother even taking note in the first place? (That's how awkward and annoying I can be sometimes.) I would've kept that to myself, but I wouldn't be surprised if I'd let some underhand remark slip out instead.

I would probably sit there across the table from Tim and flash a narrowed-eyed look at him, then the empty saucer in front of us. Or at least frown at him. I have one of those moody faces that are very easy to read sometimes. Correct me if I'm wrong, Tim.

Me: "Well, I'm going to leave a tip." Even if you won't, I think to myself. I leave more than I intended to make up for what I perceive to be mere tightness from the Wells corner. More fool me, because I can't really afford to. I've been doing this for years. I even tip black cab drivers, when I've earned a pittance all my working life.

Also, knowing me, if Francesca's mum speaks Cantonese that would've sealed my bias. In other words, my prima donna snobbery feathers would have been seriously ruffled back then. Hmph, Cantonese? It sounds like they're arguing all the time the way they speak. They're always shouting. How bloody outrageous is that? That is so typically Chinese. Racist or dialect-ist, in my case.

Finally, it takes a virgin trip to India, for the 'char sui bao' ** to really drop. In my first few days in Mumbai, each moment, each step, each street vendor, each corner - I want to give away all my cash. How can people scrape a living and survive in Mumbai like this? I give away a pair of hand-stitched Mexican cowboy boots which I'd bought in La Camargue, less the lavender Provence we normally think of and more gaucho-culture. White horses and real cowboys. Where cowgirls still wear those naughty leather riding chaps.

I had arrived with a section of my suitcase full of things to give away, as part of a possession-stripping exercise. I had given my beloved boots to a watch-repairer, only a few doors away from my guesthouse in Marol. The further I walked, the more I realised that just when you thought human existence couldn't get more dire, out popped another legless wonder skating along on a piece of plywood and coasters, looking far thinner and pock-marked than the last. Oh bums, I gave the boots to the wrong man. At the very least I should've given them to a bony old cobbler. Look next, time Mo. Study them. Think if they are really poor and really need the brand new Diesel jeans to sell.

The time in India was partly spent developing the strength not to tip. At least 3 - 6 times a day of not tipping. A very hard thing for a Mo to do. To not indulge in my weakness for tipping willy-nilly. I had to remind myself that the annoying bell boys, dumb waiters and the like all had permanent jobs. I could only cope by reminding myself that it was more than what I have back in the UK. The guilt of a tourist, who once had money, and was kicking a Samsonite suitcase around India felt guilty about being a tourist who didn't tip. Surely they would all assume I was dripping with cash, just by mere fact of being a foreigner?

Get over it, Mo. All the lads who worked in hospitality were fed, watered and housed for free. Tipping on this trip would be, as it often has been in the past, very detrimental to my own purse. Besides, there are far more ways to give than merely leaving a few rupees.

I tip my now beaten up cricket sun-hat to Tim Wells ... a man of few words, and patient wisdom.

* I owe this word to SG. I inherited it from her when she used to use it a lot about three years ago. I can't claim to have invented it. I think being a young 'un, she has moved onto better and funnier words by now.

** NB - I have reformed now. I have taken a great leap forward, and I am even using the Cantonese pinyin for the delicious roast pork steamed dumpling. If you've never eaten one - do so. You're definitely missing out. And no, they don't do a vegan version. Get a life, will ya? Bloody vegans ... you all need a jolly good rare beef steak down ya.