Step 2: Get someone else to slaughter your chicken

This morning I was interviewed on Pakistani TV. They wanted to know why the foreign press reported so badly on Pakistan (like I know). It was one of those live feed things, where they call you up (in the middle of breakfast, as it happened, just as I was beginning to enjoy my omelette and parathas) and then they put you live on air. For a minute, all you can hear is the previous interview ending, during which time you try not to sneeze, or belch or suddenly develop tourette's syndrome. Then they suddenly start talking to you. By which time you've forgotten everything you want to say and just try to say 'err' as little as possible. I'll never judge anyone on the Today Programme again.


We headed out to Lahore Fort (Shahi Qila) after that - a beautiful 16th century remnant of the Mughal Empire. Opposite was Bashadi Mosque, which we entered with our shoes off and our headscarves on. Around us, men prayed whilst women wrapped their children up in shawls despite the heat, sellers peddled nuts and ice cream, and old men studied the Koran on wooden benches. It was vast, open and peaceful, and pilgrims rushed to answer the call to prayer, stopping only to grab the white girls for a photo. Somewhere in Lahore is a family portrait sitting on a the mantelpiece with a strange blonde girl poking up in the middle, and a few mobile phone shots alongside young Pakistani men (who all insist, in a thick Punjab accent, that they are originally from 'U.S.').

Michelle valiantly dragged her video camera around the city's markets to capture some street scenes for a brief she had been given for The Economist. Everywhere, people stood gawping, generally right in front of the camera lens so that a lot of wild gesturing ensued. A quick scoot to buy the inevitable scarf and jewellery and we were off again.

Iqbal, our driver, taught us some Urdu while we taught him some English. Inevitably, he will go home thinking that the English word for 'me' is 'chicken' and what we think is the Urdu word for 'wife' will be 'goat' or something similar. But it's not vocabulary we're likely to need time soon. Iqbal took us to his recommended lunch spot - a hidden gem in the city, apparently. Our parking steward (generously named as we were in fact the only car in the street) who also happened to be a rather grumpy dwarf, guided us into a space next to the chicken coop, where even then, our feathered lunch was bopping away, tied to the top of a cage, most likely unaware of its fate. Outside the restaurant was the chickens' second port of call: a man who sat cutting up the freshly killed poultry with a knife stuck between his toes and throwing it into the pan next door. In any case, our chicken masala was utterly delicious: we made sure not to look any of her relatives in the eye when we passed the coop on our way out.

A short drive home via several police checkpoints. Every time we stopped Iqbal would turn around to us and explain. "Taliban-check" he said. And then drove off. It seemed like the most honest description we'd heard since we arrived.

Night falls at 6 o'clock in Lahore in February, and the smell of dry concrete is in the air. Police sirens mingle with the crackling recording of the call to prayer, blasted from hidden speakers around the city. Apart from that, all is conspicuously quiet. Lahore is a night-town. People eat late - long after 9 - when the air is finally cool enough for the mind to clear. Which tonight is just as well as, stomachs full, we crawl into bed to sleep off our jet lag.