Kishore Singh: Blimey, you're in London, innit?

Outside the Michelin restaurants in London, the food is extraordinarily bad. The weather isn't much to cheer about either, and being buffeted by storms cannot be a good thing, but nothing prepares you for the surly service at every turn in the capital of the country that once had its outposts in Asia and Africa. Or, as they say so evocatively, "Innit?"

You can't get a decent meal - or any meal - after 10 p m "because the kitchen shut down, innit?" Yet, they don't mind pushing the alcohol, which is why so many of the city's clubbers look drunk (and smell of marijuana). The diners are mostly self-service (even, sometimes, when they resemble fine dining), and with all the better restaurants furnishing waiting lists several months in advance, you have to go to astonishingly long lengths to get the kind of meal the average Indian takes for granted back in New Delhi and Mumbai.

Away from the branded stuff in the malls, the stores stock only standard goods and attendants will not make the effort to help you look for the aisle where you might find what you're requesting. The concierge in even luxury hotels opens up late in the day, the room service has only sandwiches to offer, which they'll send up on the promise of gratuity, and damn if they can help you with a converter for your charger if the one in your room doesn't work. Their dismal outlook resembles the only colour they seem to wear best - dark.

Perhaps it's unfair but things in Britain look only bleak at best. The nation of shopkeepers isn't interested in minding shop any more, so it's Indians and Bangladeshis and other immigrants who do it for them, and they'll at least tell you where you might find something you're looking for - yes, the converter, which, thank God, I managed to track after enquiring in the 85th store, innit? Even in the hotel shop, asking at the counter where they kept the umbrellas because it was raining outside, the helpful sales lady suggested, "Dunno, luv, you'll have to look for it yourself, innit?"

Provided you don't mind being systemised, living in London isn't all bad. Offices and processes might shut on the precise hand of the clock - an attendant we'd hired to work till 8 p m downed his tools to that exact second and couldn't be cajoled to finish the task which required another 10 minutes of work - but mostly they'll work efficiently provided you don't interrupt their tea breaks. Multitask? That's something the average Briton doesn't respond to well. Can someone from the logistics team help you with a ladder? "Not unless you're insured to use one, mate." But can't you just use it anyway? "It's lying there, innit?"

Looking for SIM cards at an airport bookstore along with a handful of my colleagues, the 80-year-old behind the till said, "Don't push yourself Dad, the kids'll do it fer ya, innit?" Actually, they couldn't, and after we'd spent a couple of hours on arrival after a tiring flight trying to get the London numbers to work, it was enterprising Jassi from Punjab who organised replacements with cheaper calling cards that actually did the job, and then he threw in a handful of peg bottles of Jägermeister and Red Bulls at half price. From then on, he had our patronage, even though it meant walking a few blocks through the cold and wet to get a cappuccino takeaway. It was worth it, innit?