LONDON - Like the Murphys

It was either on the second frisking or when they took away Sarah's souvenier walking stick never to be seen again that we decided the Indians really wanted us to get the heck out of their country. Why is there such a disparity between the love and attention bestowed by the volunteer host family leader or school teacher, and the smirking indifference of anyone in any position of authority? It may be that I am destined never to truly understand the complexities of the Indian psyche, but I do plan to spend some more time on it before anyone starts trying to cremate me into Gangees sized chunks.


A no-points extra bonus question for you all. Which Greater London landmark, on the final approach into Heathrow Airport, is this? I'll give you a clue: I actually don't know. Windsor?

Britain produced its usual no-holds-barred welcome. The London Underground still refuses to operate according to the rules of logic, and the heavens opened for showers of monsoon proportions which had me fishing into my backpack in the middle of a flooded Walthamstow station whilst waiting for a bus to come and be overcrowded. Yet nobody beeped, nobody stared and nobody stepped on anyone else's face despite the pretty awful conditions outside. Natural disaster in Britain is an inconvinience and is treated with the same indifference and maybe a little grumbling. After having spent several months witnessing end of the world excitement at the selling of fruit and vegetables, it actually felt relaxing rather isolating (as travel in Britain eventually becomes)


Final photo of yours truly for the trip. Pop back to that first New York post and witness the differences in hair and weight. A good session with some clippers will remedy the former, the latter may mean going back to a life of sweating at the gym but this time self rather than Dehli inflicted.

The crossing of London to visit my grandmother took three hours: which is about how long it takes to fly over Europe these days. I am always astounded how much of a London identity everyone who lives here has, even when it takes the best part of a morning just to get into the centre of the place. But yesterday was one of those times when you can't mind it. Just trundling along a familliar bus route I haven't seen for a year bringing back memories going back two decades before that (travelling around London with my grandparents was my earliest travel experience) All very nostalgic and, eventually, rather wet.


The most important first stop for Sarah and I upon returning home: the regulation pint of bitter at J.D. Wetherspoons. God bless Heathrow Airport for catering to alcoholics and nervous fliers everywhere. And the most expensive drink I have ever bought, too.

Returning to Dorset was much the same; although seeing lush green countryside by the motorways for the first time since New Zealand reminds me why I shall never be living permenantly anywhere which can't provide me with at least a hill, a field and a tree out of my left hand window. Poole is much the same. A few trees got chopped down, my parents bought a new dining room table and the hideously ugly and inoperable IMAX cinema on Bournemouth sea front still hasn't been torn down. But only a few days to appreciate it all and start processing the experience before I start off on the wedding/visiting march.

Was I in India two days ago? I can barely remember.