Arrived...

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We conclude the tearful goodbyes, at great length, at Maya's house and pile into Mark's car to be driven to Heathrow with Glenn Miller ringing in our ears. England looks quaint, and more picturesque than usual - like one of those small villages from a 1950s train set, white picket fences and Mrs Miggins putting out the milk bottles.

Heathrow looms up all too soon in a baleful purple glow... terminal three resembles a giant UV light... we resist the temptation to break out the glowsticks and instead head to Virgin's auto check in service. This goes shockingly smoothly and we head to the bar. I make the excuse that I am thinning my blood to prevent DVT, but truthfully I am simply dying for a beer. Nerves. The old 'what the fuck am I doing?' feeling, so familiar from my first race meeting and my first tattoo across the wrist.

Security is slow and lax after a fire alert, so we trudge along endless corridors of rope and smarmy BA shepherds... once on board, I select Darjeeling Ltd from the list of online films and fall into a deep sleep on Maya's shoulder. I dream of Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories... Maya dreams of 'getting that fucking lump off my shoulder...'

I'm sitting next to Paul, who (before I fell asleep) tells me he lives in Coventry but his family are from a village en route to Dharamsala. He offers us a lift. I politely refuse, then feel extremely guilty of my wariness after he gives us his mobile number and insists we call if we have any problems. Once we land, the man is up and bounding along the isle like a stocky gazelle, leaving a trail of reeling Sikhs in his wake. We disembark, suffering the cheesy, repeated 'farewells' of the Virgin air staff and feel the heat of India for the first time.

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