Nothing becomes a place like the leaving of it. This was Hampstead Heath at its twinkly best, right before a sheet of Saharan sand settled, turning the sky terracotta, apricot, peach. A storm without and a mild turbulence within: which of us will be sick with longing to be back here first? Will it make it better or worse that we don’t have a home to come back to? How long before I can get a decent cup of tea?
Aaaah bollocks to all that. It’s been a long time coming, this trip. There’ve been conversations, schemes, parties, tears and a few tantrums. The contents of the Milton Keynes Amazon warehouse have been transferred to our rental house, in a slow-motion rock-fall of boxes, including a 3kg bag of Chupa Chups to give to the children at the school in Paro, Bhutan, that we’re visiting in a week. Wonder how many there’ll be left by then? It’s a blessed relief that we’re now in the Uber and en route to Terminal Five.
Big love to all who wished us well. An overnighter in a tube of farts and nuked tray dinners awaits. Then it’s Delhi. And Diwali. And the start of our 6 month adventure.