You know you’re back home when you step off the plane into the corrugated terminal corridor only to be blasted by the cold wintery draft declaring your return to England. A bright red underground sign beckons you to your final destination and the swoosh of the tube’s closing doors sends you on your way. You watch as people enter and leave the long Picadilly ride into the centre of town, carefully and politely seating themselves into the empty seats with the subtle efforts of not crossing into the adjacent seats.

I finally get out of my stop, watching as the busy city people rush to and from the tube. It’s certainly not rush hour though that doesn’t stop them from moving around and about at the fast London pace. On the way to my flat, I walk past two or three pubs and even at 3pm, enough people occupy them to not leave the bartenders standing idly.

I drop my bags off, refresh myself and go out for a walk. It’s starting to get dark, reminding me that the warmth and sunny Bangalore disposition lies several thousand miles behind me. I can’t help but smile as the evening lights accentuate the old Victorian buildings around me, and I remember I’m back in London. It’s good to be back.