- Hang on, I think I've been here before -

I could think of better ways to spend 13 hours than sandwiched between two frumpy and grumpy old farts ( who, to be fair, were probably thinking of better ways to spend 13 hours than seated next to some young punk ), with little more than 50 square centimetres within which to move your legs, in Economy Class. The conversation between us was about as dry as the Kalahari - we made bleedin' Frankenstein's monster look talkative. So much for the much-vaunted (delusional, yes.) return of the prodigal son. That being said, at least I had lovely ( I swear, the way I'm using these words, I'm going to start wearing pink soon. oh waaaait... ) company on my way back to London, provided by Messrs Carrey, De Niro, Pacino, Hoffman, Stiller, Blanchett, DiCaprio, BECKINSALE et al, ad nauseum. Had a friend on my flight too, but we sat apart.

And then the inevitable trek from the obscurity of Heathrow Airport (newly voted Worst Airport Ever by JB Mag, April 2005), from which it takes at least an hour to get to anywhere anyone would want to get to. And that includes a self-respecting toilet.

Intelligently enough, I'd left Singapore in 2 layers, both about as thin as paper - my, and it only took me one hour of leaving the plane to rue my decision! Fancy that. The gust of wind that greeted me on the escalator up to Holborn tube station eliminated the need for my latest appointment with my surgeon for a facelift. Baptism of fire, they say. If only.

As if all that wasn't proof enough, 243 took forever to come, so there I was shivering like Ozzy on dope, wondering if my arm was white from its lack of exposure to the sun or because that is the colour your body parts turn shortly before they become detached from you. It has now been proven that nipples CAN cut glass, after all.

So it's official: I'm back in London. Precisely 7 weeks today. The shivering isn't from the cold now.