We descended through six layers of cloud cover before the sprawling metropolis that was London finally appeared. What is that fancy building? That stadium there? Who lives in that row of houses, that cul de sac of Georgian terraces in the flight path?
While taxiing on the tarmac, I note that Heathrow looks like Sydney airport, only five times the size. It is New Years Day. People have better things to do than check-in at airports, so it goes smoothly – only about half an hour wait. I play a game on my Android downloaded expressly for times like this, kicking my carry-on luggage across the floor every time the line progresses.
The signs at immigration warn that you may be extensively questioned about your trip – and if you’re claiming asylum you’d better do it now. I couldn’t think of any reasons to claim asylum (apart from being tired of Australia). I told the subcontinental immigration officer my trip plans and she hardly questioned me at all, simply remarking that I have a quite a long holiday. Imagine the look on Pauline Hanson’s face when, after having fled Australia to escape the Asians, the first person to question her is, in her mind, a curry-munching immigration officer.
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