Coming home from holiday is always a bit of a shock; especially when it involves startling awake in a congested, droning metal tube, improbably suspended in the night sky 30000 feet above the Siberian tundra and convinced that—at any moment—the spaceship is about to crash to Earth.
But coming back from Thailand is more than that. Awakening is not followed by relief. The colours dancing in my head on the National Express bus home did not settle down to the surrounding vista of grey, followed by a mild pang of regret.
It’s not a question of putting some jerk chicken in the oven or going out for a curry and turning the radio to the Asian Network. I’m turning my entire kitchen over because I want to recapture those smells. I can’t let go of them.
Coming back from Thailand is heartbreaking.
Consider this: of the fifty countries I have visited, Thailand is the only one I keep coming back to for reasons unrelated to work, family or the constraints of a package holiday. And that was before I had a better reason to consider it.
John is the same. The proximity of the Red Sea is the only thing that placates him (it looks like I’ll have to take up diving again!)
One thing is for sure: we will be back!