We've been back nearly three weeks now. India seems like a long, distant and happy memory, washing elephants a dream, the wild Arabian Sea a figment of my imagination and the vivid colours of the sari's and tropical flowers fading as I write.
P is actually glad to be home, very much preferring Cheerios for breakfast over a chickpea curry and deep fried puri. A is asking where we are going next and is living up to the auspicious travelling mole on her foot. Life has returned to its busy routine, the weeks speeding by so much faster than when we travel. Cramming so many new and exciting experiences into our lives when we are away gives the illusion of time slowing to a much more manageable pace.
We are always wobbled by travel, him and I, always scheming of ways we can live abroad again. Sussex, as nice as it is in summer, has very rarely felt like home, it feels like a place we are passing through - albeit very slowly.
It is time to write about the everyday again, finding the magic in the small things and penning accomplishments and disappointments, because I am sure that travel bores people.
"They didn't ask many questions when I read out my India diary!" A told me, disappointed that her 'show and tell' wasn't as exciting as Lily's guinea pigs.
So I explained that writing a diary was to record her own feelings and experiences and that it was for her to look back on and remember. A good lesson was learned I think, picking up on her class's inertia, she closed the chapter on India while we all look forward to the next foreign adventure.