Kathmandu is a hell-hole. But as hell-holes go, it’s fascinating. Smelly, dirty, crowded, noisy, polluted and utterly fascinating. After the perfect peace and quiet of the foothills, the city batters my senses from all sides. Goodness only knows how I’m going to cope back in London—except that London doesn’t have scabby cows wandering down the middle of Oxford Street or mad, one-legged men in orange robes chasing unsuspecting tourists with the hope of a few spare coins. Some things are similar to London—there is gridlocked traffic, but it’s a mixture of ancient cars, creaking buses, tut-tut taxis, rickshaws, bikes, wandering animals and multi-hued backpackers. This might be a gentle introduction to life back in the big city smoke—from paradise to purgatory—but I’m still not exactly looking forward to my imminent return to civilisation.

I can’t believe how quickly my time in Nepal has passed and now it’s almost time to leave and I can hardly bear to think about it. Under Dean’s expert tutelage the group had some rest and recuperation in Pokhara, then we spent two days white-water rafting on the boiling waters of the Trisuli River before flying to Jomsom and trekking some more in the Kingdom of Mustang in the Inner Himalaya. I feel as if I’ve really gone native in my time away. My body is toned and tanned—but only the bits you’re allowed to expose. I’ve got freckles on my nose in lieu of make-up and hands the colour of mahogany. My hair is bleached by the sun instead of chemical highlights and I can’t remember when I last plucked my eyebrows, even though I did bring my tweezers. Edie would be proud of me! My sandals have long lost their pristine look and are as dusty and battered as the rest of me. I’ve got hard skin on my feet for the first time in years. I’m also wearing a floaty, kaftan-type dress, the sort that I ridiculed Saffron for and the sort that I wouldn’t be seen dead in at home. The sort that went out of style in the late 1960s. It’s big and billowy and covers me from my head to my feet. It has all the sartorial elegance of a Boy Scout’s marquee. And guess what? I don’t give a stuff and I feel great.