Poppy seeds and codeine.

We arrive at Dubai airport at some ungodly hour of the morning. They pretend that it is breakfast time, but as we all know, airlines manipulate flight times and time zones partially to avoid having to give you extra meals, but mainly just to hurt your mind.

Given that our buggy is in some baggage handling system, we are locomotive-less, but Emirates have thought of this and provide buggies for use in the airport. Isla is very pleased. Dubai International Airport oozes gold stores and all the usual expensive tat that seems necessary these days. We have four hours to kill. It is dull.

There is a moment of mild controversy when I need to change Isla’s nappy. Dubai seems quite keen on segregation of the sexes, so I am unsure whether to wander into a ladies toilet (beheading, surely), or a male toilet? The answer is provided by the unexpected appearance of a female handicapped toilet with a helpful sign “Male assistance is allowed”.

Finally our transfer flight to Bangalore is ready for the off and we leave behind us the oil fuelled building collapsing soufflé that is UAE and head off for a curry.

Arrival at Bangalore is strangely muted. I am expecting searing heat, and hordes of touts tugging at our luggage and dragging us off to road knackered cars, but instead it is clean marble and air conditioning and name badged attendants being helpful and calm and measured. I am almost disappointed. After a slight tussle with an ATM, we are rupeed up and ready to rickshaw (as they do not say). The usual fears emerge:

• if it is 67 rupees to the pound how quickly will I lose track of the zeroes?
• have I just been ripped off for that taxi ride?
• will everyone steal my luggage as I get in, or get out of the taxi?
• how many bits of luggage am I supposed to have now?
• should I tip the taxi driver?
• if Einstein issued three papers in 1905 (special relativity, the existence of atoms as shown by Brownian motion, and something about the photoelectric effect) whilst working as a patent clerk, how come I cannot be organised enough to pack enough pants?

We find a vehicle to accommodate our seemingly increasingly sized luggage (I suspect our packing fraction has decreased), and off we plunge into the outskirts of Bangalore. With a population of 6m and growing alarmingly quickly, Bangalore, (or Bengaluru as she has now reverted), apparently means ‘Town of Boiled Beans’ (says the underinspired Lonely Planet), although these beans are not in evidence. What is in evidence, however, are the cars, and the swerving and diving, ducking and jiving that is Indian traffic. I had forgotten. The trick is to detach your retina (figuratively) and remember that you are not in control of the vehicle. There is nothing you can do about it. Be calm. Breathe. And brace occasionally.

Church Street Inn (just off the Mahatma Ghandi road) has received my various emails and has a room for us which is fine. It has aircon (a blessed release) and we set up the room with the kids’ travel tents hovering on blankets.

We eat at Koshy’s, and I have a chicken Biryani. The immediate problem with the kids and food comes out of the woodwork. They are not keen on spicy food. They eat bits of bread.

It’s hot. Really hot. And I wonder how we will cope with this heat for four months.

The kids are proving a big hit with the ladies on the table next to us, and there is lots of cooing and offering of hands and smiling. The kids look bemused. They do not get this level of attention in Pizza Express.

I clock my first wobbly head, and it is a good one.

And so to bed. Isla soundly rejects her tent. She sleeps on our bed. Not a good start.