Linda and I spent a torrid morning applying for our Iranian visas. We were told we needed letters of introduction from our embassy, and then they lost our passports. In the end, Joe, Rhonda, and Linda set off down to Swindon, and I remained in London, booked onto the 4pm bus to try and sort things out.
Back at the Iranian embassy, our passports had been found and were handed over. I set off to take them round to New Zealand House, but got on the wrong District Line train and ended up at West Brompton, so I gave up the quest and made my way back over to Victoria Coach Station.
The trip down to Swindon took two hours, the first hour or so of which was spent getting out of London. As we sped along through the Berkshire countryside, wreathed in a blue haze of smoke and heat, with Pink Floyd beating inside my head, I reflected, looking down into passing cars, that doing so was like a quick peek through a window into someone’s house, a sort of instantaneous glimpse into another person’s private life.
CurseOfTheTraveller 