The jolt and shudder of the craft touching down woke him abruptly. The rubber on stone producing a small shriek of resistance to the arrival of the visitors contained within. He soon stepped out of the dim artificial light of the hull into the brilliant late afternoon sun. A wave of seering heat washed over him, immediately making him feel inappropriately dressed and ill prepared.

After a lengthy immigration process of queues and stamps and visas and taxes, he stepped out into the hustle of porters and taxi drivers, who amiably yet persistently blocked his path with offers of service. A distinctly alien black umbrella shot up on the horizon, waggling with little control or concern and Roy heard a familiar voice shouting “Over here old chap” and “come here you old scoundrel”.

He worked his way through the crowds and was greeted by the amazing sight of his old friend batting aside the locals with his bowler and umbrella. The last time he had seen him they had been in far less favourable company.