It's a funny feeling, being homesick, and it's not one I'm used to.

I was at boarding school when I was a ten-year-old and am quite accustomed to being away from home, but I have two homes, and I'm in the wrong one - the English one!

My mother phoned me yesterday from Ooty, full of happiness and enjoying the company and friendliness of the people as well as the perfect weather.

Their car broke down last Friday morning on the Gudalur to Ooty road.  They were about eight miles from town when the gearbox (or something of equal mystery to me) went wrong.  It was early in the morning and a Jeep, travelling in the opposite direction, stopped to offer help.

The Jeep driver and his two colleagues were on their way to work, but they kindly drove my parents the eight miles home, and no doubt arrived late for work.

This sort of thing rarely happens in England, but in S. India such generosity and kindness is commonplace.

My parents also met Bridget, our friend who was sadly widowed last year.  They will go to see her in Wellington; they will also be visiting friends at the Madras Regimental Centre, and my father will be immersed in his Masonic interests.

I'm feeling homesick.