I arrive in Heathrow from Seoul, my home for the last fifteen months, on my way to Belfast, my home for the next two. It's my first time in Europe for over a year. Even in the artificial atmosphere of an international airport, the culture shock hits me. No more signs in Hangeul, no-one speaking Korean. Most people around me as I dash between terminals are the same colour as me. Most of them speak English, or at least Cockney, a close relative of my native tongue.
I pass through security and check-in with a minimum of fuss. All seems normal. Then it's on to Gate 2, our own separate room for Belfast-bound passengers, isolated from other travellers. Usually we have the pleasure of the company of a Special Branch officer but not today. Then I see the TV: "Bombs in London". Looks like the cop is off doing some real work for once.
There's a hushed atmosphere in the room as people take in the scenes of devastation in central London. All of a sudden my little inconveniences - jet-lag, culture shock, gnawing tiredness - seem entirely trivial. Not far from the airport there will be people wailing in grief at the loss of a loved one, utterly inconsolable. There will be dozens lying in hospital beds slowly coming to terms with the fact that, minus an eye or a leg, life will never be the same again.
On the plane I pick up a copy of the London Evening Standard, not usually a favourite of my mind. "Free Today Olympic Souvenir Special" the headline proclaims showing scenes of utter jubilation in Trafalgar Square the previous day. The front-page story focuses on the effect of the International Olympic Commission's decision on the city's house prices. Ah, very London. Today's paper will be very different.
Take-off and back to Belfast. Safe, little Belfast.