I’ll also remember the view over the huge bay at Mumbai; Nagpur and its heat and kites and grim English determination; Mohali and the surreal day it all slipped away from Flintoff’s team in an otherworldy din; and Delhi, where friendly locals daubed my face with colours as I made my way to the airport during the festival of colours, Holi.

As it turned out, memories were not all I took away. While making my way home on the No. 35 bus to Clapham Junction, I noticed that I was getting a few queer looks. Which was hardly surprising given that the other passengers were looking at a bedraggled journalist with a head still smeared in yellow and purple paint. Suddenly I remembered. The Holi festival. Best wash my face.