Wright Thompson: LONDON — After the torture of eight disconnected hours, the plane lands at Heathrow. We’re still rolling when I turn on both phones, hitting refresh on my email, burning at the twirling wheel. Effing phone and its thinking. The messages finally arrive but won’t load. I curse all the way to passport control trying not to run into people as I scan emails and texts. Immigration officer No. 1268 waves me down to the right.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“The Test match between England and India,” I answer.
“When does it start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“When does it end?”
“Monday.”
“Why does it last so long?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “It just does.”
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