Whose idea was this blog !! How do we write anything of interest to such different people with such different interests in what we are doing? Is it going to be a cross between one of those long Christmas letters from someone you hardly know and the compulsory viewing of somebody else's holiday snaps?

Well, we'll start with first impressions of Kathmandu. What life is normal for the children who we'll meet tomorrow.

We find our contact at the airport. He throws garlands round our necks. Launch straight in to Kathmandu traffic in rush hour. We drive on the left most of the time but on the right when the left is blocked, avoiding oncoming traffic. Horns blare continuously. It's the dry season so the over-riding impression is dust; clouds of it, on everything, and fumes. We dive into a labyrinth of dirt roads, vast potholes, jaywalkers, tiny taxis, dogs, bikes, carts, rickshaws, piles of rubbish and rubble, trees, electricity poles, market stalls, a small temple in middle of a junction, women sitting round a wood fire in the traffic, police on point duty serving no apparent purpose. A cow eats something on a pile of rubbish and we look, in vain, for a blade of grass. A girl pushes her dirty nose against the car window wanting us to buy what seem to be sticker sheets. A girl in immaculate school uniform of dark green blazer, red tartan skirt, white socks walks calmly in the middle of the road. A Berkhamsted School girl? Almost, but as she walks past we see that her blazer is covered in dust. On through the chaotic city of random ramshackle buildings, tight, narrow, twisty streets to our hotel.

It's 7pm. Do we eat or sleep? We sleep.

We wake at 7am. Good breakfast. Our waiter is doing a degree in demography (What!) and works to pay his college fees. When he graduates there will be no work for him. Is he pessimistic or realistic? He didn't understand 'being retired'. "Only government people stop work before they die".

We venture forth and thrust ourselves into the throng, on foot, jostling along narrow streets of the tourist area. We walk in the traffic. Where else? There are no pavements. Shops sell tourist tat - pashminas ,jewellery, brass, etc. To cross wider roads we copy the locals. Just go. Cars will swerve, stop or hoot - or all three. Walk on but if we stop we are immediately accosted by sellers of trinkets, a beggar, a dog that sits at your feet and looks up pleading for a bit of rotten meat you may be carrying, a taxi or rickshaw driver who tells you you're lost but he'll take you.

Next day, the old town is more like real life. Life and work are the same. Tiny shops and stalls spread into the road, selling, mending and making things of every description. Fantastic 12th century buildings survive with their ornate woodwork. Temples and stupas are everywhere and down every alley.

We move into our flat in a residential area out of the centre and that is different again - just apartment blocks and rubbish and dust and the bus park and repair yard next door. We are in with the Nepalis and we watch their world go by from our window. Street vendors carry panniers of lettuce, tomatoes, etc and shout their wares. How much can they earn just selling that all day? Children kick a football. Dogs and a goat. Two women mix cement in the middle of the road. Men stand around. More dogs. Repairing buses involves a lot of revving, banging and shouting but mostly just standing about. And always motorbikes.

Twenty minutes walk back to town for a meal as local restaurants involve sitting on the ground outside and we don't fancy what's being dolloped out from those large steaming pots. There's only electricity for 10 hours a day and our generator doesn't work. It's pitch, pitch black by 7pm so Kath reads her kindle and I type up notes by candle light.

A picture tells a thousand words so look at ours for a million. They're not meant to be critical or sarcastic but just looking at typical life around us.

We've had a good two days. All that we expected and a complete change from home. How much of Kathmandu life have we seen? 5%? 10%? The people are all very nice and we don't feel at all threatened. Even the pesterers who get our brush-off usually leave with a smile. We think of the dreadfully deformed woman with awful sores sitting in the gutter with her begging bowl opposite The Garden of Dreams. What is the future for 'our children' who we will meet tomorrow? A garden of dreams?