"What is the nature of your visit, sir?"

The passport control had a friendly English accent. The type that required a candid answer. "I'm doing the Mongol Rally," I blurted out, before I had time to remember the traveler's mantra of only using one-word answers with border guards. "Pleasure."

Pleasure. I guess that describes the intent of my trip. Kind of. More accurately, I would have said adventure. But the key words here are pleasure and business. Only one can even remotely describe the Mongol Rally.

"Indeed, sir?"

I swear passport control raised his eyebrows in exactly the same way Jeeves would have when young Bertram decided to wear a white dinner jacket, Madras pants, and a pink polo shirt to dinner.

"I have not heard of that, sir. Where are you going to?"

"Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes, I have a Fiat Panda. We're doing the Mongol Rally," damn the rules, this event is so awesome, every border guard deserves to know about it. "You should Google it when you get home, sir."

The border guard looked at me. Smiled wryly, looking as if he thought that one more mildly insane person in the UK couldn't hurt for 15 days. At least I'd be doing him the favour of leaving and exporting a Fiat Panda.

"Good luck, sir," was his reply, in a dry comedic voice that only a limey could muster.

And I left with a stamped passport.

In other news: London rocks. But more on that, perhaps, in a bit.