I'm writing this now so I don't forget any detail. There's so much to remember - the way the world looked, the things I thought, how I felt.

I stumbled off the plane onto Heathrow airport some time around 12.00pm Thursday. The 16 hours it took to get from KL to London felt  like we were passing through a subatomic plane where time and space doesn't matter and everything you love is so far removed from reality you can't remember what they were before you got on. I honestly felt like I was going to die on my seat.

But then the plane started tilting downwards and a voice interrupted my movie to announce that we'd be arriving shortly, and it was like time took off again and all those countless leg cramps, bouts of nausea, deathly annoying half-sleeps and abrupt awakenings suddenly felt worth it. This was it. I was going to go to a country I had dreamed of visiting since my first episode of Doctor Who.

The van that picked us up from our airport was parked in the airport basement which meant we'd have to cross a road to get to it. My first step breathing in London air.

Aaaaaaand it was...like Genting? The sun was up and the weather was chilly, sure, but I have to admit I was sort of let down.

We loaded our things into the two vans allotted for the ten of us - including Qastury, our perky PR girl with the occasional bitch tendency - then I borrowed a lighter from one of the other journalists and lit up a cigarette.

Behind the van there was a short flight of stairs where, framed between two cement walls and the basement ceiling, you could see a patch of sky, a ribbon of road, a line of bare-branched trees and a green swatch of slope. Even now I see it in my head, clear as the surprisingly sunny day it had been. I walked up the stairs and had my smoke there.

The drive to Kensington took 20 to 30 minutes. It was like that one time when I was five and my parents took me to Universal Studios, Florida where we sat on a tram slowly coursing through iconic movie sets. One of the sets was an abandoned western town. This was like that. Through the windows of our van, every house looked like it belonged in a Breakfast at Tiffany's or Mary Poppins movie set. The architecture was exquisite, with wooden window panes, stone steps, glass doors, and exposed brickface on every - EVERY - single building. I don't know if there's a law involved, but it looked like all the buildings had to have their bricks exposed for some reason. I loved it.

Wen and I went to buy sim cards for the duration of our stay at a Vodaphone outlet on High Street. Whilst we were waiting for our turn, I fiddled around with the line of phones they had on sale - most of which came out in Malaysia last year. Say what you want about Britain, but their technological availability is pretty shit. 500 MB of data cost us 10 pounds, so that's RM60 give or take. I tried not to convert the figures in my head but it was too late.

After that I sat at a cafe with my RM24 (DOLT) sandwich and RM18 mocha (which isn't that bad actually) and sat outside to smoke and watch people pass by. I bummed a lighter from an overly friendly Iranian woman who seemed alright except for the fact that she thought Hudud was the best thing in the world.

After 20 minutes of nodding and smiling, I made an excuse and take off while we were still on amicable terms. I walked down High Street, exhaled smoke without smoking and felt my face prickle from the cold. The shops all looked warm and tempting, but after a while they faded into the movie set that was London. Clothing store, clothing store, patisserie, cafe, patisserie, make-up shop, another make-up shop, another clothing boutique.

I went inside the church of St. Mary, sat on a pew, admired the infrastructure and echoing silence, before heading back out to walk past more clothing stores, patisseries, and cosmetics shops.

Then I came across a neon sign on a very narrow shop saying Dirty Bones, with two neon-lit bones in a pirate's cross. It was so narrow there was only enough space for a staircase leading downwards, lit by more red neon lights. At the bottom of the steps were two doors, one of which was locked. Spilling from the other door was a groovy rock-and-roll funk. I pushed my way in.

It was instantly warm and cozy looking. To my left was a row of high benches and tables by a mirror-wall, to my left a long lounge with about four or five small tables. At the end of the room was the bar; the other end, the kitchen. Sitting on the lounge at the table closest to the bar was Jake. Only then I didn't know his name. All I knew was how handsome he looked, sitting hunched over a book on his table, writing.

I bought a drink for five pounds and  asked if I could sit on the seat beside him. He looked young, clean and lanky. His hair was a tousled brown and he had on pinstriped slacks and a long sleeved shirt. No jacket in sight.  I asked him, "What are you writing?"

He grinned and it was sweet. "Just random stuff. Things that pop into my head. Song lyrics."

"Oh cool you're the artsy kind," I said. Why did I say that? He gave me a weird look. "I meant that in the best way possible," I backtracked "Did I sound sarcastic? I totally did not mean to sound sarcastic."

"I'll take it as a compliment."

We went on talking for the rest of the time I had. He was a musician, a history student, a young boy with a taste for old music and movies. Basically, every hipster girl's dream. But I didn't care, he was cute, held my hands after we smoked in the cold, and had the sweetest dreamboat smile. I was in a foreign land thousands of kilometers away from home and a boyfriend I didn't love anymore but wasn't sure what to do with. Of course i was going to flirt.

We walked back to my hotel in the cold London air and said goodbye at the fork in front of it. My cheeks were flushed from the cocktails I had.

"Will I see you again?" I asked.

"Sure, just add my Facebook," he said. He hadn't given me his full name. So that was a No.