In less than 24 hours time I will be landing at Geneva. Having endured the tender embrace of EasyJet and its intriguingly orange-painted surly stewards and scowling stewardesses, I will potter into arrivals and seek my contact (who will be the person holding a sign with yet another variation on the spelling of my surname.) This individual will then take me to the chalet, where I will rapidly change into something suitable for throwing myself off a mountain. By early afternoon I'll be making my way timidly onto the chairlift.
It makes trying to do any productive work in the office today just a little tricky. There should be a law to the effect that one is allowed a day off before one's holiday commences owing to the fact that one can't concentrate and is irritating one's coworkers by making ski-like noises every 10 minutes or so.
The thought that this time next week, I'll be embarking on my first day back at work following skiing is sufficiently depressing to offset this euphoria.
Happy Groundhog Day.
