I've lost track of time and space.
It began on Friday. At 4am I blearily greeted the taxi and was driven to the airport. I shuffled about the departure lounge in the manner of a lost soul and wondered why none of the concessionaries were open while I waited for the boarding gate to open. My sole recollections of the flight consist of making use of something called a 'Refreshing Wipe' following the compulsory sandwich British Airways insists on throwing at their passengers regardless of flight length and feeling as though someone had dragged my face through nettles. I know I'm a bit kinky and all, but I don't think even I would consider slapping my face with stinging nettles as refreshing.
The other recollection was the pilot landing so hard that I'm convinced he was aiming for Australia.
By 11am I was leaving Geneva on a train bound for a glacier. At 4pm I was in another train that climbed a mountain so high that the change of air pressure inflated a tube of hair gel which, when I opened it, exploded into the mirror in a manner that looked as though I'd sneezed over it. Or done something worse.
At 5pm I did a 25 minute presentation.
At 7am on Saturday I was on a train back to Geneva and then home again by 4pm.
At 6am on Sunday, First-Born and I set off for EuroDisney.
And right now I'm typing this in the EuroDisney New York hotel, a somewhat optimistic interpretation of the Big Apple, replete with an outdoor ice rink in (which, in true Euro-crapness, melted today because someone in the hotel turned it off by leaning on the switch and no-one realised until a guest pointed out that it resembled a paddling pool rather than an entertaining way of crippling oneself. I kid you not.)
