The sound of joy and laughter fluttered up from the square below; it was utterly infectious.
I am currently sitting on a plane; a few rows behind me, a woman has been talking loudly since she took her seat. She was probably talking loudly long before that. The problem is that she is terrified of flying.
The more I travel, the more I realise that there is no such thing as pristine or perfect. Everything is dirty, decaying and rotten.
An odd quirk of the British in general, but of the English in particular, is our relationship with our flag.
Everyone was lithe and tanned, rich and frolicking. I felt so utterly out of place I found it hard to hide my complete revulsion. I am fat, pale and awkward.
It can take months of searching for the correct flat in the most convenient part of the city we have chosen. That is all well and good, but what if you can’t decide where you want to go?
On my first trip to Iceland, almost ten years ago, I was told in all good faith by elderly Scottish ladies that there were indeed no trees in Iceland.