We boarded in a slowly moving queue, with a chattering four year old entertaining the crowds. It was simply a question of being told where we should be going, and then ending up there.
The clogs act like a time machine, unifying the strands of the holidays. Everyone ends up in them or on them at some point: it’s ubiquitous.
I looked out of the window of Swamp Castle and told her that, one day, all of this would be hers. No reply.
It’s often a battle getting my child to eat, so what she needs are distractions. Yeah.
Montreux itself is nothing like the Switzerland you’d expect: there are no chocolate box chalets here, no rolling verdant landscapes, no snow-capped mountains.
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.