The true value of a 'bestie' ...

On the Florence - Milan Frecciarossa high speed train (and what a lovely piece of engineering that is, she says as she removes her anorak) a couple of young women sat across from me at the table. One immediately burst into tears and a long Italian conversation ensued wherein Bestie reassured her friend that it was all his fault (I don’t speak Italian but some things don’t require translation).

Bestie dried Crying Girl’s eyes and then realised that her makeup was now looking rather ramshackle. Out came the travel box of makeup complete with at least two dozen shades of eye shadow, four blushes, several lip glosses and foundation, and for the next half an hour Bestie reapplied Crying Girl’s makeup while all the time soothingly reassuring her that it was still all his fault. By the time we reach Milan happiness, along with eyeliner, was restored to its full glory.

The trouble with being la végétarienne ... and other current French troubles.

There is not much that I don't love about France, except foie gras. But it's hard to love a country when they start charging you for being vegetarian. It's not like there's a shortage of cheese in France that they can't just throw a slice on the plate! So as I make preparations for the summer's Pyrenean walking I fully expect, Refuge Marialles, for my €3 extra supplement, some extra quality vegetables.

Je suis aussi un peu annoyed that I had to fly home from Milan yesterday instead of taking my beloved tren de nuit. The rolling SNCF strikes finally caught up with me, and while I admire French militancy in the face of attempts by anyone to curtail the long lunch, I will never forgive them for making me fly into City Airport. This landing involves descending sharply through thick cloud with zero visibility until popping out next to the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf, thinking ‘ummm do we have enough clearance over the Excel Centre’, but before being able to worry too much about that getting buffeted by wind shear off the Thames and  bouncing all the way down the runway into a reverse park at the terminal. I could, however, spend hours sitting on the DLR platform watching the prop planes swaying across the tarmac as they come into land, marvelling at how flight really is an amazing feat of engineering, or an unnatural act of magic (and where did I put my anorak).