While I’m on the topic, Copenhagen really is all that. It’s very gingerbread: colourful and wooden, with no shortage of charm and baked good varieties.

For some night-time entertainment, the place to go is Tivoli, the world’s oldest amusement park. It’s pretty magical – rides, fireworks, parades – but the problem is that where there are rides, there is the spawn of Satan.

Kids, I mean. I’ve never been good with them. In fact they tend to cry whenever I enter a room, or at the very least, fling soft toys at my head. One night in Tivoli, travelling about with a friend, I got distracted by the pretty lights and sparkly things and wandered off a bit. Suddenly I found myself cornered by a band of miniature Danes in a dark section somewhere between a rollercoaster and the three-legged woman caravan.

They can’t have been more than five, with chocolate smears around their mouths and clutching big wads of fairy floss in their greasy little paws. I was terrified. I sidled to my left, looking for means of escape. They eyed me up and down and sidled cunningly to their right, blocking my path.

And then all of a sudden one of them was upon me, latched onto my leg with a vice-like grip, wailing in a high pitched squeal ‘Og mog tog reg sig ag glug!!!’ or some such. Then she looked tearfully up into my blank face as I said ‘erm?’ At this she drew a big shaky, chocolatey breath and wailed again, this time in English - ‘Are you my mummy?’

It was unfathomable – well bright enough to address me in a foreign language yet not so as to clock on that I hadn’t, in fact, bred her.

Meanwhile, the other three were trying to scale my legs like I was some sort of climbing frame. But I was prepared to defend my gelato with my life. I had five scoops of peppermint on that thing.