Sometimes it appears that the world holds a particular grudge against me personally for no apparent reason. The morning I was to leave Italy, having livin’ la dolce vita’d enough for a good while, was no exception.

My flight back to Zurich was to depart at 9.25 on a Sunday morning. Now: what are the chances of daylight savings falling on that very morning? Probable to high, obviously. And what are the chances of us being aware of that fact? Slim to none.

Of course this unexpected turn of events resulted in my missing the flight and doing what any girl in such a situation (ie. being stranded at an international airport where you don’t speak the language, have meagre finances and no way of contacting anyone due to semi-paralytic German mobile phone and impossibility of Italisn payphones) is wont to due: I threw myself onto the nearest seat and blubbered like a five year old.

Eventually, deciding that the chances of Prince William wandering by at that very moment and rescuing me were slim, especially with my face all splotchy like, I sought out a ticket to Zurich for later in the day.

So in essence, despite all my nervous breakdown-esque melodramatics, I got to chill for a few extra hours, catch up on some reading, belt out a few letters, buy some tacky souvenirs then made the trip back to Zurich without further incident.

And so it was that my first trip to Italy drew to a close, and with the benefit of hindsight, it pleases me greatly that I am now officially one of those totally cultured and slightly up-themselves people who can legitimately claim, ‘Well, when I was in the Italian Alps [insert wanky sentence here]…’