The scenery around Lake Geneva looks like nothing so much as an unfinished painting, because the clouds hide the bulk of the French Alps from view, meaning there seems to be a whole row of mountain peaks just floating about in the middle of the sky.

It really is a spectacular area though, if a little culturally confused - the Swiss can’t seem to decide if they’re French, German or Italian, so they’ve ended up like the rebellious little kid of Europe: making everyone change currency to go there is mildly irritating, but the fact that they use different electrical outlets to the rest of Europe is pure petulance (think trying to plug in a hair-straightener in a hostel with the most demented outlets you’ve ever seen).

But, like everywhere else in Europe, every person with hands and a mouth is smoking - Sherlock Holmes pipes hanging out of the mouths of taxi drivers, even motorbike riders squeezing their fags out through their helmet visors.

It isn’t long before we’re napping by a fountain, despite the cold, only to be woken by the sound of a jet engine approaching. It’s a mutant bee. Lozz stirs drowsily in her sleep and we other three freeze in unison, hoping it will forget we’re there and take its leave. ‘Lozz - don’t move. Don’t move…don’t move…’ But it only circled closer and closer, until - ‘MOOOOOOVE!!!!!!!’ I’ve never seen a person move so fast.