I have been in Switzerland for a week. At this point you say (I’m not sure why) ‘How lovely!’ and i say ‘yeah, it was alright’ and seem very ungrateful. I’m not ungrateful, it was very nice of the pilot to fly me to another country and for the Swiss to let me in, despite all the expensive stuff they’ve got and my propensity to break/steal. However i think holiday snaps are very revealing documents of a holiday and the highlight of ours are a photo of a bird standing next to a fag butt like he’s just stubbed it out (you have to see it really..) and various blurry photos of pleasant scenery viewed from a high-speed punctual train.

Switzerland is clean, neat, punctual and quite dull. It is exactly how a country would be if my Mum ruled it. I checked the currency for her face. To be honest, i might’ve done that anyway, i missed them quite a lot, which worried me. I’ve now realised how easy it is to slide into a situation where i’m 36, calling them Mummy and Pop pops and STILL LIVING WITH THEM. In the interests of striving for some sort of emotional normalcy i resolve i mustn’t love them too much. I have to keep them at a distance. I know this sounds like some sort of dating philosophy now. Perhaps i’ll edit out all the sex and then apply The Rules to them? We’ll call this idea Plan B for now.

They’re out tonight and the house is hurting me. I always argue with Dad’s theory that Central Heating Is For Wimps. I assert that maybe it is so, but i have never pretended i wasn’t a wimp, so PLEASE TURN THE DIAL YOU MENTAL I CAN’T FEEL MY NOSE! I’ve been staging a protest against the cold for a month by spending a lot of time in bed, working in bed, relaxing in bed, getting dressed in bed… Yes, you’ve guessed it, i’ve just given my normal everyday activities the veneer of a moral high ground. I have a brilliant time, and i seem political. Hurray. But Dad has cruelly fiddled with the boiler, it would seem, as i am sweltering in the house. I’m not allowed to touch….well, anything, so i’m just riding this out with sweatbands on each wrist (it’s nice to get a chance to wear them) and hoping they’re not trying to cook me. They are trying lots of new hobbies, let’s hope when Dad put his foot down at swing-dancing Mum didn’t compromise with ‘Human Flesh and simple daily recipes.’

I’ve got to go, i dropped them off at their mates’ house earlier and i’ve got to go get them now. I hope they’ve had a nice time, when i left them Dad already seemed bored, he was staring at a napkin on his knee like he hoped it was a Magic Eye. Mum was nibbling on a Wasabi Pea with a look of terror on her face (“Honestly Hilary, I don’t think it’s food, check the packet!’) She had set off clutching the url to my website because, she announced, they were all going to read my blog this evening. Given that she’s already lived 95% of what i’ve written about and won’t give a shit about the other 5% because, in her own words, “I’m not in these bits!?” this sounds like a properly terrible way to spend an evening. And i speak as someone who has spent it being lightly broiled.

NB We did see a Swiss roll. It was a child, and I’m fairly sure it was Swiss, but demanding to know someone’s nationality can often seem a bit arsey, particularly if they’ve just fallen over and you and your boyfriend have yelled ‘SWISS ROLL!’ and laughed until you made unlovable honking noises.