I get this creeping feeling that I moan too much.
I moan about work, and I moan about always being on aeroplanes. I moan about people coming to visit me and I moan that people don't visit. I moan too much. I think.
Anyway, I've decided that I'm going to brighten up my outlook and seek out the positive, ignore the negative. From now on, this will be a sunny blog, a happy place, the kind of place that will make you smile when you visit.
But before I get too carried away, can I just tell you about Friday...
I tried to get up early, but really couldn't. So by the time I left the house to drive to Geneva and catch my plane I was already verging on the late. I was heading to Holland for a weekend of non-stop alcohol-fuelled glamour, but more of that to come.
My car is parked on the zigzag street that climbs the hill behind my house. Well, I say 'is parked'. I should say 'was parked'.
Unbeknownst to my lovely self, the local council had decided that they would resurface the road and so all cars needed to be moved. By tow truck. To the city pound.
So, I call the police. 'Have you got my car?'. Apparently it's nothing to do with them. They put me on to the pound directly. I call them and they say that, yes, they do have my car and yes, I can come and collect it and yes, I do need to bring money with me. How much, say I. One hundred and twenty euros, say they. Jesus wept, say I.
An hour later (I kid not) my taxi arrives and I head off for the pound. Taxi takes me to the wrong pound, despite me giving him the full address. He thought I'd got the address wrong, bless him, and was only 'being helpful'.
I get my car back, once the pound has decided that they will accept payment by card after all, but the price is now 160 euros. I ask why it has gone up and they say that it 'just has' and offer no more explanation.
I fail to find the strength to argue and just get in my my car and head to Geneva.
By this stage I have obviously missed my original flight by a country mile. So I fork out 300 francs - 200 euros - for a seat on a later flight. I sit down in the fancy lounge and eye the whisky bottle in a most unhealthy manner. Unfortunately I'm picking up a car at the other end, so numbing the pain will have to wait.
I take my seat on the plane, close my eyes and sleep.
I wake up in Holland and breathe a sigh of relief. The only thing keeping me going is the knowledge that a gin and tonic isn't too far away.
Lord help me, I've never needed a drink so badly...