St. Moritz is a lovely resort village. Or so I’m told. Sadly, I spent much of my time swilling-out Squiffy’s previous meals from a catering-sized yoghurt pot, as she suffered a migraine with hyperventilation with [suspected] altitude sickness in the Youth Hostel, which was across the pond from the town.

Shame, poor Squiffy — after sitting on a train for six hours, all she got to see of St. Moritz was the inside of a yoghurt pot.
Shame, poor doctor — pre-yoghurt pot, Squiffy was sick onto his hand.

To compound matters further–and after a sleepless night organising doctors, pharmaceuticals, etc.–I misread the return train times on our tickets and got us to the station forty-one minutes after the last direct train to Brig had departed. Three train changes and seven hours later, I’m pleased to tell you that we were back in Brig, gobbling McDonalds happy meals just prior to taking refuge in a quiet spot off the road for the night, i.e. the back of an all-night car wash.

(PS: Squiffy has fully recovered now. The doctor, however, is still traumatised.)