Nose, grindstone. Grindstone, nose.

I'm back at work.

You'd think that 24 hours travelling spread over 3 days would engender some long, thoroughly philosophical inner debate about something important. The western world's preoccupation with pursuit of money as opposed to actual happiness perhaps; the themes of wartime responsibility and reconciliation suggested in An Artist Of The Floating World maybe, or simply a re-evaluation of my goals in life after a fortnight spent among snow-capped alpine peaks.

But no. Mainly I was squinting through the gaps between the seats on whatever mode of transport - airliner, bus, or train - in which I was then ensconced to see if the girl over there really was hot.