It appears to be the done thing to have a 90 minute nap in the afternoon, to recover from arduous mornings of walking around at a snail's pace and catching the sun slightly. Zzz… At 10am we convened with Romana, our guide on the island, along with two Irish journalists, Michael and Yvette, to be shown around the various churches, museums and 4,000 flipflop shops of Anacapri, the smaller of the two towns here. The first museum was the villa of Axel Munthe, a Swedish doctor who apparently wrote a bestselling semi-autobiographical novel about the island – the Year In Provence of its time, it seems – which none of us had read. I felt culturally shamed. Which of course prompts a poll, to assess just how thinly-read I am:

Axel received a beautiful bronze statue from the local government of Naples, as thanks for the work he did curing sick people for free. I'm wondering if I worked for free, whether I'd end up getting a beautiful bronze statue from someone before I had my flat re-possessed for non-payment of the mortgage. Probably not.

From here we were whisked around the corner to a chairlift, which had been correctly flagged up by as potentially frightening. We watched elderly German tourists being scooped up by chairs and carried out of sight as they dangled from a threadbare wire, a Python-esque scene which caused much mirth, until it was my turn. As my seat came up behind me, I sat in it too hard, causing it to rock back and forth alarmingly, and threatening to spill me onto a couple who were quietly lunching in their back garden. The subsequent journey was spent with me clutching onto the “safety bar” which kept me in my seat (actually a woefully thin piece of metal looking something like a prehistoric knitting needle) – not that I needed any urging to stay sat down. At every second I was looking straight downwards, thinking, well, if disaster struck now, would I survive? When I was about 5m above some dense bushes, I was reasonably happy; when 20m above jagged boulders I was much less so. If I'm going to die, I don't want to be impaled. Especially now that Vlad's not around, I consider impalation one of the less likely ways for a young man to meet his maker. Anyway, here's the proof that I did it (in your face,

When at the top, I somehow supposed that there would be an alternative way of getting down, but no, I had to deal with the fact that I was about to do it all again, but in the other direction. Which spoilt my enjoyment of views like this, which to be honest I'm becoming depressingly blasé about:

When all I can see are stunningly sculpted cliffs, blue skis and even bluer seas, I forget that it's a temporary state of affairs, and come next week my most remarkable view of the world of nature will be watching a city fox ripping a bin bag to shreds outside my flat, emerging trumphantly with a half-eaten box of KFC. OK. I promise to take more notice. Just no more pictures.

Jenny are I are slightly embarrassed at the fact that we've been assigned to stay in a 5* deluxe hotel, while the Irish couple are stuck in a 4* hotel down the road and are having trouble sleeping as the walls are paper thin and there is a malfunctioning cistern on the other side of the wall next to their bed. We, on the other hand, have perfect soundproofing, and are allowed 2 meals in the extremely swanky restuarant downstairs, one of which we had last night, while the Irish couple were sent to a pizzeria and then told by a brusque waiter that they weren't actually allowed to have any pizza. Such is our guilt at this lop-sided balance between our living conditions and theirs, that I felt like offering to swap. But of course I won't. Life rarely offers pleasures such as these.

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There's a store next to the hotel selling expensive clothing and various highly polished wooden objects, which, when we went in, had approximately 2 customers and about 32 staff. This 16:1 ratio is also applicable in the post office just off Tooting High Street, but the other way around. Royal Mail, take note. I don't prefer it your way.