“Did you not think of others?” she spits, loudly, “before booking into a QUIET CARRIAGE?”

Wearily, I point out my non-use of  phone, laptop, iPod Touch, Nintendo, Talking Kindle or any other appliance. Of course, I know what her problem is.

“But you have brought CHILDREN in!” she yells.

Honestly, it’s like being confronted by Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’s Baroness of Vulgaria. Who, you will recall, was allergic to “ZE CHEEELDREN!”.

I apologise, explain that it’s all the fault of Trainline.com and promise we will be like mice. “I just want PEACE and QUIET!” she says dramatically. I don’t point out that as she appears to be wearing headphones connected to an iPod, she herself is contravening the spirit of the Quiet Carriage.

Now, we have been down this road before, the Junior Millards and I. Sometimes with justification. But that is when all four of them are in full volume. Here, there is only a pair, busy drawing mice in deep dark woods. And chatting.

Is the sound of children talking and laughing really so offensive? Compared to business types braying across the table, or couples in full scale row mode? Or is it just that they are easier to shout at -  by people who don’t understand that public transport is  not inviolate private space?

I’m reminded of that loon who recently put a sign on his house reminding children playing in the PLAYGROUND of the primary school next door to keep the noise down. Then I think of Oscar Wilde’s Selfish Giant, who had winter permanently encamped in his garden thanks to Vulgarian tendencies.

Anyway, we do not laugh, scoff, or spit on the ground with disgust. The children roll their eyes and keep quiet. They are used to being treated like ninth class citizens by the general public. On the way back, it is much the same. People groaning  when anyone less than four foot high approaches them. Grumpy people with your invisible force fields, can I remind you (yet again) that today’s giggling nine year old is tomorrow’s care assistant?

- this appeared in yesterday’s Times but I just don’t have the know-how (yet) to  put it directly into my blog….

The place was deserted. Completely empty. Just me, a couple of security guards and a room full of Titians. There was just a little rope in front of the paintings, which included the astonishing trio of portraits of Pope Paul III, hawk nosed, beady eyed, with his two “nephews” in attendance. I stood in front of the rope, all alone.

Then I walked into the next room to confront Masaccio’s Crucifixion, then through to the next room to find Titian’s sexy masterpiece Danae, her legs falling open as the golden coins rain down on her. And on and on, past Simone di Martini, Guido Reni, Raphael, Michaelangelo, Claude Lorrain and of course the local painter, Caravaggio. All blinding pieces of great, great art. Beauty, sex, devotion, pain, skill. All simply hanging on the walls for my eye only, since there was not a single other person in the gallery.

Is it different if a gallery is crowded, and the experience of looking at great art a communal one? I quite like seeing a fantastic show alongside everyone else – the da Vinci exhibition this Christmas was a great London event, as well as being a one off treat. But this morning, in Naples, it was just me. And perhaps because I had never been to the gallery before, the experience was all the more astonishing. It was like drinking double cream.

Go there if you can – you’ll probably find you are there on your own. I’d say its an undersold treasure. Oh, and forget about taking home a souvenir. There are none. There is a shop but there is nothing in it about the collection itself. No postcards, no books, no fridge magnets of Danae. Honestly, it’s a very rare experience.

It is a tough rite of passage though, the French Exchange. There’s a lot of long silences to fill, and its hard on both parties.

Here’s what worked for us:

1. Recognisable food. Food can alleviate homesickness. So we had lots of French cheese and croissant for Claire.

2. Projects. She LOVED reading Little House on the Prairie to my other daughter and Peepo to my youngest child. Everyone liked it and it meant she practised her English.

3. Games. Frustration, snakes and ladders, Frustration – you can while away hours like this. We even got her playing Happy Families – I’ll never forget the way she said “Not at ‘ome.”

4. Mad jokes about Piaf/Jacques Brel/les Bleus/Camembert. Actually that was just me. I have no idea if she understood it, and if she did, whether she appreciated it.

I was overtaken by a woman called Julie from the Wimbledon Windmilers, who had been pacing me all the way round. She beat me by 6 seconds. Apparently I had beaten her by the same two years ago, and she was determined to win this time. We hugged about it on the finish line clasping our medals. We also got a free bottle of Lucozade each.

That’s it; a medal, a hug from Julie and a bottle of Lucozade. Will I do the Finchley20 again? Probably.

I was sad, though, that my old (and first) office at Tyne Tees TV has been demolished. Tyne Tees was such a great place for a first job – I was allowed to rush around and be enthusiastic, and was shown the way by brilliant people in the TV industry.

One of the people we interviewed was the designer Nigel Cabourn. Quite a character, is Nigel. Been in the business for years, he sells £2,500 parkas and has the country’s largest order for Harris Tweed.

He loves vintage menswear – he’s got 4000 pieces in an amazing collection including wartime lifejackets and WW1 caps. His latest designs are inspired by stuff worn by Robert Scott on his last, doomed trip to the Antarctic. His office is in the back of his garden, and this is what you see if you open a door on his back wall. Yes! This is where Newcastle Cricket Club plays! Isn’t that astonishing?

Nigel Cabourn's view

The whole reason we were in Newcastle was to report on the new style and zest within the city, and see whether the old cliches are maintained. When I told friends I was going up there, they all started going way-hey, talking about bonny lasses and the Blaydon Races,  and calling me Pet. Seems as if Newcastles’ image issues lie largely in the head of people outside the city, not within it.

It’s the same for running. I have great plans for the week. Plans are easy to make. Charts are easy to draw up. They are a lot harder to achieve. It is so easy to collapse all the plans, to talk yourself out of running or swimming or going to the gym. Actually it’s fascinating to actually experience my brain telling myself that really it is too hot/too cold/too snowy – ANYTHING to stop me actually going running. Procrastination is a very strong force.

This is why the hardest thing about running is putting your shoes on.

Perhaps this is why (I think) the whole running thing has taken off. People like inventing hurdles for themselves. 5K parkruns. 10K races.  Half marathons, Marathons, impossible races which must be trained properly for otherwise they cannot be completed.

This is why last night I went online and entered the Finchley20, a gruelling (in my book)  experience around the suburban streets of Hillingdon which is done by about 200 people in singlets. Do I want to do the Finchley20. No way! I’m terrified of the Finchley20. But if I do it, (and complete it), I will be so delighted with myself, because it will represent a challenge which I have found daunting, and have overcome.  It’s not the Iron Man or the Marathon des Sables or swimming the Channel, but to me it is tough, and therefore significant.

In fact we had SUCH a lovely time we missed the Eurostar back to London by a whopping TWO HOURS. I managed to read the Arrival time as our Departure time, and thus when we turned up at the Gare du Nord it was long, long gone.

“This is a bit of a problem, Mummy,” observed Lucien. I’ll say. OMG. How to get back from Paris when you really need to, with no tickets for anything? This was not a moment to think of my bank manager. Air? Very expensive and no guarantees. Coach? Cheap but arrived at 0700 the next morning. In the end I took a Zen-like view of the situation and bought wildly expensive tickets on the Eurostar where we were alongside Jarvis Cocker.

“I like travelling First Class” said my daughter as I brought myself round from a coma induced by the eye watering price,  with a nifty glass of bubble. Don’t make a habit of it, sweetie. And ALWAYS, always check the times on the tickets.

I blame it on the magic of the City of Light.

Talking of which….here are some pics of the Great Wall of China Marathon, taken by Julie Sparrow, who has done it and lived to tell the tale. Actually she’s going to be giving me a masterclass. This picture is showing the steep route and also the fact we will be running in something of a wilderness…yes this is what we will be going up after 20 miles.. .not quite the centre of London, is it…well, its a challenge! Roll on May 19th!

Great Wall of China Marathon

Great Wall at 20 miles of running