Bitterballen

If there's a fire alarm at Leeds Bradford Airport and you're evacuated to the car park, take your gin and tonic with you.

Don't rely on Googlemaps to get you from the train station to your hip hotel. Hail a 6-man taxi to take you three minutes to your destination around the corner.

Hip hotels don't always have the best bathroom facilities.

Card entry to your bedroom is fine if you can remember which floor you're on at 0415. Not so much if you're the roommate who bailed out at 0200, being woken up by the automatic lights triggered by the entry card.

Literally everyone is good looking. Exhibit A:

Bitterballen taste like reconstituted rotting molluscs rolled in sawdust.

The Rijksmuseum is OK, but there's too much fruit in dark rooms and I hate the angry swan painting. This was the best picture because at least there's some arse on display. It's called The Massacre of the Innocents by Corneli Cornelisz van Haarlem (1562-1638).

Your husband misses you.

This mode of transport is not called a Gupta, as thought by my friend Kate. She meant a Tuk-Tuk. It's actually just called a bike taxi.

If you add the letters Geitenkaas to the end of every word, you actually sound a bit Dutch.

"How are you today?"
"Goodgeitenkaas"

It is unwise to show your friends the state of your favourite yet tattered bra. It will end up in a bin at Schiphol airport.

When you're 46 years old, YOLO is a great idea for 48 hours. At some point though, you have to catch the Reality Coach home.