Dave is my compadre, the finest travelling companion a woman could wish for. The best thing about her is that she will go absolutely anywhere but also has no idea where anywhere is. Except France – which she has taken against to such an extent that even French people speaking French near her makes her extremely annoyed. She can sniff out pretension at 100km, not that she knows what a kilometre is. And God help anyone she calls "piss-elegant".
Suffice to say, when we arrive in Tbilisi, I have to prod her awake and try to enthuse her, though I feel very rough myself. "All airports are the same. Why are we even here?" she asks.
We are in Georgia mostly, I remind her, because she loves post-Soviet places and last year when I was in Armenia to do a story, everyone kept saying: "Don't go to Georgia. There are big men with swords there who will kill you." So it's a must.
We arrive at Rooms Hotel in Tbilisi, a former Soviet-era publishing and printing house. I should say we partake of the city's immense cultural riches, but we go to bed and order burgers and chips on room service because we know how to live. When we come to, we realise we are actually in a completely fantastic place.
