I can't help having a preconceived notion in my head before I visit a new place. I imagined Geneva to be full of shady-looking men in dark glasses and Valentino suits, carrying bulging suitcases full of cash to hide in numbered bank accounts. There would be women in floor length furs and gobstopper-sized diamonds stepping out of blacked-out Mercedes and sweeping into discreet but wildly expensive hotels. James Bond might be holidaying there between missions and I might well meet him at the baccarat table, where he would seem me, decide to ignore the fact that I'm not quite as glamorous as what he's used to, and sweep me off my feet.

Clearly, I have a rather overactive imagination. For starters, we all know that James Bond doesn't really exist and so is not at all likey to be found at the a casino in Geneva - and as for wearing a full-length fur coat, it would not only be impractical but possibly lethal in August, with temperatures well into the 30s. But most disappointing of all Geneva is not at all what I'd imagined. Of course, it is crazily expensive; even the clocks in the airport are made by Rolex, but there are more designer shops than you would ever have time to go into in a single weekend and there's a five-star hotel on a every corner but disappointingly, I couldn't find a hint of seediness anywhere. I didn't even see - not that I found this bit too disappointing - and a friend had sworn to me that Geneva has more brothels than any other city in Europe.

The one thing that did turn out to be true is that Geneva is the place to go if you like clocks. There are watch shops everywhere, there's even a clock and watch museum - actually, more than one - and when I asked the concierge at my hotel what was worth seeing in the city, he suggested a visit to the Floral Clock in the English Garden (I have absolutely no idea why they call it that, there's nothing remotely English about it ). Intrigued, I duly searched out the clock, not entirely sure what it was I was looking for but imagining that it might be a huge construction, giant grand-father clock, entirely made from flowers. But it wasn't. It turned out to be a working clock, lying flat in the middle of a municipal flower bed, on a main road. I have to confess, I was a little underwelmed. I looked around to see if anyone else was impressed by this curosity but they were all too busy looking at their watches, checking that they were going to get to wherever they had to be on time and didn't give it a second glance. I can't say I was surprised. Normally, of course, you'd see a lack of vice and seediness as a good thing in a place to visit for the weekend and not grumble about it. I should be rhapsodising about the beautiful Old Town, with its cathedral, where Calvin preached the Reformation to the masses. I should be describing the winding cobbled streets and flifghts of steps opening on to pretty squares with fountains and busy pavement cafes. I should beacuse it is all true - get away from the waterfront and climb up the hill and it really is lovely, very peaceful (there are no cars) and elegant and, of course, very clean. But I can't help it if I was in a sulk. maybe, I reasoned, I'd have more luck finding mischief at my hotel and so I wandered back to the lakeside and called for the hotel's private motoscafo to collect me.