I've just been through the Anne Frank House, only 30 years after my first attempt to visit it. It's a busy attraction, but it still resonates, being in the very house, climbing the same ladder-steep stairs, looking at the pencil marks on the wallpaper where Anne and Margot's heights were recorded. Very serious stuff, but well worth the wait.
And now I'm wandering the streets, crossing canal after canal, leaping out of the way of unstopping cyclists, and realising that my Panorama-stretched stomach isn't going to be satisfied even by two breakfasts. The thing is, apparently, to look for coffee in a cafe, not a Coffee House - you know? Something quite different on offer there.
The final day of a famil is always hard to fill, loomed over by the prospect of that immensely long journey to come. Heigh ho.
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