Today will, I feel, be a quiet-ish day. One of our party of two is suffering from a debilitating illness. The symptoms are nausea, headache and arsiness. We have traced the source of the infection to the bar on the corner near the hotel – or more precisely, to the vodka bottle therein. My friend has a hangover.
I have to say that the vodka was extremely good value. By that I don’t mean it was particularly cheap – each drink cost €5.50. But tickets to a comedy show would surely have cost far more, and bless her she was extremely funny.
So today we go home. For some peculiar reason the transfer driver is due to collect us at 4.30pm, five solid hours before our flight. I calculate an hour to the to airport, leaving us four hours to kill. Who wants to bet they’ll be the four most expensive hours of our life?
I’m looking forward to going home though. I miss my dogs (and my kids, of course, but I’ve been able to speak to them on the phone and the dogs are frankly rubbish at that. If you hold the phone out to Mad Dog she tries to eat it, and if you try it with Daft Dog he just gets all confuzzled).
Home… soft(er) bed, with a duvet instead of the stupid homicidal sheet and blanket here that wrap themselves insiduously around my neck and throat every night. Proper Pepsi Max instead of the slightly strange tasting stuff they bottle in Spain. Water you can drink. Sausages that taste as though they might at least have been somewhere near a pig, once upon a time. I love holidays, I love the rest and relaxation, the new experiences – but oh, I do love coming home too.
And I have missed my gents.