I´m not dead.
The plane did its job, whisking me away to sunny Mallorca (or Majorca, if you want to be all English about it), and I’m writing this on a hotel computer where it costs four Euros an hour for the privilege. Where´s the bloody shortcut key for Euros, I wonder?
Noteworthy events so far: 1. Had twelve hours’ sleep! Yes, twelve! I was just as tired as’d feared. 2. Mobile phone went nuts in my pocket, sending twenty four blank texts to a friend, at least one to another, and called my wife’s voicemail for four minutes, picking up the sound of the two of us walking around a Supermercado. On O2 roaming rates. Bugger.
There’s just one English channel on the smallest TV known to man in my hotel room: Eurosport. Wanting to know the Arsenal result (the radio in the taxi kept shouting, “Fabregas, Fabregas, Fabregas”), it instead shunned proper headlines, opting to show some PGA Tour Golf and ladies’ tennis. I’m hoping that they still have the rights to show Formula One at the weekend.
The hotel itself is rather nice, as are the people. Compared to the crowd I encountered in Spain last year – a curious amalgam of Vicky Pollard and the cast of Shameless – this lot are a breath of fresh air. They´re actually trying to speak Spanish when ordering drinks at the bar, for one thing. As I know zero Spanish, this immediately necessitated a rush to a phrase book. Trouble is, when trying to speak the language, I can’t help putting on a silly Speedy Gonzalez voice. Which is probably why I don’t want to visit Mexico.
This is another cheapie all-inclusive holiday, so by the time I get back I’ll be modelling the Rik Waller Spring Collection and booking myself into a drying-out clinic. But the weather’s much nicer than the full-on blizzard I faced when leaving Bristol, and everyone’s really friendly. So what was the Arsenal result?