SO. Magaluf. I don’t know what to tell you first – or rather what to leave out.
I survived, but I suppose you had gathered that.
In fact, I really enjoyed... most of it.
There is something quite nice about being outside of your comfort zone, armed only with factor 50, great friends and a good book.
On the other side of the battle lines: 40C temperatures, staying up past 10pm and salt water.
The sea has given me the heebie jeebies for as long as I can remember.
There is something about delving into the unknown which makes me hear the Jaws theme tune whenever I get near the shore.
However, when the choice is between going for a dip or risk self combustion from the heat, the blue glittering water had an appeal I couldn’t resist.
It was beautiful and I was soon hooked.
This meant the hardest decision for the rest of the trip was between going in the sea again or reading a bit more of your book.
Other choices were quite simple.
Cocktails were picked based on what kind of container they came in, or if they came with a parrot (not a live one.)
The days were spent shade-bathing on the beach, the evenings eating paella, sipping fruity concoctions and talking rubbish.
Apart from one night, when we put on our matching t-shirts and headed to the heart of the action.
There party rep after party rep hound you with deal after deal – a cocktail, a shot and a jug of more cocktail for only five euros?
They laid the trap and people on all sides were falling.
It scared me there was no safety net. No-one there saying ‘I think you’ve had too much, dear, sit down here and I’ll get you a glass of water.’
I am glad I saw that side – it made me feel old and happy about it.
And while I don’t want to see a jug anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea with a ten-foot straw...