Ibiza, Spain
God has cursed me!! Having missed our annual jaunt to Ibiza in 2012 we booked our flights to the White Isle in February this year, eager for a visit to one of the most magical places on earth. The excitement has been rising as the date of departure approaches but with rotten timing, calamity strikes! The cold I battled with last month has never properly shifted, turning first into a chest infection and now ravaging my throat so much so that I can't swallow, let alone speak.
A course of penicillin didn't touch the sides and the codeine and clarithromycin I'm now imbibing aren't hitting the spot either, coming with strict imprecations NOT TO DRINK ALCOHOL, and having no effect on my inflamed throat. So it's with a bit of worry and desperation that I'm back at the doctors first thing this morning, pleading for salvation. And Dr Watson has just the answer: steroids.
"Take six of these every day for the next seven days. And if you take all six in one go, you'll find they give you a real kick and you'll be quite high for a while," he says with a smile. "Perfect for where you're going, I'd imagine". The cheek of the man!! Still, I'm down the chemist faster than a whippet on, erm, steroids.
And whaddya know, within 30 minutes my inflamed throat has calmed right down and I feel better than I have done in weeks. So much so that I have a celebratory wine at lunch to toast my colleague's Jack's birthday and am immediately slaughtered from the codeine still in my system. Oops.
The afternoon passes in a whirl and soon I'm at Victoria station meeting Coman to hop on the Gatwick Express and head for the sun. Once we've dropped our bags and cleared security we head over the the Red Lion bar to wait for our fellow travellers.
Jo, our frequent Ibiza companion, had suggested these dates at the start of the year as it's her birthday weekend, and where better to celebrate than the most famous party island on the planet? Joining her are two more colleagues, Dani and Nic, all of us having been waiting for months to escape London and relax into the chilled vibrations of Eivissa.
Food eaten and wine quaffed, Coman and I take our leave as our flight departs first - or that's the plan. But once on board we're informed that, due to a fireworks display at a club next to the island's airport, we'll have to land later than expected to avoid the rockets firing right up at us. Thankfully the BA stewardesses are quite happy to dispense so much extra vino to keep us all happy that we have to stuff the little bottles in our bags, next to the duty free, and take it with us. Shame...
Once through passport control we run straight into Nic, Jo and Dani at the carousel, their flight having actually landed before us. Perhaps the Easyjet pilot was under orders to fly through the missile storm regardless!
Also on their flight are about 20 women in various states of age, size and excitement, all wearing pink t-shirts emblazoned with the legend Boozy Susie's Hen Party 2013. God knows whether Boozy Susie is a serial bride having had hen parties in other years too, but with the exception of the supersized lady sporting a sash saying Mother of the Bride and swaying dangerously, the rest of them seem fairly well behaved. It's obvious where Boozy Susie gets her love for a tipple from though!
Bags collected we kiss the girls goodbye as they're staying in Figueretas and we're based in Playa d'en Bossa. By now it's gone 1am and as we queue for a taxi the heat is still roasting, the car's temperature gauge reading 28 degrees.
We've never visited Ibiza in August before, preferring the start or end of the season, and I'm a little worried that we'll be pole-axed by the ferocious day time sun, especially as the island is currently mid-heatwave with temperatures frequently hitting 37 degrees. Thankfully I've packed the factor 50 left over from last year's Moroccan adventure to protect our delicate skin, but it's no good against the night time humidity.
Still, we're only a ten minute drive to our hotel and the wonders of air-conditioning. We usually hire a villa but having stayed at Hotel Garbi about four years ago and had a good time we thought we'd give it another whirl. And wonderfully we're upgraded to a suite upon check-in with master bedroom, living room, his-and-his wardrobes, balcony overlooking the sea and a very swish bathroom. Ah, this'll do.
By the time we're unpacked and have pottered across the road to the local Spar to stock up on water it's well past 2am. In previous years we'd have headed straight out to paint the town red but age, experience and the lingering remnants of my fast-fading throat infection counsel that sleep is the better option. And so, air-con cranked up to ice-box option, we hit the sack, ready for tomorrow's action.
