Thursday, October 14, 2004


I have been away.

I have taken my annual sojourn (this is a word I have frequently read, but, thankfully, I have not had to pronounce it infront of anyone, yet).

The sunsets from the balcony of my rural Spanish retreat were amazing, as ever. We mingled with the locals who are now oh so familiar and have taken us to their hearts. We drank that dodgy cheap wine which is akin to beetroot juice and has negligible alcohol content. We danced like social workers at WOMAD to the gypsy music into the early hours, clapping our hands and cheering the guitarists on in a vile, patronising manner. Hah! We would not rise until midday, as the sun baked overhead. Most importantly, we dared to venture several miles to the local bakery: thus, every day we ate Local Bread dipped in olive oil; thus, we were at one with the local peasant population.

But now - o woe! - I have returned to Britain with its drab skies, its bland chips and gravy diet, its striking coalminers, yet another energy crisis and Mike Yarwood "doing" Mr Heath and Brian Clough on the telly. How colourless and unchanged is this sceptred isle. A pox on this slovenly, apathetic nation ... um, hold on a minute ...

Bollocks. During the journey back home, I appear to have travelled back in time to 1973. AGAIN.

Bloody RyanAir.

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