Came back last Friday from two weeks in Lanzarote.
Capital villa, scenic surrounds, San Miguel, a crock, the folks, the girls, swimming pool, Factor 15 down to 8 in week two and I still don't care about tans, a bar/restaurant called Lagomar carved from the side of a hill, trips to your bog standard resort (Puerto del Carmen) with bog standard Irish bars frequented by bog standard birds from Shannon (thought through the haze of liquor to be high in the pulchritude stakes, but actually not), seafood starters, lilos and every building in white.
That last one's a strange sight. No building can be anything but radiant white. They make the very exceptional leaning towards cream - the bawdy bastards - but otherwise it looks exactly like an extended version of the Eldorado set. I even dressed in white most of the time for fear of Hispanic reprisals.
And the natives don't speak a word of English, but I hate those who complain about people in foreign countries ONLY speaking their own language. It's linguistic snobbery so I'll leave it alone.
On Thursday we were an hour delayed leaving Arrecife airport. No problem, thunk we, because we had hours to kill before our connecting flight from Stansted. The baggage handlers plainly did not like our complacency, however, and they took two hours to unload our bags from the first flight.
Upshot? Missed connecting flight but Emma and I got to stay at the Radisson on Swissport's dime. How bad like? Top notch place but it did seem like I'd walked onto the Lost In Translation set, right down to the snap-clean sheets and half chewed stogies left in the ashtrays.
6.30 flight on Friday morning. Sakes.
It's all been a blur since then. Friday night saw me blab the night away with Jill's fella Aaron on all sorts of musical/football related guff, Saturday was back in Setanta, Saturday night got destroyed by the usual Long Stone/Doyle's route and, well, it brings me to the here and the now as I rise out of my two-day torpor.