Thanks to the groovers who said happy birthday for yesterday! The day started with me gulping down orange juice so violently fresh my face screwed up like a cats' arse. After nineteen months of Made From Concentrate Imported From Chile horridness, it was a true shock to the system to taste the real thing. I choked and spluttered like my first vodka shot back in Russia.
The day ended near midnight with us wandering around Alicante looking for our hotel. Clever Shauna had scrawled down "Eurohotel" and "31" but neglected to write a street name.
After an hour of swearing and searching for the mysterious 31 Alicante, I reluctantly called Rhiannon and confessed soy un idiota and she looked it up on the internet.
I called her when we got back to Edinburgh today, "We're home!".
"Oh very good. Do you know where that is?"
On the first night we lazed in the hotel, watched Face/Off in Spanish and scoffed olives out of a jar, pouring them into an ashtray once it became too hard to get our hands in. Classy!