Ibiza rocks

I’m still drunk so forgive me the spelling errors. We had a mad one, Katie and me. Banging. It may be the first and last girls´ holiday we take, just the two of us, given our age and likelihood to sproglidate in the next couple of years, so we are making the most of it. My eyes are red rimmed and I told Ava, on the phone, this morning to have a good night.  Oh well.

Katie keeps wishing we’d had this sort of holiday younger, when we were both trying too hard to be grown up, and I was saddled with babies and both of us with mortgages. But I don’t. I took things for granted in my early twenties, and although mine might not be the smoothest derriere around the pool, I feel like I can just about hold my own, and I can definitely hold my beer, and I appreciate every single moment of it; the freedom, the expense, the silliness, the twerking in a super club that’s struggling to maintain capacity from its 90s heyday in the wake of Spanish economic catastrophy and the lost room of too young to appreciate it clubbers trying to have fun aroudn a wall of noise with drinks they can´t afford. I´m savouring it all.

I’m enjoying Katie letting it all go, and letting down the hair she straightens too much and too often. Her stress, and her status, her job, as head of HR for a bluechip, her sleep deprivation, her moods, her daughter and her divorce.

After a couple of hours’ sleep, with an elbow that may or may not be broken, and a conviviality with Katie we haven’t shared since we were toddlers, it’s been worth it, every hard earned euro of it, though my card, in a hole in the wall last night singularly failed to produce any cash, and given the amount Tom and I spending on knocking walls down in our new house, I might have to have a serious financial audit when I get home. But for now, I’m gonna have one more beer, doze on a sunbed, and contemplate my 6.15am return journey only when I need to.