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Farewells, fashions and the tragic shortage of alcohol
Day 10 started earlier than our vacation contract with the universe clearly states is acceptable. The reason: airport duty. We had to escort our dear friends Chris & Julia back to civilisation (also known as the UK), which meant braving the Monday morning rush hour. The motorway was, unsurprisingly, in full “I hate everyone” mode, complete with slowdowns and general existential dread.
We redeemed ourselves by taking the scenic route back along the coast and through Alicante, which is basically therapy with a sea view.
Back at the apartment, a quick clean-up and then straight into emergency resupply mode. We headed to the mighty Carrefour because we had reached what can only be described as a critical situation:
The last red wine bottle, the gin and the whisky had all been finished the night before.
I know. Please take a moment to recover from the shock.
On a more heroic note, my pre-holiday diet combined with my shiny new weekly injection of the miracle molecule has resulted in a solid 3–5 kilos of weight loss. This is great news for my health and terrible news for my trousers, which are now doing their best impression of parachutes. I bravely decided to buy a smaller size. Once home, I discovered that I had successfully purchased… trousers that are still too big. Apparently, I am emotionally ready for weight loss, but my shopping instincts are not. Another trip to the supermarket fashion department is now scheduled for later in the week. Pray for me.
By lunchtime, priorities shifted from clothing failure to food success. We crossed the road to our now-official local beach restaurant called appropriately the Costa Blanca. The staff welcomed us like long-lost family members (the kind you’re actually happy to see), beers and tapas were ordered, and we settled into the sun with the smug comfort of people who have nowhere important to be. Peak holiday energy.
Beach time followed, and I finally started my new book. Let me set the scene: after days of wandering ruins and even visiting the Archaeological Museum in Alicante, I’ve become deeply and sincerely impressed by Roman civilisation. This sparked a dinner table discussion about Rome, Latin, and the small trauma of being forced to study it in high school. Cue memories of battling through La Guerre des Gaules by Jules César.
Inspired by nostalgia (and possibly overconfidence), I downloaded a French edition onto my eReader. The bold new plan: read it from start to finish without constantly consulting the legendary Latin-French dictionary from my youth, the Gaffiot. This is either personal growth or a trap. Time will tell.
As the sun began its dramatic, over-the-top descent towards the west, we returned home for aperitif hour (arguably the most important hour of the day). Dinner was simple, healthy, and refreshingly calm. Later, I set myself up in front of my laptop, connected to French TV via the appropriate VPN wizardry, and enjoyed a couple of well-earned whiskies.
Bedtime arrived early, sleep followed quickly, and thus ended another demanding day of holidaying.
Exhausting, really.
I do it my way 
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