Life has taken a turn for the worse this past week: I was forced onto a plane at Cardiff International Airport and, after a couple of hours air-time, released onto the party island of Ibiza. It's been tough, but after several attempted escapes I have accepted my fate and allowed the routine to take me over. We swim at 9am, have brekkie, wander down the shops, pop to the beach to bask for a couple of hours, eat lunch at 2pm, return to the beach to sun ourselves and doze, go back to the apartment for a shower and a change and then pop out for supper. It's a brutal regime, but a necessary one as the good lady wife tells me each day. Something about de-stressing and all that jazz. The longer I'm here the more I see her point of view.
Here's hoping the boy hasn't burnt the house down yet 😐.