) and made a typical James
entrance. Ross and I were chatting away and he strode in purposefully and straight past
us. He was wearing shorts that were just an inch long for indecency.
The run up to the holiday was swift. Thousand and one things to do at work. And a few meetings with friends.
Among which was an evening drink with James.
He arrived (slightly late - but then we've come to expect that
) and made a typical James
entrance. Ross and I were chatting away and he strode in purposefully and straight past
us. He was wearing shorts that were just an inch long for indecency.
Anyhow, he managed to halt every single conversation in the pub.
We also met up with Phil. We're going to be working together early next year. So, it was a trip to Oxford for a planning meeting and then a weekend of dossing around London. We didn't do as much shopping as the last time he was here - thank goodness but then there were no sales on. However, we did have a very pleasant meal out in the back garden.
Chris had been going to pay a visit and then
didn't but then since it was the weekend before the holiday it was probably just
as well. We actually spent the time sorting the house out since Nathan from next door
is going to be house sitting. We've packed away most of the breakables and salted
away any Ahem! private stuff. Well we wouldn't want to be accused of corrupting
the innocent. 
Thursday evening before the holiday brought a non-baseball match at work - rained off and Friday evening brought a farewell drink to my colleague, Nafisa. She's off to have a baby and the success of this is this year's good news story as she's had two sad losses already.
And then at 5am on the morning of Saturday 30 August the alarm went off.
God, it was bleak and cold. Grey, grey dawn. Dank, damp drizzle. Chilling wind. Compelling reasons for leaving these shores for warmer climes. The taxi lot its way en route to Luton airport but we got there in plenty of time and passed through the check-in desk in absolute record time leaving us over 90 minutes to kill. We took an expensive and underwhelming breakfast, tooled around the duty free area, bought some reading matter and still had over an hour to spare.
Anyway the allotted hour arrived and we made our way through the check-in, boarded the plane and prepared for take-off. Then the announcement came. A fault. And we were all carted off again. I was filled with gloom. I had visions of us being stranded for hours whilst they flew in a plane from the far side of the world to help us out. But they were astute and stole a plane from a later flight and got us away less than an hour late. Much relief. Tempered only by the fact that Monarch do keep costs to a minimum and therefore served us no food during the flight.
Thereafter, it was easy. And we walked into immediate heat. Ah, bliss! Transfers from Barcelona airport to El Prat and then on to Sitges were as easy as pie. I got talking to someone with local knowledge and got the low down on some eateries and drinkeries. The trip to the hotel should have taken five minutes but, with the map that we had at our disposal, we got diverted and walked maybe three times as long as we needed to have done. But we got there and they were expecting us. So all of my fears about being ripped off by Throb holidays did not materialise.
The room was fine. Quiet. Off the street. Not facing the sun so coolish. 2 beds, natch. Fridge. TV. Fan for air conditioning. And an appalling painting. En suite bathroom.
Ross: "That's a small bath."
David: "No, it's a bidet."
Me and my mouth. I still bear the bruise.
We were exhausted. Slept the afternoon and then mooched a little around town before eating at Gabriel's. Wonderful food but we were almost to tired to appreciate it. Bed and sleep.
Sunday was a quiet day. Brief wander for orientation. Siesta. Books. Sport nookie. More wandering to find gay places. In the main square, the male populace were making human towers three to four stories high. I've seen this sort of stuff on television. Some of the local youths were stunning.
We ate at Chez Jeannette. Nice food and cheap. Lots of artwork around the walls. Specially commissioned ceramics to celebrate their various corporate birthdays. Jeannette is French slang. The English equivalent would be something like poof. The restaurant's name roughly translates as At home with the poofs.
The French have considerable difficulty keeping a straight face (the word is advisable in the circumstances) when British academics talk about the Joint Academic Network - JANET. They fall about laughing when we talk about the upgraded version - SuperJANET. That roughly translates as Screaming Queen.