Coming back to England from anywhere else can be a very depressing experience, especially when you live in New Cross and “anywhere else” is Barcelona. This morning we were sitting on a beautiful beach [ a seaside town, the name of which escapes me. All I know is that it is next to another seaside town called “Tossa” – Fnarr ] in the hot sun. A few hours later I was freezing my arse off outside Euston station.

BTW – to those that foolishly thought that Stanstead airport was in, or near, North London.

WRONG!

It’s right next to bastard Colchester. It took me and Andy over an hour to drive back to Euston. After the next struggle with public transport it was lovely to get home of course: I’d missed Michele and Humphrey.

It was Dave’s stag weekend and it was pretty bloody brilliant. Despite feeling like an ignorant English wanker becakse I can’t speak Spanish… I just think that it’s so rude, arrogant and insulting to spend time in a country and not make the slightest effort to learn at least some language. O-Level (GCSE) French hardly makes someone fluent, but I don’t feel a pratt in France when I order some food in a restaurant.
There’s too much to write now, so I’ll write more tomorrow.