There’s a special layer of hell for airlines that force a man of over 6 foot into a cramped window seat. The plane ride back was uneventful, apparently we had a good wind behind us – or Ryanair had invested in supersonic engines while I wasn’t looking – either way, I was back in Spain before Midnight, after just 2 and a half hours of wondering whether my shoulder was going to be dislocated by the old woman next to me being suddenly shocked by her game of solitaire.
Going through passport control, the guy examining my passport gave me a look that made me think a strip search was on the horizon – but I made it through to the homeland unviolated. Now it’s time to drink and smoke with impunity, listen to An American Prayer on repeat and prepare for the old grind to begin in two days. Hasta Luego, England, hello Espana – let’s get drunk.