my holidays are like buses...

...they are full of miserable-looking people and go nowhere fast? Erm, no. More in the "don't see one for ages, then three come along at once" kind of way.

For, hot on the heels of the Ireland Adventure, comes the Ibiza Experience. I am assured that this will NOT involve any tit-flashing, street vomiting or nights spent with a pillow over my head going "Ohhhhh the nooooooooise....." for we are heading to the genteel-sounding "old town". (Although it should be noted that even Feltham has an "old town", and I'm none too convinced that it is genteel - a night watching people shoot up in the toilets at the Airman pub would confim this.)

I have bought my fake tan (Nivea gradual tan - special offer at boots) and a new bikini (brown with blue "look at the pattern, not the flab" dots) and, armed with some doorstop paperbacks, am ready to hit the beach. Of course, judging by my previous beach holiday efforts, I will get bored of lying in the sun after about 35 minutes. Especially as this level of sunbathing requires me to reapply the sunblock about 15 times per day or face BURN PARANOIA. Hence the need for fake tan, since I normally return home the same milk-bottle shade as I left.