On Sunday morning. Late afternoon. I notice a small bruise and several scratch marks under my left pectoral. And inside my head thousands of tiny people are poking pointy sticky into my brain, and it seriously fucking hurts. After several hours of internet, three Spainsh pain killers and four bottles of Perrier, I am able to establish a few events from the previous night.
Apparently, we've been to a local night club. Situated in the midst of a wide network of fishing villages, and so naturally is themed as a pirate ship.
At about half one, whilst supporting myself against the tongue and grove paneled walls of the cramped bathroom, my head clears for a few seconds and I have a sudden realisation of just where I am.
Nothing particularly happens during the night. Although I am told by a over excitable bouncer to "Die outside" whilst sitting at a table. To which I reply, as I recall, "I'm not dying, well maybe perhaps inside".
Under a tiller I have a passing conversation with someone,which is initiated as they exclaim that wearing ___________ is a crime. To which I agree. Defending my choice, by detailing that the shirt is in fact vintage, that this is a small fishing village and I don't own a fishing vessel, and not wanting to stand out opted for, what the locals consider couture.
I leave, perhaps about two thirty, walking the road, which I earlier drove, home.
Sick count: 0 (Although wish it were around 4)