A cure for post holiday blues...

We all know that sinking feeling of the return schlepp from a holiday; there's no other option and no alternative than to leave but you'd give your right arm to stay one more day. Please, please, God, don't make me do this. Well, he did and here I am back in Cardiff.

Meeting up last night for a last drink with Mauro, Paddy, Seamus, Olivier and Maarten was lovely; we started at a small and bijoux cocktail bar called Kactus and then moved on to a Dutch bar where the barman looked uncannily like Jeremy Clarkson. I had one eye on the time because I had an early start this morning but it was a lovely and relaxing evening all the same.

The flight home was uneventful and the commute from the airport outside Cardiff to the town centre was grim, given the cattle truck state of the Arriva train I caught. The weather in Cardiff is at least 15 degrees below the temperature on Fuerteventura and 10 degrees below what it was  in Cardiff only yesterday. This made it a doubly depressing return home.

At times like this, there is only one solution: hit the town and extend the holiday. Look out Cardiff...

To the gays...

There is something about the company of gay men that can sometimes be unpleasant; a sour bitchiness that can riddle an entire evening that, otherwise, would have been magical. Of course, at it's best the reverse is true of gay company; an honest but glittering wit that pervades everything, lifting the whole mood and sparkling with a shared and humorous outlook on life.

I'm happy to say that last night was the latter. There was Mauro, the Italian who has a natural talent for doing cutting but hilarious impersonations of me; Seamus and Paddy, the Irish guys who seem to have a limitless and inexhaustible appetite for partying; Olivier, the lovely French guy who, like me, is a fan of AussieBum underwear; and Maarten, the handsome and charming Dutchman who doesn't stop dancing.

We chatted, laughed, drank, danced and flirted until 4am this morning and then all met up on the beach again today and started over again. It's at times like this when you feel so glad to be alive. We're all meeting again tonight for a last drink together as, starting with me at lunchtime tomorrow, we all fly home over the next two days.

Let's raise a glass to the gays...

Today's run at 18:28
Distance	4.19 km	Time	25:03
Pace	5:59 min/km	Cadence	79 spm
Comments: Warm & sunny.

Relatively speaking...

Compared to some gay men, I am butchness itself; although, we're you to stand me next to Bruce Willis, I dare say I'd look a little fey. There are many parts of Wales where I've been told how English I sound; whereas in Cardiff I sound like a proper Welshy. In the last couple of years I keep being asked if I've any Spanish in me (cue joke)... but never by a Spaniard.

So many aspects of our lives are relative. "Today has been the best/worst day evah..." until the next one. Measurement is a comparison and so often in this life the comparison changes; things move on, develop, shrink and grow.

Add to the mix our own perception and memory and you arrive quite quickly in the territory where all the summers of my childhood were golden stretches of uninterrupted sunshine and all the winters were crisp and white and "proper" winters.

Indeed, relativity is the very reason that Seamus could question my portrait of him in my blog of a few days ago as having "the gift of the gab", protesting that back home in Ireland his family consider him to be the quiet one. A taciturn Irishman, now there's a thought!

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king...

Today's run at 18:28
Distance	4.19 km	Time	25:52
Pace	6:11 min/km	Cadence	79 spm
Comments: Warm & sunny.

Nostalgic queens...

Today started well; clear skies and blazing sunshine with just enough of a breeze to tickle your body and cool you down. Today was going to be the day that I changed my factor 30 for a factor 15 but with the sun so fierce, I decided to stick with the factor 30.

By lunchtime the sun had started to disappear in a haze of sand whipped up by the strengthening breeze. It was soon obliterated altogether by grey cloud and by about 3pm the breeze had strengthened further to gale force strength. By rights, I should be spherical and highly polished, such was the abrasiveness of the sand whipped up by the high winds.

With the sand stinging every part of me, no sun and a drop of a couple of degrees in temperature, it was time to put some clothes on, cover up my sandy crevices and wend my way home. With that, I had an offer to walk the 2km or more back with the guy from Manchester that I met yesterday.

We seemed to hit it off, mainly through a shared sense of humour. It's difficult laughing when every time you open your mouth you eat a kilo of sand. We battled on against the wind, passing time by reminiscing about Cardiff back in the day when (as my friend Carlos would say) children were made out of wood. There's nothing like a pair of nostalgic queens...

Today's run at 18:39
Distance	4.22 km	Time	25:32
Pace	6:03 min/km	Cadence	79 spm
Comments: Warm & sunny.

The dome of St Pauls' it is then...

A day of hazy sunshine and gusty winds made for an odd day on the beach. There weren't as many people there because, I think, of the weather. This meant that it felt more relaxed and easy going; gone was the cut throat attitude to get a good spot.

I got talking to a guy from Manchester whose face seemed vaguely familiar. Turns out he used to live in Cardiff ten years ago. Another guy I spoke to, also living in Manchester, once worked in Cardiff and so we spoke of the many changes Cardiff has undergone in recent years. It seems another day bejewelled with coincidences.

Walking back from the beach was tough going tonight. The sand seemed softer than usual and therefore made for a bit of a slog. That, coupled with a head wind for the 2km hike, meant my calves were in knots by the time I got back. I've been trying to work out why my run every night has been such a slow and laboured affair - knotty calves after 4km a day in soft sand may just be the answer.

When I was a kid I remember reading in (I think) the Guinness Book of Records, that for a human to match the jumping power of a flea, he (it's always a he) would have to be able to jump over the dome of St Paul's Cathedral. That's one helluva jump. Unleash the energy tied up in my knotty calves and I'd have no trouble. To use one of my favourite phrases, I've got calves like an angry tranny...

Today's run at 17:48
Distance	4.17 km	Time	24:34
Pace	5:53 min/km	Cadence	79 spm
Comments: Warm & sunny.

Rules are meant to be broken...

There are many rules concerned with the English language. They were a 19th Century invention created in an attempt to order the messy English language and based on the way formal Latin works. Take, for example, the one that dictates you should never split an infinitive. The reason for this rule is because it is impossible to split an infinitive in Latin, whereas in English it is very possible and often desirable - as in, "to boldly go" rather than "to go boldly".

Another so called rule that is often trotted out is the one that goes, you should never end a sentence in a preposition. I love Churchill's answer to this when challenged by a pedant grammarian, which was, "it is something up with which I shall not put".

The absurdity of applying rules from the language of one culture to the language of another is only surpassed by the absurdity of applying the rules, norms and mores of one sexuality to another. This has been in the news lately with the vinegar squeaks from religious leaders as they try to enforce what they believe to be the rules that govern heterosexuality onto a homosexual culture.

Oh, if only it were that simple! Human sexuality is a fluid and changing
matter. It refuses to be boxed in by the strictures of a set of narrow rules trying to govern the ungovernable. Witness the heterosexual couples sunbathing no more than 500m from the gay beach today; the wives read their novels in the full knowledge that their husbands are on walk about.

As I sit here on my hotel balcony I can't help but think that rules are, indeed, meant to be broken.

Today's run at 17:03
Distance	4.19 km	Time	25:15
Pace	6:02 min/km	Cadence	79 spm
Comments: Warm & sunny.

Happenstance...

When I was here in Fuerteventura a year ago, I met an Irishman, Seamus. I know it's cliched but, like many of his countrymen, he had, as they say, the gift of the gab; he could charm the proverbial birdies out of their proverbial trees.

I met him on the beach on my first full day on the island. His face seemed vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it. Anyway, we got talking. "How long have you been here?" I asked. "Arrived yesterday." came the reply, "I was a bit hung over after enjoying myself a bit too much in Dublin the night before." And then it dawned on me, this was the guy whom I'd sat alongside on the bus from the airport into Corralejo the day before. He'd looked miserable as hell and didn't respond when I smiled at him.

As the holiday progressed, we met up several times for drinks. We seemed to get on. One night I was telling him a story of when I'd been here in the November before. In telling the story, I mentioned a Finnish guy whom I'd met and that he had his eight year old daughter with him. Seamus stopped me; it turned out that Seamus remembered the Finnish guy too. He had been on the beach not more than 20 metres away from me that November. Small wonder that his face had been vaguely familiar to me.

Our flights home were within an hour of each other and so we arranged to meet up at the airport. Both flights were delayed and so we had a little extra time to kill. He was more than entertaining with his knack of telling a good yarn well. Eventually, both flights were announced and, before leaving for our respective gates, we swapped numbers and said our goodbyes.

On returning home I found him on Facebook and added him as friend. As you are all, no doubt, aware, Facebook friends are not friends in the conventional sense of the word. They equate more to acquaintances; the occasional conversation, the catchup, the nod and the wave. Indeed, over the last year, Seamus and I have had the occasional conversation and catchup and we've done the Facebook equivalent to nodding and waving at each other from time to time.

Imagine my thrill and disbelief when who should walk into the bar I was in last night but my occasional Facebook friend, Seamus. Happenstance, indeed...

Today's run at 16:36
Distance	4.22 km	Time	24:10
Pace	5:44 min/km	Cadence	81 spm
Comments: Warm & sunny.

Never say never...

I never sleep through alarms; when my alarm goes off every morning, I never hit snooze but leap out of bed - I've never had a problem with waking up. Until, that is, this morning, when I slept through not one but two alarms and was awoken by my taxi for the airport. There's nothing like leaving for a holiday in a blind panic, unsure whether you've packed everything.

I arrived at the airport in a bit of a daze, resigned to the probability that I'd be buying a lot of things that I should have packed, had I gotten up in time. Two items I'd already identified in my cab journey as missing: flip flops and a backpack - essential for a beach holiday. I bought another pair of flip flops at the airport and another backpack once I'd unpacked at my hotel.

Settling in on the plane, with my heart rate finally returning to normal, I looked around at my fellow passengers. Fuck me, if chavism was an Olympic event, us Welsh would be assured a gold come the summer. The air was crackling with the static from the man made fibres and I don't think anyone had a full set of teeth.

Sitting down on my balcony as I write this (post hottie ogling at the beach, post sweaty 26C run, post cool swim in the hotel pool) with a large vodka and coke and watching the sun set, I am as far removed from the day's stressful start as I ever will be. I never sleep through alarms...

Today's run at 17:43
Distance	4.02 km	Time	22:43
Pace	5:39 min/km	Cadence	80 spm
Comments: Warm & sunny.

International jet setting...

I've never seen an airport that is less international than Cardiff International Airport. Technically, they are international in that they deal with foreign destinations but international carries a significance that this airport just doesn't live up to. Yes, flights land there from countries outside the UK but then, my local Spar corner shop stocks foods from countries outside the UK and they don't call themselves Cardiff Bay International Spar.

Cardiff International Airport is more like an aerodrome; a small collection of sheds and a runway somewhere outside Barry. The decor is tired and a bit dog eared, the service is a bit homemade and make do and the transport links are bit few and a bit far between.

International it ain't.

After queuing for a bloody age whilst the two International Border Security staff on duty checked our passports, I waited for one out of the two International Baggage Reclaim conveyor belts to crank into action. After getting my Samsonite international suitcase, I then got an international shuttle bus to Rhoose international railway station and an international train to Cardiff Central International Railway Station.

After a short international taxi ride home, I popped to Cardiff Bay International Tescos for some international milk and a few international bits and international bobs for my international dinner.

International, my arse!

WTF...?

There are things I've seen this last week to which I should not have been exposed. Certainly, children, the elderly and those of a nervous disposition who were subjected to these abominations may well have suffered lasting psychological damage.
In short:

Sandals worn with socks.
Three quarter length trousers (Can someone explain what's the point?).
Leggings (Eurghh!).
T shirts with text such as, "I'm with stupid" followed by an arrow pointing left or right.
Beach towels with prints of naked women (Sleazy or what...?).
Sunglasses that grip over the top of the head rather than the conventional folding arms over the ears.
Crocs.
His and hers matching lesiure wear.
Plunging necklines on leathery wrinkled collapsing cleavages.
Baseball caps worn back to front (Unless your name is Bart Simpson).
Trousers that give you a camel toe effect.
Too much bling.
Combat boots (I know they're in fashion but not on the beach in 25C+ heat!).
A tweed suit with a thick shirt and knitted tie (You're in the Canaries not the Cotswolds).
Black knickers under thin white cotton trousers (Buy some white knickers ffs).
A ginger toupé.

Perlease...!

A veritable smorgasbord...

My favourite meal of the day has to be breakfast. When at home, I invariably eat porridge; filling, high in fibre and slow to release carbohydrate throughout the morning.

When on holiday, my favourite meal of the day remains breakfast, although I rarely eat porridge. Usually, there are too many other things on on offer that I want to try. The hotel I'm staying at does a very good breakfast. Everything from Full English through a vast array of cold meats and cheeses to yoghurts, fresh and dried fruits, tomato, cucumber, eggs in every imaginable way, a huge choice of cereals, pastries and every bread you've ever seen or heard of. I think I've tried them all.

My reason for liking breakfast here, however, is not because of the bewildering and tempting choices presented (although I admit that this would be reason enough). No, my reason for enjoying breakfast here is because of the people watching opportunities it provides. A veritable smorgasbord!

There's the German husband and wife with their 12 year old son. They all look like they've been cloned from Gert Fröbe; big boned, rosy cheeked and well fed - they've even all got the same sandy cropped hair style, mother included. If they said they were anything other than Schleswig Holstein farmers, I'd be surprised - fat of the land, or what?

There's the elderly English couple, traumatised by the choice of food on offer, they stick to what they know and what they're used to: tea and toast. Then there's the other English couple, where he just sits at table while she scurries to and fro, ensuring that his every need and breakfast urge is catered for. He gulps and tears at his food accompanied by frequent grunts and slurps. A trough wouldn't be out of place.

There's the beautiful dark French couple with the toddler. All three ooze chic from every pore. They seem so stylish and urbane; I'm sure that the toddler is allowed only black coffee for breakfast followed by a Gitanes.

And lastly there's the blond German couple with three blond sons all under 10 years old. They seem so relaxed and easy with each other. So helpful and forgiving. They all muck in together gathering what they need for this first meal of the day. And if someone spills or tips something; hey, it's not the end of the world.

I saw the father sunbathing by the pool in his swimming trunks when I came back from the beach tonight. If he scattered his breakfast on the floor and then rolled in it, I wouldn't think any the less of him!

[In a camp Swansea accent] O my God, I think I love him...!

Nobody's perfect...

I am 49. At the age of 10 the local farmer's dog attacked me, biting my arm and chest. Aged 12, my brother split my lip by throwing an ashtray at me because I told him the score to a football match he was looking forward to watching. At 15 I found out I was diabetic and began taking insulin. Aged 17 I fell off the front of a moving land rover and dislocated my right hip. At 30 I had a fit because of low blood sugars and needed stitches in my head. Aged 34 I broke a rib in an argument and at 43 I fractured a finger in another argument. At 45 I broke my ankle in Rome during another fit caused by low blood sugars. Aged 46 I had my right wrist operated on to relieve carpel tunnel syndrome. At 47 I broke my scaphoid bone in my right wrist after I went over the handlebars of my bike and I also had some cosmetic dental work to correct a crooked and gappy smile.

Nobody's perfect but we strive to maintain ourselves after the barrel of shite life throws at us. Today I saw a man on the nudist beach with only one leg. He had a prosthetic lower right leg. He was German. I know this because I overheard him talking. Later I saw a woman on the nudist beach (again, German) who'd had a mastectomy. I take my hat off (we're I wearing one) to both these individuals. It can't be easy being that honest; with others and with yourself.

Some people think that nudism is about showing off the perfect body. I've heard comments before (usually from the prudish Brits) such as, "How can she, looking like that!" Anyone who has ever set foot onto a nudist beach will know that this is not true. The Germans seem to manage this body honesty better than most nations - perhaps a bit of a surprise, given their recent history.

Body fascism may well have reached a crude and vicious pinnacle under the Third Reich but, in my opinion, it has been honed into a much finer and subtler tool under post war western consumerism. The media has banned images of imperfection. Growing older is no longer acceptable, if growing older means growing more imperfect.

Time was when we proudly displayed our scars; like trophies - a testament to our age and experience. Nowadays, it seems there is no greater crime than reminding those around us of our mortality. Wrinkles are a heinous crime rather than proof of life's experiences.

Life scars us; from the severing of the umbilical cord onwards, we become increasingly imperfect with every day that passes. And surely, it is these imperfections that we should value and hold aloft rather than that Peter Pan perfection that the media sells us.

Tomorrow we'll look at mental and emotional scars...

My suitcase stinks of red wine...

No, it's not a euphemism nor a coded exchange between secret agents; my suitcase does actually stink of red wine.

Whenever I come to Fuerteventura, I always stay at the same hotel and for the last few stays they've left me a bottle of red wine as a form of thanks. This is on top of the free bottle with which they greet every guest. There's only so much red wine a man can glug (and I can glug a fair bit).

After my evening run and swim I settle down with a vodka and coke to write this blog. As much as I like red wine, it tends to mess me up for the next day and I don't see the point of flying all the way to the Canaries for some winter sun, only to spend the day in bed with a hangover. So vodka wins the day.

Anyway, long story short; last night I decided that I'd put the red wine in my suitcase so that I didn't forget it. Whilst it's not a great red, it's certainly drinkable. As I righted the case I heard the shattering of glass and red liquid running out onto the floor. Upon opening the case, it was littered with shards of glass and saturated with red wine. I put it on the balcony to dry out and I swept up the glass as best I could.

Today was a strange day weather wise. It started out quite promisingly but by mid afternoon the sun gracefully conceded defeat to the clouds and I wended my way back home from the beach. I think I know why my leg muscles have been so tight the last few days; I believe it's all the walking on sand I'm doing - some 4km a day (not a huge distance but if you're not used to walking on sand...).

My run tonight was enjoyable under the overcast sky. Yes, my leg muscles ached but now that I knew the cause it was less of a concern. When I got back to the hotel, I dived into the pool and luxuriated in the cool water knowing that this was doing my aching muscles a power of good.

It was when I returned to my room after my swim that I noticed that my suitcase stank of red wine - in fact, the entire room stank of red wine. I could smell it the moment I opened the door; that stale and fruity mix with the vinegar top notes. Clearly, I couldn't take my clothes home in it; customs at Cardiff would think that George Best had arrived.

I opened the case. Put it in the bath and turned on the shower. The case is now drying on my balcony. The clouds have cleared and, as I write this (sat on my balcony with my vodka), the evening is a splendidly sunny one. And there's not a whiff of red wine to sniffed anywhere.

What's Dunkirk Spirit in German...?

So, I'm sitting on the beach and it's hammering down with rain. Shortly after I'd managed to put up my little beach shelter this morning, the heavens opened. People scattered in all directions trying to find shelter but there was none to be found. I felt smug, sat in my beach shelter.

There's nothing quite so grim and British as sitting on a beach in the rain. Nothing, that is, except I was sharing my beach shelter with two German guys I'd met the day before. Well, I couldn't very well ignore them stood there wrapped in beach towels getting wet. So all three of us sat there looking grim and British whilst it rained for over an hour. "It's only water" I offered. The Germans didn't see the funny side.

After this the sun came out again but it wasn't quite the same. I left the beach at about three-ish and made my way back. It's about 2km back to the nearest hotel and everyone looked a little damp and dejected along the way, despite now bathing in brilliant sunshine again.

After a quick warm up, I set off on my run at about four-ish. I think my muscles were affected by today's damp start. My leg and buttock muscles ached. They had taken on a stiffness of old rubber and they didn't really begin to loosen until the run was almost over. After my run, I splashed about in the hotel pool for a bit but rather than a cool relief to the run, it just felt a little chilly.

An odd day but nothing that few glasses of vodka won't fix.

Altogether...

Altogether, it was a lovely day today. I spent it on the beach in the altogether. Glorious sunshine without a cloud in the sky, despite the BBC's forecast of cloud and light rain. The only wet I felt was the spray back from changing my colostomy bag the salty spume of the ocean.

Nearby there was a kite festival with the most spectacular kites borne aloft by the gusty warm wind. I would share some photos with you from today but they may have to wait. When I was on holiday in Istanbul, I couldn't use many of the Blogspot functions because the iPad doesn't handle them too well; using photos in my blog was one of the casualties. I bought an app to help me better interface with my blog on Blogspot via my iPad; trouble is, that the app is awaiting release following iOS5 and currently doesn't work. If I can't get any photos up I'll do it retrospectively when I get back.

Having spent the entire day on the beach, I returned to my hotel by 5pm and then went for a run. The sun was low in the sky but still brilliant and warm. The first part of the run is uphill and I'd started to sweat before I reached the top. Much of the rest of the run is either on the flat or slightly down hill. It feels wonderful to run buoyed along by this beautiful balmy weather.

The run itself was relaxed. I have a slight twinge in my right hip again and I'm getting an odd sensation from my my left knee - nothing to worry about. It seems ungrateful to complain about these things, given the circumstances of my run. When I got back to the hotel, I went for a dip in the hotel pool - cool and refreshing after a hot and sweaty run.

The only cloud on the horizon is that the only English language news channel I can find is Skynews; that prejudiced and reactionary, right wing, poisonous excuse for objectivity...

The highs and the lows...

Let's start with the lows so I can end on a high. Actually, there's only one low and that is that I had to return my Nike+ GPS Sportwatch yesterday and get my money back. I really liked the watch but there seems to be a problem with the Nike+ website; after functioning perfectly well for a time it then ceases to upload runs to the website.

From reading the Nike+ Forum this fault seems to be with the website rather than the watch and has been grumbling on for the last six months. Six months is a long time to suffer these problems because the functionality is limited on the watch itself; it is only when the results are uploaded to the website that the functionality comes into its own.

When I spoke to the staff at the Nike shop in Cardiff, they said that Nike were looking to get this resolved in the new year. That's a long time to wait to upload your runs. I asked for my money back. I'm not the only one to return the watch. Nike are losing both money and credibility over this.

And the highs...? Well, as much as I love to run in the Cardiff drizzle (and I really do) I sometimes fancy a change: to run in broad daylight with the sun on my back is such a temptation in the dank November weather. And, hey presto, Bob's your uncle (Fanny's your aunt); tonight that is exactly what I did tonight.

A lovely run in my short shorts and running vest, sunglasses on and a bit sweaty from a run in 25C, I stripped and dived into the pool for a bit of a cool down. I'm now sat on my balcony with an ice cold vodka and coke typing this (and looking somewhat stern - must be the vodka).

Early this morning, I boarded a flight for (cheap and cheerful) Fuerteventura and by lunchtime I was sat by the pool. Ahead of me I have a week of sun, sand and sea air. A week where I can do what I want when I want. I'm sure it will pass in a flash.