Hoskin and I are in Alicante. I had no idea 31 degree heat was only £35 away in September but it is. We have been going on holiday together since we were kids. Twenty years - eek. I can’t help but notice that we only seem to care about sun, sea and sleep these days. I bemoan that we are old. She insists we just like different stuff now.Talking of old, it’s off-season which apparently means on-season for the aged and declined of mind. At lunchtime the café was speckled with septuagenarians in different stages of decrepitude. Behind me a British ex-pat argued that his nicotine patches were removing the nicotine from his body. In front of me a bag of skin spent a good hour trying to eat one sardine. Almost at the finishing line she placed an ambitious mouthful on her fork and promptly lowered it beneath the table for the house cat to suck off. To my left an old man kept flinging bits of breadstick to the pigeons while to my right a shrivelled crone stamped her feet and kicked violently at any peckish birds. She looked like she was having the most fun. With all this decaying flesh about making me feel special you can imagine my shock when a veritable porn star goddess appeared on the beach this afternoon. I’m talking all tits and ass in a string bikini. I’m talking lime green thong to set off an unreal tan that was real. She was playing bat and ball with a kid. Her kid? Her kid brother? Who cares? (Me, I’m curious). Everyone on the beach was staring at this unholy vision. For hours. ‘Wow, she just loves bending over, doesn’t she?’ Hoskin marvels. ‘Well, she has to pick up the ball. She’s just not very good at bat and ball. She’s just… wow.’ I mutter back. Pfff, I’m depressed.There is nothing lovelier than stripping off and diving into the sea in the moonlight. There is nothing more painful than landing slap bang on a jelly fish. Christ that shit hurts. What you need to do in this situation, after you’ve styled out the initial shock by paddling furiously in several increasingly frantic circles while the pain spreads, is flash your vicious wounds at the local all night shop keeper and invest in vinegar.Back at the hotel and our 402 degree room stinks like a chippie. Hoskin is delighted. She says if the vinegar doesn’t work I can piss on myself. She won't give me a peanut. Apparently this is hilarious. I am lying in a puddle of vinegar, in a lot of pain, her cackle ringing in my ears, hoping for a reprieve on the peanut front, when another natural remedy – booze - finally knocks me out. When I wake the pain is gone, but a raging red mark remains. It stretches from my navel and round to my back where it forks dramatically and continues on. I am totally chuffed.At the market I decide literature is the best way to really master Spanish and invest €1 in a second hand copy of El Libro de la Vida Sexual. Whoever owned it before me took this book very seriously and I don’t just mean the pictures. Whole passages have been underscored.“The man does. The woman is.” This has been underlined twice. Fascinating.