BERNADETTE? Well I'll be darned. The whole circus is in town.

• Even the wait for the check-in to open couldn't spoil our mood - we’d had a great week, as Paul’s attack of conjunctivitis and the fact we had 12 hours sleep Saturday night attested. We went to get two coffees and much needed carbohydrate in the form of two pastries. And got change from 6 Euro. That’s less than £4 – try the same trick at Heathrow (or Gatwick or Stanstead or “London’s Luton International”). It’s enough to make you move to Spain, as if Paul doesn’t need more encouragement.

• Next thing we know we’re in the Iberia Lounge and our old upstairs neighbour (Marcel? maybe?) from Rose St in Melbourne is there. He’d been in Barcelona for a couple of days, was now on his way to Ibiza for a wedding. He’d been out the night before, dancing until way too late, slept in, missed his plane and was now waiting for his next flight. Cue comments about small worlds, expressions of sympathy for our mutual plights and goodbyes.

• Earlier in the week we’d said goodbye to Bernadette, who returned to Melbourne via London. I think she had a good time in Sitges, as faghag #1. She certainly seemed to enjoy the Piano Bar, running around with a tiara on her head and dancing to what seemed to be all the music from my ipod. It was enough to make us think she’d been secretly taking faghag lessons in order to impress us.

• Impressive as well were Martin and Steve’s efforts, exercising most days. Some people I know would probably call me an exercise addict (I know who you are and I didn’t even go to gym this Sunday, so I’m not, right?) , but even I generally draw the line at exercising on holiday (except Devon – that was different, ok?). I normally pack running gear and then don’t feel guilty even though I fail to make any use of it on holiday.

• Bernadette was kind enough to leave a trendy hessian bag suitable for lugging groceries back home in when she left our apartment, somehow she couldn't fit that into her 30kgs of excess baggage. I used it on Saturday to get the groceries. Somehow I found it strangely comforting after the excesses of last week to have hessian rubbing against my bare skin. I'm sure some souls went from purgatory into heaven as a result.

• We tried to eat in at the villa a few more times this year (and some nights didn't even eat, but that’s gay men and their body dismorphia for you), so we had more money to spend on booze and beauty products. Clayton and Jari cooked some fantastic fish stuffed with peppers garlic, onion and olives, except for the blue one, of course, that fish was straight from the ‘Not Quite Right’ fish counter. Paul and I hosted a Mojito night on our terrace, then everybody was supposed to go out for dinner, but our nibbles were enough (and maybe the drink was too) to sate our housemates appetites.

• Apparently I have a nice accent, but it’s difficult to understand. I will try harder. (lo siento, Angel). Angel introduced the house to Damm Lemon, Beer with lemon and lime in it. I love beer. And I like lemon and lime. Me gusta mucho Damm Lemon.

• Lucy was fag-hag #2, and she stepped up to the plate when Bernie left to be fag-hag #1 (even if it was only for a few hours). She wore the black top above one evening, which of course the house loved because it was Kylie-esque - it was a close call as to whether it would be the cause of a wardrobe malfunction or not.
  

• Mike, the tall ‘strawberry-blonde’ Irishman took delight in me saying ‘Bernadette’. As Bernie was in the house, naturally this was quite a regular occurrence. It made him laugh because apparently I sounded like a character from Priscilla. Obviously one of the butch ones, though. Mike was also kind enough to introduce us to raspberry vodka and lime, which was enough to make me forgive him for anything. Even stalking my boyfriend.

• Stuie was his inimitable self – it’s his holiday too, you know. And only Stuie could end up chatting to people who lived a block from Paul and I, or invite people no-one knows to dinner, but that’s why we love him.
  

• Mark, as usual, was there in background with his acerbic wit, avoiding the sun to protect his kidmanesque skin, taking people on his Barcelona tour, and sneaking another drink when Angel wasn’t looking. His job now is to research the role of the Vichy government in WWII.