Merda! Los capitàs ebris!

I wake with a start and look at my mobile, my head still spinning. It is 7:31 am, and our flight left 6 minutes ago.

"G..." I look over at The Gorgeous who is sleeping, "G... we've missed our flight."

The Gorgeous bolts upright.
"But I'm ready to go!"

And that she is, she is still fully dressed from the night before. Right down to coat and boots.

I stumble to the washroom, red eyed and still very much inebriated.

We had been sensible, had opted for late night glasses of wine near Sta María del Mar each evening, avoiding the crowded bars and clubs. In truth we were knackered, the last week had been frantic, moving out of my house, leaving the job I adored and spending a non-stop 3 days in Wales seeing relatives. There had been no time to take it easy.
We had headed to Barcelona to relax, to shop, to reconnect and take it slow.
Had scoured the markets for fresh food at La Boquería, wandered the street of El Born taking in little boutiques, wide eyed at the beauty of the Catalans. Had walked the steps to the top of Sagrada Familia and wandered around Parc Guell behind tourists and locals until our feet were aching and we headed to the marina for jugs of sangria and tapas.

And then, our last night.

Over Rioja and paella, we attracted the attention of the two men beside us.
Captains, apparently, from landlocked Hamburg. In town for the Regatta.

I was the voice of reason. One drink, I said, we'll have one or two drinks and then head back. We have an early flight tomorrow.

Too many years had passed since the Gorgeous and I had drunk together, I forgot to remind her. There is no grey area and there is no turning back.

One drink turned into two, and so we sat idly chatting and drinking rum on the deck of their yacht. Two drinks became three and there it was.

"Let's go over there!" I say, pointing in the direction of the neon lights of Port Olímpic.

It goes from responsible drinking to convenient forgetfulness of the 1am curfew I had placed on The Gorgeous and I. Homemade rum, apparently, was my trigger this time.

And so we went, from bar to bar, from drink to drink. There is a vague recollection of inappropriate snogging of a gorgeous Catalan boy and then more rum on the yacht before I looked at the time and the clock read 4:17 am. We have to be on our way to the airport in an hour.

After this, it all gets a bit fuzzy. I remember walking up the long flights of stairs to our flat, thinking I may rest my weary head for 15 minutes and setting my alarm to wake up. The Gorgeous lays down, ready to walk out the door in half an hour.

And then.

"G..." I say, fuzzy headed. "G... we've missed our flight."

And so we did. But through some divine intervention, we managed to get the only 2 seats left on a flight that day back to London, slowly starting to sober up on the flight home.

I am never flying with a hangover again.

And I am never drinking rum with sailors ever again...