Sunday 21st May. Sunday involved beachiness. Beachiness is always good when the sun shines to a decent level, but there's something about Sundays, lying there attempting to look vaguely unBritish and hoping to God that you at least gain some colour with the exposure to ultraviolet rays which is just... special. Or pathetic. However, lying on a beach-towel close to several hot young ladies and pretending not to take in the ample Europeaness of the scantically-clad women who have gone all al-fresco further up the beach is also good. There was also ritual burial, purchasing of said beach towel and swimming trunks/costume/unSpeedo-like garments. There was the search for a toilet and a rating system for the guys on the beach that completely lost me for a while, until it didn't.

The day came and went. Ice-creams were bought, dropped, bought again and eaten carefully. The car trip there and back was full of memorable lines (though I can't remember if the best came on the way or the way back, which kinda dilutes my point). However everyone recalled Shaleah's 'Peach Flavoured Cows' and my 'Jolly Good Think...' would come back to haunt both of us again and again. Particularly from Alex, but he's a Republican, so I could find ways to taunt him later. :) The evening was full of wine, good humour and water polo. Not being able to swim I had a much better time than one might expect and despite blatant cheating from Kit, un-vicar like pragmatism by Dawson and a vicious tearing of my forearm skin by Holly (she's an animal, I tell you and she was on my bloody side at the time!) all went exceedingly well and the day finished well into the next. I haven't partied that hard in a while. I may need another holiday just to recover.