… and so I ended up in Ibiza …

… leaving my door at a grizzly 8C;

lying flat on my back on an airport lounge shower floor in a desperate attempt to rid myself of, if not my head, at least its interior ache;

medicating myself with sleep-inducing, pain relieving concoctions;

being delayed by three hours that resulted in an additional wait of five and a new destination;

arriving at an airport without an address for a mountain-hidden Spanish farmhouse …

… after 41 hours, with a hug-welcome.

I had being saying for months that I needed hugs – more hugs, more often, stronger hugs, more touch … ironic that, when the wish is granted but the outcome is not one that looks like that expected … so …

I accepted the hug the way that I accept most hugs – with a veneer of my social self separating the other.

Ibiza – light-filled with a memory of the day’s warmth at 6pm.