I do not like boats. And I particularly don't like boats that are skippered by lunatics who deliberately hit every wave and introduce my stomach to my throat.
Yesterday we left the sleepy island of Gozo and ferried back to mainland Malta. And despite a crossing rougher than Katie Price's accent, I managed to hold onto most of my breakfast.
I am missing island time, the manana approach to getting things done and the belief that stress happens someplace else. Oh and the slightly bonkers twin sisters who ran the pensione and liked to serve calorific cakes for breakfast (yesterday I sidestepped the eggs and toast entirely and had a slice of chocolate mud cake).
Our home for the next few nights is a nondescript hotel in Silema, full of pasty Brits and Germans with an unnerving fondness for polyster, and none of the charm of our Gozitian pensione. But if I was to put on my Pollyanna hat – and I must – then at least there is lots to do here and an abundance of shops capable of leaching the euros from my wallet.
And it's still better than the alternative – being in Bristol and at work.