Stuffed and mounted chicken. Check. Assorted insects in plastic ice cubes. Check. Red pomegranate. Check.
If customs stop me I am going to have a hard time explaining this.
Mrs Head has packed us up for the annual pilgrimage to Ibiza. She keeps reminding me that one suitcase is full of assorted tricks, pranks and general mirth-making accessories. It seems I am the only one who finds them entertaining.
The red pomegranate gets pride of place. I nicked it from our friend’s villa down in The Med last summer and since then it turns up unexpectedly in family photos. Sister-in-law’s recent wedding? Red pomegranate. Christmas dinner pics? Red pomegranate.
It’s stupid but I find it funny.
Head Lines will be down for the next few weeks as I transplant myself to a sun lounger. We are joining that great exodus of Londoners leaving the city during August. It will the sun on my back and the Med at my ankles. Bliss.
About 20 of us local folk will be taking over the village of Es Canar in Ibiza and making it an annex of our own London neighbourhood.
No internet. No Blackberry. No blogs.
Just sangria, sun and serious fun.
See you all back here at the end of the month, dear readers.
Keep the faith,