There's No One Quite Like Grandma

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Somewhere in Paris I believe they have the official definitive 'metre'.  I think it's just a metal stick but all other sticks take their measurement from that.  We should do the same with a Premier Inn breakfast.  It should be kept somewhere safe, probably in the Tower of London, as the reference point for anyone wanting to claim they serve a 'full English'.  Neil performed his usual trick of hoovering his breakfast off the plate like a half-starved labrador while I savoured every last bit.  It will be toast and marmalade for the next 10 days.

The airport was reasonably quiet but our flight was rammed.  If you ever wondered what sort of people go to Malaga in February the answer is....very old people.  We weren't THE youngest people on the plane but we were definitely in the youngest 20%.  Our seats were surrounded by white haired old biddies who spent the flight drinking tea then visiting the loo nineteen times.  Sometimes for a bit of variety they spilt their tea over the floor,  themselves or the person in the next seat.  Bless them.

Anyway, we are now in Malaga.  We manhandled our bags and bikes onto the train from the airport and found our apartment, which is very nice, and  are now having a celebratory cerveza.  The weather isn't exactly el scorchio but a hell of a lot better than we left behind at Gatwick.  Nick and Lorraine should be here at about 20:30 and tomorrow I suppose we better do some cycling.

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