6pm
I enjoy another Campari & Naranja served in what appears to be a goldfish bowl, sitting looking down onto the beach which appears to be entirely populated by young lovers, naked children and elderly nudists. We spend a pleasant few hours feeling like genial perverts.
8pm
Much talk of dinner, particularly the kind of dinner that comes all on the one plate (the others are not so enamoured of the pinxtos). No actual dinner materialises.
10pm
We're on the prowl, but bladder issues see the search for a cool grungy bar abandoned in favour of grotty disco bar. Toilets appear to have been recently frequented by H-blockers.
12am
Cosy corner in a lovely little bar, all knocking back pints of vodka and lemon because we don't know what anything else is called, and the Basques do not speak our particular brand of Esperanto. The hand-dryer in the small shared toilet causes power cuts, painful electric shocks and some mild distress.
1am
My attempts to chat up the bemulleted barman fall on their snot owing to inebriation, insurmountable language barriers and the presence of infinitely more attractive women. Instead I indulge in excited conversation with a charming skinhead in the jacks (who also speaks Esperanto, or perhaps just English).
2am
We acquire cheeseburgers (apparently by magic) and I find police riot helmet on a bin. Eat cheeseburger while wearing helmet and staging mock arrests for photos, sustain punch to the face from brother who has not realised that helmet is child-sized toy replica. Sulk a little.
¿3am?
To the playa we go, full of spirits. I carefully pile my possessions into my helmet and splash around "swimming" like a tipsy sea lion in the shin-deep sea. Greeted by friendly Australians as I stroll home in my bra and knickers, I fail to seize what will turn out to be my best chance to score on this holiday.
