Sitting down to enjoy my holiday.
Ah, the transcendent beauty of the Canary Islands. Lanzarote is to glorious summer holidays what vomit is to food. Beset on all sides by seas of rain-cloud grey volcanic rock, the scenery is a joy to behold, best seen from the boot of a rust wrapped mini-van.
On arrival in this most deplorable of destinations we were immediately made aware of the fact that our presence had reduced the average age of the island by 12.2 years. The coffin dodging nearly deads take this place en masse in a sort of octogenarian invasion.
A miasma hangs over the place, perhaps as a result of the expiring groups of antiques tottering around in the their hanging, varnish engrained body suits. I am at a loss as to how Lanzarote is so revered by the fervent crowds of teens and 20-somethings who hang to the rocks to enjoy a lust and alcohol fuelled sojourn. My only explanation for it is that they unite in consternation as to why exactly they have come here on disembarking from the sardine tin that brought them here and head straight to the nearest providing of mind altering substances in the misguided hope that a light other than that reaped from the cloud covered sun may be shone onto their currently dismal circumstance.
I have been here for just over 24 hours…more to come
