The rest of my holiday in Spain passed without too much incident. We’d planned to go to Granada for one of the remaining days, but frankly no-one could be arsed, so we loitered instead. We loitered with absolutely no intent whatsoever. But then, on the last day, we couldn’t live with the reality that we’d spent a week in Spain in a back garden owned by a couple from St Albans, while on the rare occasions we’d ventured out we’d only seen about 2 square miles of territory that was mainly occupied by slightly moronic British people. And a supermarket that sold Irn Bru and Shreddies. So to assuage our cultural guilt we had a trip up the coast and ended up in Salobreña, which is basically a Moorish castle surrounded by a building site surrounded by sugar cane fields. We got there at 3, which was stupid, because everything shuts at 2 and doesn’t reopen until 5. Forgetting this siesta, we had a long, hard, slightly unrewarding climb up to the Moorish castle, which we then leaned on and sweated over. I took a photo of the only view I could find without trucks and cement in it, so in years to come I could look back at my trip to Salobreña with far more affection than I ought to.

The flight back to Gatwick was blighted by low cloud and poor visibility across South London. We moved about aimlessly in thick grey terrifying horribleness for 20 minutes, which is probably a bit like appearing on Parkinson. We eventually landed, got to the long-term car park to pick up the car, and my concerns about its drivability were confirmed during the 90-minute drive home. All the wheels seem to be pointing in different directions these days, and any speed over 40mph causes alarming juddering. I’m going to have to scrap the thing, which causes me a certain amount of irritation, not least because I’ve become used to having a car and I can’t afford a new one, or even an old one.

There was no rest for the post-holiday holidaymakers on Saturday; we had to drive to Norfolk to the wedding of Red and Tim. This meant hiring a car whose wheels all pointed in the same direction, i.e. towards Norfolk. The ceremony was at 11am in the salt marshes of Stiffkey. Attendees of said ceremony were advised to bring wellingtons, as the throng would all be wading some 1.5 miles out to sea, where the vows would be exchanged to the chirping chirrups of the saltmarsh saltwarbler, or something. Jenny and I knew that we’d be still hacking our way up through rather Royston Vasey-esque villages in East Anglia at the time, and so, resigned to missing the ceremony, we didn’t bother bring wellingtons. We arrived at the reception in dainty footwear to discover that it was, uh, in a sodden woodland glade near the village of Swanton Novers.

We got very muddy very quickly. I managed to cadge – or canadged, if you will – some wellies that were two sizes too small, and spent the day developing corns. Jenny canaged some walking boots that were two sizes too big, and spend the day developing a taste for cava with elderflower cordial in it.

Tom Morley, the original drummer with Scritti Politti, was at the reception doing a massed djembe bangathon. Small world! We discussed the many merits of “Skank Bloc Bologna”; Jenny took a photo, but it made Tom and I both look bloody awful so I deleted it. I played the saw, again; this is fast becoming the party piece that everyone has already seen, so I really need to learn to play the chisel or lathe or something. Daniel Pemberton, composer of theme music to “Peep Show” (amongst many other theme musics) showed me card tricks at which I was phenomenally impressed. A gypsy band played some Serbian folk tunes in 15/8 time that no-one could realistically dance to, but, fuelled by local beer and slices of whole roast suckling pig, people had a stab regardless. Then girl of about 6 who called herself Gypsy Kate improvised on the piano and impersonated a dog. You get the idea. It was fantastic. But much of its success hung on everyone’s wellies. Take away all the wellies, and you’d left with anger and filth. Which, as we all know, isn’t right for anyone’s wedding day. Not even my own.