Ibiza

IBIZA

I do not think of the island of Ibiza as a retreat for sun, sand, sea and the other as most British people do, but rather a place of pain, embarrassment and cactus needles. During a holiday there I stepped from a small wall outside a shop and felt a sharp pain in my right big toe. Nothing was visible but the pain intensified walking back to the hotel and further investigation in the middle of a sleepless night confirmed there was something decidedly amiss. Pressing the top of my toe, a lump appeared underneath and vice versa, convincing me something alien was lodging inside.

         A taxi ride into town the following morning to a Spanish speaking doctor revealed a cactus needle was embedded completely inside the toe. An excruciating local injection, followed by a small operation removed the inch long needle which I still have as a souvenir. The doctor then demonstrated through body language that I needed to turn over and drop my trousers. He administered a further injection with the accuracy and force of Jockey Wilson going for double top. With tears stinging my eyes I leapt from the table and in my haste to restore my clothes and composure completely bust the zip in my jeans.

         The only solution to limping through the town to the taxi rank without drawing attention to my embarrassing state of undress was to purchase a painting from a nearby street artist and carry it strategically placed over my exposed parts. To this day my toe still throbs when the weather is about to change and is a useful barometer to forecast rain. The throbbing always reminds me of that Spanish island I’m sure no one else remembers for the same reason.