Anyways, I left on Tuesday morning with only one day left to go in my week-long vegetarian crusade. I was planning on having a big dirty beef burger with a side of pork chops drizzled in bacon fat for breakfast the next morning but until that time, I would be sticking steadfastly to my vegetarian guns.
But those bloody Spaniards had other plans and within a few hours of landing, I had blood on my hands. Beautiful, juicy, blood that had been squeezed from the inside of the tastiest steak ever known to my belly.
I know, I know, I'm a failure with as much self control as a puppy humping a letterbox but you should have seen the temptations I was faced with. The first meal served up to us had twelve courses. Twelve!
Not one of them were meat or fish free and they were all the kind of delicious that can make a man do strange and unreasonable things. Once I'd broken the seal, I figured I may as well be in for a penny as a pound and proceeded to eat a petting zoo-worth of meat.
I avoided my veg sponsor, Miriam, for a couple of days after my premature return to the carnivore pack but eventually had to tell her of my capitulation. She now says I'm going to have to take on the veg challenge again but this time for two weeks instead of one. I told her not to hold her breath.