The day after Pascha, was not so much a resurrection, and it was not very orthodox. Returning to the hotel at 6.30am, I imagined a sleep (brief), a shower (refreshing), a coffee (essential), and a trip to the airport (straightforward).

It became unorthodox shortly after the coffee, and for me the ‘pass over’ went in reverse. I had just been to heaven, and now I was hitting earth with a bump.

A few hours earlier I heard some of the best house music to reach my inner ear. The DJ was pure smoke. The place was bouncing like a car in a Snoop video, and with 16 euro bottles of beer in our hands, so were we.

When BA told me my flight was cancelled, and they had kindly put me on the same flight the following day. I went from BA, to Hannibal, to Murdoch, within about 10 seconds. Howling mad, and not best situated to make a meaningful plan B.

What ensued was a flight 4 hours later than planned, delayed by a further hour, to an airport in north London, whilst my car is in a west London airport carpark. An hour cab ride with Britains late night red bull drinker, followed by an hour drive home. I got back to base at 4am and I had work. “Todays morning will be sponsored by Nespresso”.

I have Sara to thank for coaching me through the day. My emotions ran the full scale. I wasn’t angry, I was fatigued. So many moving parts, so much jeopardy, and so much waiting. A proper mental test. Given my bpm raised only briefly during the ordeal, it underscores the belief I have in my own resilience. I have the tattoo ‘fall 7 rise 8’ for a reason. 

To my surprise I never muttered or even thought the words ‘I’m never drinking again’. This wasn’t just any hangover. This was capped off at the most famous club in Ibiza. A club that has hosted all the house hall of famers. The venue where I shook all the hands of the Swedish house mafia 10 years earlier. 

I’m lucky it wasn’t Amnesia, or I wouldn’t have remembered a thing…