“Where’ve you just come from?” asked the smiley young fella in Pier D at around half one this morning.

I drew a complete blank. Amsterdam? Athens? “Ummm… er… Budapest” I finally managed to splutter. My brain must store cities alphabetically, because at that stage this morning, after three hours sat on the floor in a sweaty dog box of an airport, plus another forty minutes stuck on the runway while thunder and lightning blared around the plane, I was running on auto. Ryanair are a shower of wastrels, but even their incompetence last night couldn’t detract from a brilliant weekend in Budapest.

The best of the best bits:

- Our five star hotel, featuring a classy pool and spa, and champagne breakfast on Sunday morning
- Endless coffees and slices of cake at a little cafe down the street
- Dancing like maniacs on a boat until the wee small hours on Saturday
- Climbing Mount Gellert in flip flops in thirty two degree heat; the view from the top was ample reward
- Chats and giggles and pranks, and incredulity that we’ve known each other ten years now

I’m broke as hell and every muscle in my body aches, but I’m happy out the door.