3:30 pm

Dear Diary. The plane is delayed. I'm sitting in a chair at Ibiza airport. The sound of chatter of people around me. I'm eating nuts from a packet. I'm hungry. I barely ate anything this trip. Apart from a lavish barbeque meal that Julian's Italian friends made for us one night. I haven't eaten breakfast. Okay, I ate a sandwich, but it was just mayo and lettuce leaves (we'd run out of meat, and I didn't want to eat cheese in case casein does cause autism after all.)

I'm feeling calm, relaxed, and a little spaced out. I attribute this to the Clonazepam Joe gave me last night to help me sleep. It's a relaxant and anti-anxiety medication. I don't know where he gets them from; presumably not with a doctor's prescription. He says he's been taking half of one every night for the past eight months. He calls them "Benzos". Sounds like he's a Benzo addict. If he ever tried coming off them, he'd probably never sleep, a week later he'd be sitting there clutching her legs, his eyes red and bloodshot, while rocking back and forth and mumbling, "Please let me sleep, please let me sleep."

6 pm

I'm on the Barcelona airport shuttle bus. It's a free bus that takes you between terminals. I need to get from Terminal 1 (where I landed) to Terminal 2 (where the train station is). They've built these terminals so far apart that you need a bus to get between them. If it was me, I wouldn't have two terminals, I'd just have one big terminal, and there'd be thousands of automatic walkways taking everyone where they needed to go.

7:20 pm

Now I'm on the train to Barcelona. The seats on this train make my back hurt. After this, I'll have to run to catch another train, the train to Girona.

I hope I'm on the right train. The next stop should be Barcelona Sants. If it isn't then I'm going to start banging the doors with my fists while crying for my mommy until security come and take me away. Then I'll ask the security guys for a lift to Barcelona Sants. It's a foolproof plan.

8 pm

I'm at Barcelona Sants station. Now I need to buy a ticket for the train to Girona. But the ticket offices have changed since I was last here. Now I don't know which ticket office I need to go to. Plus there are long queues at each one and I only have 15 minutes before the train leaves without me.

Suddenly I spot a self-service ticket machine. I walk over and successfully use it to buy a train ticket to Girona. Yes! All the drugs I did this weekend haven't damaged my brain as much as I thought.

Now I have the ticket. But where do I go? Which platform is it? I run to an information board, one of those electronic ones where the writing's in green on a black background and everything changes every few seconds. Studying it, I see the word "Girona". Next to Girona it says "R11". What does R11 mean? Is that the platform number?

So I run to platform 11. People are hanging around, waiting for the train to show up. I don't know if this is the right platform. The electronic information sign doesn't say Girona: it says some other places I've never heard of.

Panicking, I show a station attendant my ticket. He squints at my ticket. Then he points over to another platform and says, "Plataforma 13". Shit. I'm supposed to be on platform 13. And that platform's on the other side of the tracks. Maybe I can jump across? But then again, this is probably a bad idea, given that a) it's too far to jump, b) it's not allowed, and c) on my school's sports day, I achieved the record for the shortest long jump because I was so bad at long jumping, and indeed any sports at all for that matter, that I messed up the part where you have to do a hop, a skip, and a jump, all in quick succession — it was too much for my uncoordinated body to handle — and I only jumped ten centimetres.

So I run to the escalators instead. I run up them, two steps at a time, then run back down the ones on the other side. Now I'm on Platform 13. There's no sign of Harry Potter or any other wizards, but now that I think about it, that was King's Cross Station, not Barcelona Sants station. Also, wizards aren't real. (Though how would we know? Maybe they're invisible. A Spanish Harry Potter could be standing next to me, right now, wearing an invisibility cloak.)

I resist the urge to wave my arm about in case there's an invisible wizard standing next to me. Then the train comes, five minutes late. I jump on, find a cabin with air conditioning, and settle back for the next and final hour of the day's journey.

Fuck sake. These chairs are uncomfortable too.

8:40 pm

I'm almost back in Girona now. Christ, I just want to be home so I can tell Girlfriend all about my weekend in Ibiza.