Speaking of pale, and realising that even my freckles were vanishing, I jumped at the chance to meet up with El Gordo on the Costa del Sunny in Spain. He'd been working in Madrid so just had to take a short hop by ‘plane to Malaga. It was only a weekend trip for me, but a couple of days of 20 degrees and sunshine does wonders for the soul, especially if it happens to be cold and wet at home.

I got up at the crack of dawn (poor Dawn, she must clench every time she hears that expression, and I'm not referring to her teeth being clenched...), but had done my online check-in to save a few valuable minutes. I've discovered that some airlines don't have online check-in from their European destinations, so well worth paying the few extra quid to reserve your seat and know where you'll be sitting, especially if you're travelling with someone else. However, I've also discovered that with Aer Lingus, for example, the vast majority of people don't pre-reserve seats, so when online check-in opens a day prior to departure, you can check yourself in to one of the better seats, and put the cash towards reserving your return seat, where you can't do online check-in. You have to be one step ahead of the hoards!! And believe me, any flight to a Spanish costa will have hoards on board!!

The people-watching is priceless at the boarding gate - the inevitable hen-party, complete with pink, sequin-trimmed cowboy hats and feather boas, highlights and fake-bake recently touched up for the occasion, and a collection of clothes that wouldn't have been quite big enough for Paris Hilton, let alone these hefty hens! If they hadn't been so loud you could probably have heard the straps on their tops and sandals groaning under the pressure, and the pints that some of them were knocking back weren't helping (at 8am!).

Then there's the middle-aged, middle-class set, popping down to make use of their holiday apartment. She's all nautical, navy 'n' white striped top and ‘Cote d'Azur' tote, compete with gold anchor emblem, which set off her gold loafers to a tee, and he's in a pair of Marks' chinos and deck shoes. Neither of them has ever set foot on a boot, of course, apart from the ferry to Scotland.

Next you've got the families, heading off on a cheap out-of-season holiday. The younger ones, struggling with nappy bags, buggies refusing to fold and toddlers running around the terminal, who look like they'll have a nervous breakdown somewhere over Wales, and the older ones, who had their breakdowns ages ago, and now have that lovely prescription from Dr. McDonnell. Washed down with a pitcher of sangria, those pills will work wonders when it comes to dealing with their stroppy teeenagers, engrossed in their PSPs and iPods, snarling at each other from time to time, and reminding the parents that they "never asked to go on this stupid holiday anyway".

The remainder of my cabin-mates are either young Spaniards working in Ireland returning home for the weekend, or young luvvers, drooling over each other and prompting my ‘geddaroom' glare.

My flight passes without incident. The drone of the engines sending most of the early-risers back to dreamland for a while, and before we know it we're being advised to fasten our seat belts as we're coming in to land. We fly in over the mountains of Andalucia, their red earth dotted with olive and citrus trees, with the Med shimmering in the morning sunshine in the background. Excitement levels rise as people lean towards the windows and there isn't a person on board who isn't pleased to see the good ole' Costa bathed in sunshine.

I've only got my Louis V weekend bag (which for once can be used for a weekend - anything more than 1 night and I end up trying to beat an extra pair of kitten heels into those last 2 inches of space with a mallet and failing miserably, leaving me no option but to buy new ones whilst I'm away!), so I manage to make a quick getaway and within minutes I've met up with El Gordo at the carhire desk.

El gordo literally means "the fat one", by the way, but they're far less size-ist in South America (something to do with the amount of refried beans, rice and tortillas they all knock back, I imagine), so it's commonly used as a term of endearment, and in my case means "chunky" rather than full-on "fat"!!! As they don't mean it offensively they throw it out willy-nilly and I've seen complete strangers address him with "Hola, gordo", which in harsh terms could be translated as "Hey, lard-ass".

We've had our share of dramas with carhire before, particularly in Spain, so I wanted to make sure all was in order before leaving the desk. One time we arrived on a Friday at the height of high season to be told our reservation wasn't worth the paper it was printed on because they simply had no cars left, apart from one that was slightly larger than a lawnmower (there were 4 of us with suitcases). No apologies, no explanation, left to fend for ourselves and rent a much more expensive car from an alternative carhire company (the firm were called ‘Centauro' - avoid them at all costs!!).  Another time we picked the cheapest car - never again! It was at Malaga airport, where a lot of the carhire companies don't have offices directly in the terminal building and you have to trudge over there with your suitcase, or they send a minibus to pick you up. By the time we'd done the paperwork and gotten to pick up the car it seemed like we'd earned Spanish citizenship because so much time had elapsed!! Then I finally got to see the car and was gutted - it was Japanese, tiny and canary yellow. I think it was actually a Tamagotchi. We got in, trundled off, but I had such a gob on that at the first roundabout at the exit of the airport, El Gordo turned right back around and drove back to the carhire office, saying that he'd gladly pay the extra to avoid the shame of being seen driving the Tamagotchi!

Before long we were zooming off along the coast in our brand new shiny car, heading towards Marbella.

Catch up with Judy next week when her Costa journey continues...