The mid-morning sun cuts into a dozen odd pieces through the shabby, dusty blinds of my dungeon-like apartment. I awaken slowly with a vino tinto headache and admire the beautiful raven-haired, olive-skinned Spanish señorita lying next to myself. I peel back the bed sheets and notice the FC Barcelona tattoo on the right cheek of her sexy little arse. I become mildly pissed off at the thought of some hairy tattoo artist drawing on my bird’s posterior, but it subsides. I know she’s not perfect; neither am I or anyone else. I met her at Es Paradis three weeks back as we both came up at the same time. With the assistance of the love drug, I fell for her instantly. Her name is Clara, an Eivissa native.

The bed squeaks as if there were a volleyball bouncing up and down underneath the mattress as I arise. I put on a fresh pair of shorts and vest. The angel awakens. “Buenos Dias,” she says as she rubs her entrancing eyes. “Hola,” I replied as I fastened the laces of my trainers, trying to hide a smirk that cannot be contained.

We walk the back streets of Sant Antoni together, her hand in mine and mine in hers. The solar rays beam down upon the tarmac and the remaining Moorish cobblestones as the humidity rises and the heat cranks up to 23 Celsius pre-noon. We stroll by apartment blocks and budget hotels filled with young Brits and Germans sleeping off hangovers and sleep eluding those with comedowns.

She hardly speaks English and I only speak basic Spanish and zero Catalan, yet somehow we get each other, at least for now. We stop by the tabacs, where I glance over the large glass doors of a humidor filled to the brim with Cuban cigars. I purchase a pack of Montecristo Minis, a Hoyo de Monterrey Epicure No. 2, and a day old copy of the Sun. the old guy behind the counter rings it up. The total comes to €20 on the dot; man, I love this country some days. She stands in the doorway of the shop waiting for me patiently, playing with her hair, her eyes like a blazing bush fire I hope will never be extinguished.

Next, we head into the supermercat further down the road. I purchase her a can of Lipton Ice Tea and a can of Cruzcampo for myself, to sooth my morning brain-ache. Thereafter, as we cut towards the exit, for shits and giggles I punch the head off a cardboard cut out of Gareth Bale dressed in his Real Madrid kit. Clara puts her arm over my shoulder as her high-pitched hysterical laughter fills the aisles and tears of joy run down her radiant face. Her mascara has run and has now made her resemble a fuckable panda. It was completely juvenile, I know, but do I regret it? Do I fuck? One of the cheque-out girls walks over and starts yelling something inaudible at me, so I gave her €10 and she fucked off.

She unlocks the front doors of the tapas bar/cafe she works at down on the corner overlooking the Balearic Sea. I take a seat out front and read the form from the digital edition of the Racing Post on my phone. She sets up her workplace for the first customers of the day to arrive and brings me over a caf é con leche with some serrano ham, chorizo sausages, and fried eggs.

I save Castletown King to my horse tracker as I fancy his chances in the second race at Worcester this afternoon and I wonder: how did I end up in this position? Last month, I was mopping decks on a rundown tanker in the middle of the English Channel, taking shit from sadists, bullies, and perverts. Ah, well; enjoy it while it lasts. Locals show up for their late morning coffees and elderly Brits, most likely inhabitants of timeshares, enjoy their first beer or wine of the day.

Clara sits down on the chair next to me on her break and we converse away in broken English and awkward Spanish as she tries to teach me Catalan, but we mostly laugh and smile in the wake of the midday sunshine. In these moments I am happiest, enjoying the simple things in life. I could pause the world and drown in her presence right now, but instead, I understand she is no unicorn and patiently wait for the cracks to appear and the craziness to ensue. So I take it easy, play it cool, and recognise that this infatuation is finite. Because she is not my girl; it is just my turn.