Lost in Space

Although Pau and I can go months without seeing each other (and make every effort not to) while we are both living in the same town and his flat is only 120 yards from mine, put us anywhere overseas and we are imperatively drawn together - a bit like molecules that simply must unite or risk a hideous chemical implosion.

So it was in Morocco where, despite ample reasons why we might miss each other - eg big country, mostly filled with desert etc etc, Pau and I managed to bump into each other on a 200-mile long beach. Or the time before that in the Pyrenees when, despite similarly good reasons why we might miss each other, we managed to collide on the snowy expanse of a moutain slope.

There were many, many good reasons why avoiding Pau in Ibiza this weekend would have been a good idea. For a start, we haven't spoken since April and every time I do see him he breaks my heart. But I was desperate to dance and I had just been dumped again. What harm could it do? And there seemed little point in trying to avoid him. If deserts or mountains can't keep us apart, what chance was there that we'd miss each other on a tiny Mediterranean island.



However, the truth is that it's considerably harder to find someone you're looking for at the Space closing party than it would be in the Sahara or Pyrenees. Thousands of ravers, cavernous dance halls, desperately confusing geography coupled with seriously messed-up minds make it hard to follow through any plan.

Even if your plan is pretty concrete - eg let's meet at 9pm, by the loos, outside the Main Room - the chances of this coming off successfully are remote at best. For a start, where the loos were when you last looked is very rarely where they are now. (I am not saying that Space deliberately moves all the landmarks around while you're out the room, but how else can you explain the fact nothing is ever where it was last time you went there.)

And even supposing that the loos have stayed in the same place, it's impossible to know how long it will take you to get there. Could be minutes, could be hours. Obviously one always sets off promptly and with good intentions but something invariably happens en route that makes you totally forget what you're up to. Sometimes you bump into someone else, and take a while to remember this isn't the person you were originally looking for. Sometimes you simply get distracted - a pretty light for example, or a whoosh effect that makes you feel like you've been caught up in a bomb blast and takes at least 30 minutes to recover from.

Usually however it's the music. You are slowly swaying your way through, for example, the Terrace, utterly focused on reaching the loos by 9pm, when a track comes on that you simply must dance to. So you start dancing and before you know it, it's five to midnight. You then slowly remember that you had a plan, but you can't quite put a finger on what it was. So you start dancing again (just to while away the time while you try to remember) and then you set off again. When you finally get to the right place, it's no longer the right time or, even the right day. Repeat ad infinitum or until the club closes, whichever is the sooner (infinitum).

Space is not the worst place though - that has to be Turnmills in London. Pau and I spent hours looking for someone (we think it was StuRobbie but not positive) but just ended up going round and round in circles. It was only in a moment of earth-shattering enlightenment the next day that I realised we HAD been going round and round in circles because - duh! - Turnmills is a MILL - and they're circular.

So, back to the point, what harm could it do to meet up with Pau - breaker of my heart, vanquisher of my self-esteem, destroyer of my inner contentment?

As it happens, none. It was fantastic. The months since we last saw each other melted away and I instantly forgave him for turning me into an emotional wasteland and costing me a small fortune in therapy fees to get over it.

We danced all night. We danced our socks off.

We spent several hours looking for Stu, several more forgetting that we were looking for Stu and then a few more looking for Stu again.

We bought some drinks and did some other things I can't remember (probably dancing) and then we danced some more. It was nine hours of pure heaven.

And yes, I realise there'll probably be heartache. But who cares? Heartache, schmartache. It was worth it.