Thursday, 9 September 2010

Nightmare Packing

Argh! I'm surrounded by piles and piles of crap as I try to sort my bedroom out, can't even begin to pack for Paris until I work my through this pit of hell. Only three days to go and yet I can not find the motivation, I just spend all day sitting off (both my favourite phrase and activity of the summer) amongst the mess reading magazines and books and opening old letters from the bank and from T Mobile which I really should have dealt with months ago...

Cannot believe there is only three days until I go to Paris, this summer has felt like a runaway train, hurtling me towards this date without giving me time to get off and enjoy the stops along the way, stops like my birthday party and Graduation and the Secret Garden Party and Ibiza. They've all gone so, so fast and all of a sudden Paris has arrived like a slap in the face, or should that be en le visage? (That's not a rhetorical question, I really don't know.)

I'm going to post some pictures of my summer just to give the blog a nice round beginning... (and also to kill time.)

First there was my 21st birthday party, a ludicrously crap affair that was thoroughly enjoyable. Instead of a birthday cake I had a baker's tray of the most delicious carrot cake there has ever been and if you'd like to taste this lovely, moist sponge topped with sweet, creamy frosting (an Americanism I know, but it's not quite cream and it's not quite icing so I don't quite know what else to call it) then make sure you go to the Oak Street Bakery in Windermere if you ever visit the Lake District. (It is onyl 90p a slice, what are you waiting for??)

I think everyone thought I was kidding when I said there would be a slideshow of myself at my party but my seriousness could not doubted when, upon arriving , guests were confronted with a large projection of the slideshow on the back wall on the venue. I don't think it's arrogant, it was my 21st after all, though after much persuasion I did decide against the accompanying soundtrack of 'Isn't She Lovely' by Stevie Wonder.

Just realised if I go into this much detail about everything I will never get to Paris, let alone pack for it, so I will sum up very quickly all the best bits of this summer:


Fun, fun, fun. Smiles all round, tipsy all day, four shoe changes and one delicious meal at Alma de Cuba which led to, inexplicably, a Cuban cigar that was passed around my family as we wandered down Hardman Street.

Secret Garden Party

The best fun you will ever have. People always ask what kind of music festival it is but SGP isn't a music festival, it's a four day party. Last year I went by myself and did storytelling inside a tree and I knew that if I had a good time by myself it would be even better this year if I went back with some chums. Over the course of the festival, we were dragged into a tent to be typists for a few hours and forced to work by fast-talking 1940s journalists who all sported clipped RP accents and impeccable tailoring. We danced to a gypsy burlesque band suspended in the trees and then gasped as the cables suspending the piano snapped and the pianist was forced to play what must have been his most precarious set to date. There was one singer accompanied by a massive Bollywood dance troupe who came into the audience and taught us how to dance. We were punted across the lake to jive at a disco built on the bottom of a giant flying machine. When we came back and people asked us to describe it... we could only say 'You have to go next year.'


All summer people's Facebook statuses have been '... wants to go back to Ibiza' to which my response has been 'Get over it'. Then I came back and was nearly in tears at the thought of not being there. Although it was an amazing holiday, there was one horrible moment on our last night when we were dancing away and somebody noticed it was suddenly half five. I felt like the world was ending because I was having the best. time. of . my. life. And I realised it had to end.

(Just had a thought actually, this time last week we were drunkenly getting ready in our hotel room and the magical night hadn't even begun really. And now it's fucking one week later!!!!! )
But everything has to end, even Paris will end soon. Well, in ten months, but time flies by so fast that these days I can sense the end of something before it has even started. A day feels like a second and a week feels a minute and I've got a horrible feeling that one day I'll feel as though a whole lifetime has gone by in the space of five days, coincidentally the length of our stay in Ibiza...

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