Last weekend- as in not the one that ended yesterday but the one before that- was one of my Best Weekends Ever. It was my seventh time on the Eurostar so I knew it would go smoothly because seven is my Magic Number. I was even ok with the Tube, although I kept wanting to whip my Navigo out and any time I heard people speaking English I turned round and stared at them in surprise.
We went to see Annie Mac Presents at Koko on Camden High Street. I can't describe really good nights out because most positive words are a bit cringe when you write them down, do you know what I mean? Every time I type words like 'amazing' or 'incredible' I get really embarrassed and can't read what I've written.
I think because I'm used to people saying that my blog makes feel better about their own lives because mine seems so shit, that I don't want to then turn around and say 'Actually, I'm having a pretty good time...'
Anyway, it was a really good night but I think I let a little too much Crazy out. You know when you don't know people that well and then there's that moment when your true personality shines through in all it's irritating glory and you can see the fear in people's eyes? Obviously Kat knows I'm crazy because she was the other joint-winner of the Drama Department Crazy Award. No, she was, really. But the other people who we met in Ibiza... I mean you can't really tell how mental someone is when they're just bouncing about in Amnesia, smiling a lot and saying 'This is siiiiiick!'
The night ended with everyone in a room and someone put a French Hip Hop CD on and demanded I translate, although come to think of it, maybe I demanded that someone put a French Hip Hop CD on and then stood in the doorway so no one could escape and bellowed out random words that anyone with GCSE French could pick up... '...cadeau...' "Something about a present!" '....amies...' "Something about his mates!"
The next day we went to Fuse which is a free House thing at 93 Feet East on Brick Lane, you just have to get on guestlist by emailing them. It's sort of a post-rave and is on from 3pm til about 10pm. Most people there looked worse for wear but were still up for a dance and good music and there's a barbeque outside, although it was a bit nippy, despite being a Sweat Fest inside. The people on the door checking for drugs weren't best pleased with my huuuge bag mostly filled with knickers but thankfully Ricky took it in for me, being more adept at calling people 'my friend' and 'rudeboy' and whatever else it is you are supposed to say to make people in London like you.
After Fuse I went back to Kat's house which is a little bit out of London, in the countryside. An animal ran in front of the car and I was like 'A real animal! A real animal!' and it was called a nunchunk or something. I need to get into the countryside more I think, or I'll become one of those people who scream when they see cows. Actually I already am scared of the countryside. I'll happily walk down Hardman Street in Liverpool at 4am, knowing there's kebab shops and clubs and flats you can run to, but I can't go for a walk in the countryside by myself because when the sheep shagger with a chainsaw comes blundering out of the hedgerows only the cows can hear you scream and they ain't gonna help you. To the contrary, cows can kill you. That's a fact.
The brilliant, brilliant weekend (I just cringed) had a rather dramatic end when I missed my train to Manchester on the Monday. The tubes were all weird because of a bomb scare and I got to Euston at 11.59 and my 12 o'clock train had left a minute early. I went to double-check at the information desk and when he confirmed that my worse fears were true, I burst into hysterical tears and slid down the side of the information desk screaming 'No, no, no!'
I didn't have enough money for another ticket. And the annoying thing is if I'd left my tickets in the ticket machine trainline.com would have refunded them. But I got them out of the machine, one minute too late. I'll say this for hysterically crying in public though- it works. I got a mysterious 'special rate' ticket back to Manchester that cost the same amount of money I had in my purse, although it took five hours and I had to change at Crew. The man who sold it to me said 'There you go now my love... take it easy now...' It was Valentine's Day so maybe everybody thought I was just desperate to go and see 'my boyfriend' in Manchester, or else that 'my boyfriend' had decided to chuck me out of his (squatted) Mayfair Mansion on Valentine's Day, throwing my velcro rollers out of the window after me and yelling 'Go back to Manchester you silly Northern Slag!' (Never mind that I haven't had a boyfriend since Year 6, when me and Sean Maher went out for one day and if I'm remembering correctly, he said things were getting to serious and asked his friend to break up with me.)
Anyway, I got back up North fine in the end and had a couple of lovely days at home. Except... my mum dropped the bombshell that it would be my last time in that house because they are moving in three weeks so I could sort my stuff in the shed out please? My stuff in the shed was mostly snail-encrusted and rubbish, but I did find my old diaries which are hilarious and also a bit sickening (I'd rather not had remembered what went down in Mog's broom cupboard when I was sixteen thank you very much).