Here I am.
Back in Paris.
How weird is this?
I can't believe the summer has come and gone so soon... One minute I was in London, waiting for Kat to meet me off the Eurostar with silver stars under her eyes and orange skirts floating behind her; and the next I was sat on a quiet, air-conditioned coach, watching the banlieus slip past until suddenly the Eiffel Tower appeared from nowhere, like a silent welcome to the city.
This time last week I was in Ibiza, and my holiday had barely begun. Now it's over and I'm starting my new job in a few hours and I doooon't waaaant tooooo. Please, I just want to forget about reality for a little while longer, let me work out my memories with words and then I'll stop mooning about the past, I promise. I'm quite excited actually to write this last week up- I feel like I can travel back in time as I write.
So let's go back in time to over a week ago, back to last Saturday...
I arrived in London in the afternoon. I was happy to be there, but also a little stung by my mum's parting shot: "See you at Christmas!"
Four months sounds like a long time...
But my cousin met me at the station and it was lovely to spend time with her and see her new flat in North London- at one point the plan was to move to London together and it was comforting to see that at least one of us had seen it through.
We got quite drunk whilst watching the X Factor with her two flatmates, then the next day we went to watch the City v Tottenham match at the pub, like the LADs that we are... Seeing as the pub was filled with Tottenham supporters we did our best to keep a lid on it, but after a few ciders it became quite a struggle not to stand on the table shouting CITY TIL I DIE. The thing is I have no interest in football whatsoever, but it's easy to get caught up in the atmosphere.
I thought we were doing quite well with the whole Watching-Football-In-The-Pub-Thing, but then City scored a goal, so me and my cousin started clapping and the token male we had brought along to give is some credibility actually put his hands over ours to silence the claps and said out of the corner of his mouth: "Don't. Do. That."
I thought you were supposed to clap when your team scores?
Anyway, I don't think I'll bother watching the football again.
After the match we went back to my cousin's flat to get my bags. We were all quite drunk and I ate fourteen sausage rolls (they were 'party-sized' though). Then they walked me to the tube station and we said our goodbyes. Goodbye, goodbye. I'm always saying goodbye to people.
I sobered up on the tube journey, mainly because I had to keep shunting back and forth on the Victoria Line because part of it was closed or Something Like That. When I eventually got to Clapham it was about seven o'clock in the evening and I was so tired that I went back to Ricky's house and had a nap, while everyone else went for something to eat. Looking back, choosing to Nap rather than Eat might have been the start of my troubles...
As the evening wore on more and more people arrived at Ricky's, until the entire Ibiza Twelve (as we shall hereby be knownst) were gathered there. Our taxi to the airport didn't arrive until 2am so we had a long, long night ahead of us...
To kill the time some of us watched a documentary about a woman who has one giant leg that has never stopped growing. It was horrifying and I felt so sad for this lady and her one giant leg, but Claire kept being syde about the woman's one giant shoe and making me laugh. I felt really mean and also uneasy, because I knew that Karma would come and punish us for being Nasty Bitches...
The night passed slowly but somehow 2am arrived and the Ibiza Twelve piled into three taxis. Once we got to the airport me and Claire entertained everyone (by 'entertained' I mean 'irritated') by playing the Would You Rather Game.
Would You Rather... be blind, or be deaf?
Would You Rather... have eight kids, or none?
Would You Rather be woken up every morning with a man slapping his willy across your face, or be woken up once a month with someone slapping a dirty tampon across your face?
You get the idea.
We took off into the sunrise at about 5.30am and I cried a little bit as I watched the British countryside roll away beneath us, because I knew it would be the last time I saw England for quite a long time. (Oh, I do like to imagine myself as the tragic heroine, being forced against her will to leave her beloved homeland, when in fact I was just fucking off to Ibiza for five days.)
Nearly two and a half hours later we stepped off the plane into that blast of hot, dry air that lets you know you have arrived in your Holiday Destination.
We were Here.
By the time we checked into our hotel, most of us had been awake for about twenty four hours. But instead of sleeping, we decided to go straight to the pool for some sunbathing and general Holiday Frolicking.
We wanted to go to Circo Loco at DC10 which kicks off late afternoon, so before we knew it, it was time to get ready and get out. None of us had really slept, eaten or drank properly for about thirty hours at this point, but we got to DC10 (or 'day say dieth', as our over-enthusiastic taxi driver insisted we pronounce it) and it was brilliant.
It was a bit like Fuse- the sun was shining, it was really chilled out, yet at the same time everyone was dancing and a bit fucked. The club is in an old airport hangar (hence the name) and every ten minutes an airplane would fly over, really close and really loud.
Here is a video from the opening party this summer:
As the sun set and the music got better and better, Claire said to me "We've arrived in Ibiza!" and I nodded. I smiled. I danced. Then I ran outside and I threw up in a Portaloo.
It was horrrrrible. I kept thinking I would be ok and then my stomach went all weird again and I had to sit outside like the kid who has eaten too much cake and then gone on the bouncy castle. Luckily Hayley wasn't feeling too clever either so she stayed outside with me while I tried to recover my composure. But I couldn't recover- I was Sick. Me and Hayley, with much regret, admitted defeat and went back to the hotel in a taxi whilst everyone else went on to Amnesia. I felt so shit but I knew why I was ill- it was Karma, getting me back for laughing at that woman and her one giant shoe.
Oh nooooooooo. I have to go and get ready for work now. I don't want to, I don't waaaaant tooo.
Shit shit shit.
I feel so nervous and sick and scared. I'm going to fuck up, I'm going to fuck up.
Ok, I will finish writing about Ibiza later. If I've not thrown myself under the metro.