Wednesday, 29 August 2012


The Paralympics Opening Ceremony is on in a minute. I feel really shallow and ungrateful, because some people are born with one arm or lose both their legs in car accidents; and all I've been doing for the past few days is looking at photos from Ibiza and sulking because I look sweaty-haired and chubby in every photo.

I know it's pathetic...

... but I can't help myself.

My mum was looking at the photos over my shoulder and I got really nervous... I couldn't remember anyone taking any photos all holiday and I had no idea what was going to pop up next. Eventually I told my mum to go away, because I couldn't be 100% sure that the next photo wouldn't be of me smoking a crack pipe, crouched over a naked Spaniard.

I can't believe Ibiza has been and gone already. I've been meaning to post about Ibiza every day since I got back, but my mum and stepdad are so fucking noisy, I can't concentrate on anything. As I type my stepdad is practicing his guitar whilst watching the TV and my mum is listening to the radio while she makes mackerel pâté in the kitchen, commentating as she goes along. Actual transcript:

"Now is this too cheesy? It'll be nice on crackers. It's got to beee-eee perfect. Have I made a dressing?"

I've been ill as well, with a wheezy chest and dizzy spells, the coughing keeping me awake.

I've been tossing and turning in the night, worrying about next week when I go back to Paris. I haven't even booked my train back to London yet. As soon as I get back to Paris I have an interview for this teaching job at a private school- just a couple of hours a week- and I have no idea how to get to the school or even what the teacher is called. All I've written in my diary is:

13h  right    5     7

I feel really panicky and disorganised. I don't want to go back to Paris. I feel like this every summer and yet every spring I decide to stay. Why? Sometimes I feel like coming back to England is like waking  up from a coma and I can't understand the person I used to be before.

She planned to stay in Paris for another year? Why? What could she possibly have been thinking?

My mum just came and gave me a hug and said "I feel like I'm missing you already."

Oh dear. Welling up a little bit.

It's only because I live in another country, though. If I lived in England I bet she'd get fed up with me.

When I got back from Ibiza my mum picked me up from the airport and on the way home we got a bottle of wine and Something Nice for tea. My stepdad was at a gig with his covers band (don't ask) so we had an evening to ourselves. My mum hugged me and said:

"You know if you wanted to come home, I could put a bed in my office and you're welcome to stay here."

I'm sleeping in my brother's room because he lives in his uni house now. He's been sick all week and I kept badgering him to come home, but he said he'd rather stay at his uni house, even though nobody else is moving in until September.

Now I know why he didn't want to come home- all the fucking noise. I can't BELIEVE how noisy my stepdad and my mum are. I'm used to living on my own, with no television and no radio. Silence is golden.

My bedroom, by the way, is now my mum's office and 'dressing room'. Last summer it was still technically my bedroom because it had a bed in it, but every morning I'd have to put up with my mum bursting in to try jeans on. 'Do these jeans make me look fat?' is not a pleasant sound to wake up to every morning.

Sorry this whole post has just been one massive whinge about nothing.

Ibiza was really, really special as always and I promise I'll blog about it before I go back to Paris.


I don't wanna go back, I just don't wanna!!!!!!!!!!!

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