Tuesday, 29 June 2010

it's official

So it’s official… as of 0742 Friday morning I have got a ticket back to america.
I officially now have an email in my inbox worth £512.
I find it baffling that I can spend such a vast amount of money and have so very little to show for it. Like, if I had something really substantial like a pony or a dolphin as a result of that transaction, I would feel much more satisfied, but overall, it is a massive anti-climax… I had built-up the tension about booking a ticket, worried myself sleepless most nights thinking about leaving, desperately hoping that the purchase of this ticket would magically make all the little twinges go and quell every little concern I had.
Now I still find myself concerned and still have twinges, but am half-a-grand poorer.
I left workies on Thursday afternoon after having bestowed upon my manager and co-workers the priceless information that I would be purchasing a ticket the following morning and would therefore be handing in my official notice to work upon my return. They all nodded and I nodded in response, blissfully unaware of the fact that not one of them believed that I would actually be purchasing a ticket the following morning…
Thursday night saw me arrive home from workies to an empty house. Due to the heat I immediately stripped-off, drew a megahot bath and relaxed. It was a fabulous bath (one which featured my second-favourite thing about getting a tattoo – the rubbing-off of all the dead skin…. Mmmmmyay!), and then I proceeded to tidy the house and lie on the sofa in a writhey manner whilst watching the news and texting Nick.
The plan for the night had been for me to sit at Bar One drinking my face off for the entirety of the night to quell my rage towards my estranged husband (oh em GEE that will be another blog altogether). I bounced on the sofa as I sent Nick an excited text asking if he still wanted a visitor to which he replied that he was working and if I wanted to come round I could, but that he wasn’t much company. I asked why. His response took ages and in that time I writhed in a sleepy manner with the news telling me about racist attacks, accidental baby deaths and the football. Just at the end of the news Nick replied saying his granddad had died in the morning. I immediately said I would be there as soon as I ate. I threw together a very sorry excuse for a tuna sandwich and tossed on some shoes and was at the pub within twenty minutes.
The remainder of the night circulated around lots of hugs and laughing until we cried as we watched videos of disabled animals, fat children and singing dogs. All this took place with Buddy nestled on my lap, his muzzle against my bosoms and my hand scratching his belly. It is nights like that, nights where I can just sit for hours with Nick next to me, Buddy on my lap and Chris Tree bumbling by every so often giving me faux-dirty looks, that I love purely because it allows me to remember why my life is so special. Why I have every reason in the entire world to feel so pleased for what I have.
I left the pub with just enough time to get home and have a really nice couple of hours with Pow. We talked about Johnny and me moving away and his newly-shaved facial hair before retiring to the sofa to watch a bit of Juno and take some photos of our faces squished together. We practiced our American accents and punched one another until Amy arrived and we all went to sleep.
That night, laid in bed, I almost wept from the realization of how beautiful my life is. I curled up on my right side, snuggled my stuffed penguin tight and felt like my heart was going to swell and burst out of my chest. I have everything I could ever need in life… absolutely everything, and I would be silly to ever think that I needed anything more.
Friday morning I woke up an hour before my alarm was due to go off. I felt tense and sat on my bed for five minutes, bracing myself for the task which had been laid before me.
I meandered down the hall, holding my dog-tags so they did not make so much noise that they woke the sleeping lovers.
I sneaked down the stairs and across the terracotta flooring before flicking the computer on and sitting on the piano bench-cum-computer chair and took a deep breath. Muffin was online, so we talked as I booked my train to London for that afternoon. Train booked, Facebook checked and emails responded to I had no other way to distract myself; I had to book my ticket. I did the search and found my ticket cheaper than it had been three days before. I booked it and felt not nearly as relieved as Muffin seemed to. He was ecstatic.
Again though, let me stress to you the amount of disappointment there is when all I have to show for having spent half-a-grand is an email, and not even a very good one at that. All it bloody said was that I had purchased a ticket… there was no information about luggage allowance, no anti-terrorist propaganda, just the itinerary and a generic disclaimer about what to do if I had received that email in error.
Granted, as a result of that half-a-grand, I will be able to step on a plane in fifty-eight days and that plane will take me to Paris and then, after an hour-and-a-half I will get on ANOTHER plane that will take me straight to Muffin’s arms. Still though, it’d be nice if I had a little more to show for the destruction of my bank account than a poxy little email.
Post-ticket, Muffin had to go work and I had to get ready for my morning-time plans. The plans had been set in place the previous night with a bottle of cider in my hand and a white wine spritzer in Nick’s (no, he isn’t THAT gay, he’s just trying to watch his weight, which, in hindsight, me saying that doesn’t really help with trying to dull down his gayness… “Oh, I’ll have a white wine spritzer, I’m watching my figure!”). Nick had told me, in between videos of narcoleptic dogs and cats with no sense of balance, about his escapades in town earlier in the day and about the fact that he had seen a new shop in the Westfield Centre called “Appy Feet” which Nick described to me as a shop with lots fo tanks where you could pay to have fish suck on your feet. The instant he told me about this I froze…
Right, firstly, who the crap would hear that you could go to a shop and pay a measly ten pounds to get tiny fish to suckle on your feet for fifteen minutes and turn THAT down?!
Secondly, guess which two people had a free couple of hours in the morning the VERY next day?!
I happily embarked on the journey to the pub to pick Nick up and rolled around on the floor with Buddy upon arriving until Lee and Nick were both ready. We left the pub en masse and arrived at the shopping centre for epic foot-sucking action.
So, for anyone who’s never had it done, I’d say do it, because it is totally a fun and weird experience. You dangle your feet, ankle-deep in a big bowl of filtered water with about eighty fish in. they immediately come to your feet and rasp at them until you pull them out. It was a fun little experience and post-getting sucked Nick and I pranced to some shops where he helped me pick out some undergarments and a shirt and then we went to the only coffee shop we deemed acceptable for a fabulous ice cream milk shake and some cupcakes (which I consumed purely for research purposes)
We ate and drank and then felt ill. We bumbled around town for a short while before making our way back to the pub to have a sausage roll and a cuddle with the dog. Lee and I talked about people on benefits and the likelihood of me getting a job in america until Nick came back inside from making a phone call in the garden (in case you were wondering, the call was made to the police an effort to remove the human scum who had congregated across the road from the pub to do a little daytime street-drinking. They were a disgusting, motley crew of pykies with a herd of dogs ready to eat you alive if you decided to challenge them). Nick then drove me back home so I could finish packing in a wild frenzy and drove me to the train station just in time for me to print out my tickets and hop on the 1425 straight to Londontown.
An hour-and-a-half later I was stepping off the train and hurdling as quickly as possible to the waiting arms of my janeyface. We hugged for ages and made our way out of the horror that is London St Pancras International Train Station into the harsh sunlight of the Big Smoke. We immediately decided to go to the nearest pub and began chainsmoking, drinking cider, people-watching and talking about various fabulous topics.
The rest of the afternoon was spent walking around in the bright, beautiful sunlight, stopping only to open another bottle of cider or to buy chinese buns and sushi. The afternoon was perfectly blissful and the bulk of our conversations for the afternoon involved how much we love spending time together and how we are one-another’s bffs.
I adore spending time with janey for many reasons, primarily though, I enjoy it because it is a time when I can be completely me without question. I can smoke or not smoke, drink or not drink, curse or not curse, say racist things or not and I will always get as good as I receive. She is an amazing person who, as soon as i first come within an arm’s length of her, makes me feel completely giddy with youthful excitement. It’s as though I immediately turn into a teenager again and we can just be two lewd, crude dudes with no worries at all in the world. I am never scared or questionable about anything when I am with janey. I can say or do anything around her and she won’t bat an eyelash (particularly because those BLOODY eyelashes cost a tenner EACH! **please see photo to your immediate left for explanation**)
She and I seem to think the same thoughts, do the same things and generally be the same person, which I love. We spent the bulk of the weekend talking about various topics surrounding my doubts and concerns with moving to america… things I imagine I will put into a blog when and/or if I find the time.
So… back to the original point, I’ve got a ticket back to America.
I pranced into work yesterday morning with glee all over my face, as if perhaps I had just won a little prize… or a very large prize (but knowing me, a little one would suffice, as I get covered in glee for even the tiniest of things). I beamed as my co-worker’s jaws dropped. It came to light as I was helping with the morning banking that many of the colleagues did not think I was actually going to go. They thought I was going to change my mind at the last minute; that I was going to move house and stay there because I loved it too much. Nobody believed I was going to go…
I’ve since handed in my resignation and I officially finish work at half past four on Monday 23rd August.
And there we are. I officially leave my favourite place in the entire world in fifty-eight days.
At half past three on the morning of August 26th I will be drunkenly bundling all m y favourite people into a hired van after a night of celebrating the birth of my Pow and my last night in the country. We will nearly all be in fancy-dress and we will (hopefully) make it to the airport for four in the morning. it will be an emotional affair that will most likely break my heart harder than it was broken when I left america. The people I have bonded with over the last six years have grown to be so special to me and the thought of living without them bloody kills me.
Granted, it is only for thirteen months…  three-hundred and ninety-six days.
Wish me luck.


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