Sick (Sex) On The Beach

O.M.G! O.M.G! Seriously, O.M.G! I went on holidays, on a plane. And now I’m back on the train, going home. Kill me now. I’m so embarrassed.

I actually made it. I actually made it to Heathrow last week from that nightmare train full of stupid suits. And not only did I actually make it to Heathrow, I spent a long number of brilliant tropical sunlight hours sunning myself on the beach. And not only did I sun myself on a tropical beach, I also got to have my favourite cocktail, Sex On The Beach served up by a hunky local named, Francisco. He was hunky, very attractive and he kept bringing the cocktails.

I WhatsApp Pippa a selfie with Francisco, from the beach. She didn’t get it. I sent a photo of me having Sex On The Beach and she sent me a selfie of her and the girl she likes at the cafe she goes to, to read her books. Pippa thinks she’s so amazing and so intelligent, but I’m the one with Francisco and his cocktails on the tropical beach.

When she sent me a selfie from the cafe, I replied with, “☀️☀️☀️”.

Pippa messaged me one word about this girl from the cafe, “Date”. Yawn. I’m on a beach and you’re in a cafe. So, I told her Francisco and I were having a date.

I have my suitcase with me, my broken suitcase. The handle is falling off and the wheels are broken. Baggage handlers. I saw them from my plane seat window, throwing everyone’s bags about. My hand luggage, well, the largish overhead cabin locker-bag, and my handbag stayed safe with me on the plane.

My phone just pinged. It’s Pippa, again, dying with jealousy, wanting to know all the gory details. I’m not going to tell her Francisco gave me too much Sex On The Beach, a pounding three-day migraine, severe sunburn, a hangover from hell and the weeping blisters on my legs. I don’t recommend passing out on a lounge chair in the sunshine, on a tropical beach after having Sex On The Beach.

The train is moving rapidly from side to side, rocking my head, turning my stomach as the other passengers, a whole raft of stupid suits staring at me with my red, peeling face and blotchy skin. My hair hurts. I just want to die. It would be less painful and less embarrassing. One man in his three-piece zoot suit stands in the doorway, swaying from side to side as his stiff felt wide brim hat shadows his face. It’s creepy. He’s watching me from afar but also looking straight through me. He looks like a giant wedding cake decoration, without the bride, or another groom, depending on your bent.

We stop at a random station to pick up more passengers. Some get off. My broken suitcase and hand luggage hide me from the brunt of the other suits. Why is it only suits who get on my train? Where are the normal people?

My phone just pinged. Oh God, I fell asleep again. Ugh! What is it with train travel and falling asleep. It’s Pippa, again. “U @ 🏠”.

“No. 🚂.”, I replied. I’m not inviting Pippa to meet me at the station to pick me up or greet me. I can’t let her see me like this.

Next year I’m going to Margate with Mummy and Daddy.

This is so unfair. FML.

– Nancy

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