Category Archives: Nancy

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

Suitcase Crush

Heathrow airport here I come. Look out sandy beaches. Soak me up sunshine. Quench me, sex on the beach, my favourite cocktail. I keep running through my imaginary check list for take off. Passport, check. Phone, check. Checked in online, check. Download boarding pass, check. Cash, check. Map, on my phone, check. One suitcase no more than twenty-three kilograms. Twenty-two point eight, said my bathroom scales, check. Hand luggage, well, I have a largish overhead cabin locker-bag, a carry bag and my handbag. If them at the airport want to be pathetic, I’ll put my carry bag in my handbag until I’m out of sight and pull it out again.

The carriage is empty, except for a business woman on her phone at the other end bringing down the mood, trying to convince someone how important she is. No one cares lady, take a pill. If only she would. Oh wait, I have my headphones.

The Guard walks past for a seventh time, giving me a strange look. You’re not my Daddy. I don’t get old people. ‘What-ever’, I glare back at him . He asked me to move from the six-seater I am sitting in and move to a two-seater. No thanks, I’m comfortable where I am. This is lush. I got my suitcase next to me, no one can invade my space. My handbag and carry bag on the floor and my feet, stretched out over them, on the seat opposite. I’m already in holiday mode. This is the life.

Oh no. My headphones dropped me off to sleep for a minute. We’re picking up more losers in suits. Why are there only men getting on this train? Have I missed my station? Crap. I got to change to the bus to get to the airport. I can’t see the sign outside the window, it’s an ocean of stupid. No wait. It’s cool. Another five stops to go. So happy this is the fast train, not the all-stopper. Ugh!

My phone pinged. Who’s on my back? It’s Pippa. She WhatsApp me. “U @ ✈️”.

“No. 🚂 full of 🕵🏻‍♂️.🤮”, I smiled to myself. Knowing these guys have no idea I’m talking about them, to Pippa. She’ll get it.

“Detectives?”, Pippa writes in full words when she’s being sarky.
“Suits!”, not to make too much of a point.

If only she could see these old men looking at me because I’ve got a suitcase and I’m going on holiday. They’re just jealous.

Pippa was telling me about a girl she likes at the cafe she goes to, to read her books. She’s going to do something amazing one day, she keeps telling me. Pippa thinks it’s so amazing she came out to us. You know, decades ago it was something people did, because they had to justify themselves, but you what, these days, no one cares, there are bigger things to worry about. Like the bees, or if some old orange fart is going to push the red button and blow us up, or if I’m too fat, or not clever, or not sporty, or not listening to the coolest tunes on Spotify. But I’m going on holidays, on a plane. This year I’m not going to Margate with Mummy and Daddy. And what Pippa doesn’t get is, she said all this last night.

“☀️☀️☀️”, I replied.

Just then, we stopped at another station. More suits cramming into the carriage. It’s supposed to be summer holidays and there are hundreds of suits queuing to get in. What’s going on? These people are so sad. Why aren’t you at Bognor Regis or Butlins or whatever? Stop cramming in my carriage and bringing down my holiday mood.

“This is nuts. Help me off this nightmare”, I was serious this time. Pippa would pay attention to me this time, in stead of banging on about her new café lover.
“U K?”, Pippa quickly hit back.

Am I OK? Of course not. It’s rammed in here. Standing room only and she asks if I’m ok. I feel like I’m at Butlins at group check in at the hotel. It’s nuts and no I’m not ok.

The train is stuck at a red signal and looks like we are going to be here for a while. I don’t care, cause I got time to kill. But these suits are bricking it, they all want to get off this train and I want them gone, too.

My stop. I’m here at my stop. Right, grab my handbag, carry bag and my suitcase, but I can’t get out of this six-seater. ‘MOVE!’ I’m screaming in my head. I want to scream it out loud, but I don’t want to lower myself to the level of these people. A big lump of a suit is standing in front of me with his headphones on. I have to touch him to get his attention. ‘Ewwww’, is the only thought running through my mind.

The large lump takes a step to the side, but his big fat gut still blocks my escape. No room for me and my suitcase. Three men and a woman start looking at me, surely they know I want to get off this carriage, but they all move about, knocking into each other.

With a wry smile and a cringe, I manage a “Sorry”. Trying to force my way to the door. Then the carriage subtly jolts and the platform starts to move sideways. Uninterested people on the platform begin to glide past the carriage window.

“Stop the train”, I find myself shouting to the bemused suits as the train pulls away from the platform. Goodbye Heathrow airport. Goodbye sandy beaches. Goodbye sunshine. Goodbye, sex on the beach.

This is so unfair. FML.

– Nancy