It’s all too much. As I eat, one thing becomes crystal clear. I am going to have to make sure this is not my last Monday. I am going to have to kill Callum at the airport. I do feel bad about it, because he’s been – whisper it – quite nice today. But I have somehow found myself in a position where I’ve told him way too much stuff. What has come over me? Imagine if this was the last loop and Callum was armed with all this knowledge about me for the rest of my life?
The thought makes me shudder.
I’ve let him get in too deep, and now we both must go again, I think stoically.
Besides, it’s not like our tragic and sombre demise isn’t bound to happen anyway. The only way out of it is, erm … backwards.
And so, as we arrive at Perth airport and the wayward luggage buggy comes speeding towards us, I give Callum a hearty shove in the right direction. I am a stone-cold killer now.
Here we go again!
TWELVE
Monday number five. Sounds a lot like the song ‘Mambo No. 5’, only less likely to be played at weddings and more likely to be the soundtrack of my eternal doom.
A little bit of Callum’s all I need, I find myself singing to the tune.
Oh Lou Bega, what have you done to me?
I have woken up in a ridiculous mood and is it any wonder? Firstly, I use ‘waking up’ in the loosest sense of the term because I don’t feel like I’ve had any sleep. I feel like I just got killed in a collision with a beautiful man and an electric buggy, then experienced nothing, then came to in my bed on the same day all over again, which is really quite hard to describe when, up until this point, I have been a normal human being experiencing normal human things.
Secondly, ‘yesterday’ was a total debacle and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I know I should be kind, try to cut myself some slack, because I’m in a very strange set-up and of course that’s going to take its toll on my general wellbeing.
But also, URGH! When did I become the kind of gal who has genuine thoughts like ‘oh, I’ve said too much, I’m just going to have to kill him’ or ‘oh, he’s not doing exactly what I want so I will need to secretly drug him with Pro Plus’.
What the hell?!
I have become a monster. I am the person who features on those gripping true crime documentaries. If I ever do get out of this loop, I’ll probably end up a notorious criminal with a catchy moniker like, I don’t know, Nutty Nina.
Nutty Nina and her Stale Tube Hair Strike Again
Will anyone catch the beautifully coiffed but criminally insane mob boss?
I peel myself out of bed after another unsatisfying death sleep and quite simply refuse to put the same outfit on. It’s been laid out, just waiting to be worn, every single day now and I am suddenly so sick of all that black. In an act of great defiance, I play pick ‘n’ mix with my wardrobe, pulling out the most colourful things I can find.
And so, as I trudge towards Heathrow, at least I have this quite frankly insane outfit to add a little pep to my day. We’re talking wide leg trousers with great big pink hearts all over them (bought for a festival) plus the hot pink tie-dye Fontaines DC T-shirt I picked up at a gig last year. Daisy-yellow belt. Matching yellow Gola trainers. I look like a child’s drawing.
This fabulous outfit is literally the only thing making me feel positive or hopeful about today. Hamish had felt like my get-out clause, the man I could sail off into the sunset with, and now I can’t think of anything worse than sailing anywhere with him. I thought he’d offered an escape from all this but no matter how hard I’ve tried, he just keeps being really bloody annoying and not at all like the man I thought he was.
So how else am I meant to get out of this mess? I’ve tried to be late and avoid my tragic and sombre death to no avail. I’ve tried to find that spark with Hamish but all my sparks are misfiring in Callum’s direction like a faulty bonfire night sparkler. It strikes me that I could try staying in bed all day and waiting it out? But theprospect of doing literally nothing to try and escape this situation makes my skin itch. I’m a doer, a problem solver. So where are the answers to this problem? Is Hamish really the only answer?
That would suck, the idea of spending any more time with him is making my heart sink.
Am I in my own personal hell?
Maybe thisisdeath, I consider morbidly. Perhaps I am just stuck in an eternal long haul flight to Australia with nothing but my stupid ex-boyfriend for company, oh, and my arch nemesis to taunt me by doing confusing things to my insides.
Is this what purgatory is?
I’m in such a funk that I accidentally wheel my suitcasethroughthe discarded egg sandwich at Heathrow, which means I am leaving a trail of egg and cress wherever I go. People sniff and wrinkle their noses as I walk past and I don’t even feel embarrassed.
I feel nothing. Numb.
I can’t even muster the energy to engage with Arsey Alan, who today has some choice words about the smell of my suitcase when I place it on his conveyor belt at baggage check. I spot Mel giving him her longing looks again and offer her a weak smile, all the while wondering what is wrong with us women?! Why do we pick such wrong ’uns to fall for?
I don’t bother reading the email from Kat as I walk through security. What’s the point? I already know exactly what it’s going to say. By the time I reach duty-free, I am a grumpy shell of my former self, trailing round like a lost soul. I wander aimlessly into Harrods and it’s only when I stop to gawp at the hundred-pound chocolates that I feel a glimmer of something for the first time today.
Have some fun!
