Monday, 26 January 2015

HOLIDAYS AND SAND, make me want to sleep on the moon.

I don't understand the concept of holidays. "You need a holiday from a holiday" said my hairdresser Gia Sinatra from Le Salon, at the Sofitel Hotel, last week. Personally, I have never liked them. I have often found that having got on a crowded aeroplane, to some destination without white fluffy towels,  that the airline has downgraded me,  and I am  shoved next to the loo on the plane, with people who are so fat that I have nowhere to sit. When I arrive my bags have been lost and are unlikely to turn up ever again. On top of that I have jet lag so that I miss the first five days, as I fall asleep precisely at the time I am meant to get up. I run a bath and I find a scorpion the corner, which I don't is a scorpion but I know this much, that I learnt in my brief biology lessons, that some crawly insects can kill.
Then there is the sand problem. I personally hate sand, I wear black thick tights and huge black boots to avoid any contact with those irritating small grains, that infiltrate my underwear.
On my return home, feeling huge, I jump on the scales, where figures on it, that I don't recognise stare back at me, and I have to go on a major diet for the next three months, eating lots of green and alkaline products that smell and taste weird. I can't remember eating so much, yet I don't fit into any of my clothes.
Worst of all I have to pay back all that I have spent. Since I have fallen out with my best friend,  because she drank and smoked too much dope on the holiday, and I have nobody to complain to.

I am cutting back my travelling activities and starting a new life and calm and sanity. I am going to work on my love life and enjoy am imagined work load from my bed. Perhaps in my twenties I was right, I thought it was a good idea to spend all my life horizontal, in-between sheets, as nothing meant anything, that was until I went to RADA, where I found out that everything meant everything.

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