Crossing the border; LESSON 101!!! by Nina S.

Crossing the border; LESSON 101!!!

by Nina S.

Published on Mon, Aug 11 2008 by Nina S
Your friend is ‘stepping-out’. Do you wanna come with? Why the hell not? At this point, your trusting nature allows you to leave your jacket. You take in new sights, shops you’ve heard you shouldn’t dream of entering, even when they’re on sale. You see the City’s finest doing what they do best. At his mates place, your friend asks you to wait outside while he picks something up 'real quick'. He also locks the car. You stand outside, getting comfortable in your new home albeit for just 2 weeks. And then, you experience the pride and joy of London. It starts to rain, not shower as the pilot had said it might on the plane. NO RAIN, you moron, RAIN.
Weighing your options, you go to the door, but then there are 16 buzzers, all of which look exactly alike. ? So you wait. And wait. You find shelter where you can. Your friend comes out and asks; ‘I didn’t know it was raining. Why didn’t you ring the buzzer?’ You feel your bile rising and had you alternative accommodation, you’d have slapped him….HARD. Dripping wet, you get home and face a London bachelors choice of meals; Pizza or Chinese. Unfortunately for you, you choose Chinese. It comes rather quickly (how efficient), you eat equally quickly (didn’t realize how hungry you were) and an hour later, you’re hungry. Pizza. Next time, get pizza.
The 2 weeks fly by. You don’t do anything tourists do. No. You live in a flat that’s the size of your room back home, eat food that costs a fortune, tastes like crap and leaves you hungry. You hang around your friends' ‘boys’, who are now by extension your boys. You go clubbing, queue for an hour, pay a fortune to get in, and find out you want out just as quick. Your friend meets friends of friends, brings girls back with him; so you have to sit squashed at the back, hopping from club to club. Eventually motion sickness kicks in (nothing to do with the 6 vodka shots she had earlier), and one of the girls ‘expresses’ herself over the shoes you just bought in the Zara sale. For the love of all things dear, they cost you a fortune. In a daze she leans in close so you can hear her raspy voice, and a feeling of nausea overcomes you as well. ‘I’m sorry!’ No…no…NO...give me the money for my shoes. You can’t wait to get home but that would involve a taxi. At this time of the day, in this part of town, it’d cost three times as much. You know that now, you’ve been here a week. ‘The morons guide to surviving London.’? Thank heavens you got your copy when you did. So you sit tight and count the hours. Eventually, you loosen up enough to have a drink, or two, or six...and start to see the possibility of making this a routine. Every Saturday or Sunday or whatever day this is. Yep. Life is good.


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