Home Sweet Home

Published September 28, 2010 by Claire

Well, what else could I have possibly called tonight’s blog entry? I am indeed home.

Difficult day, yesterday. The hangover turned into something a little more serious, as my friend became quite ill. I couldn’t fathom what had made her deteriorate at first – until a guy walked past with a 5 litre bottle of water and realisation dawned. The conversation went like this:

“You know when you came in very drunk last night?”

“Yes..?”

“Did you by any chance do that thing people do when they’re drunk, and very sensibly drink a pint of water before going to bed?”

“Yes. Why?”

“And where did you get the water from?”

“From the tap, of course!”

“…..”

“Ahhh… bugger.”

Well, she got worse and worse, and was vomiting all afternoon – including all the way to the airport. Not normally an issue; in normal circumstances I’d have carried on pointing and laughing and having no sympathy! But my friend is a diabetic, and the more she threw up the more her sugar levels went haywire. Eventually I refused to check in at the airport until she’d seen someone ‘with an ology’.

They were very helpful, the airport staff, and sent us off to the Pharmacy where a nice man sold her some nice stuff and made me feel much better. She got a bit of colour back in her cheeks, which was nice as her impression of The Corpse Bride had been scaring small children, and we were allowed to use the Speedy Check In Desk where there was no queue, instead of the Cattle Crush Desk where the world and his wife (and the wife’s mother, and the family goat) were clamouring for attention.

The flight back was uneventful except for a slight fracas over the last cheese and ham toastie, and we arrived back at Doncaster Airport where my car had waited faithfully for a week. It hadn’t been completely idle, though. It had passed the time by deflating one of its rear tyres.

No, of course I can’t change a tyre. I’m a girl. I do girl stuff. I can pluck eyebrows, choose colour schemes and wash shirts without turning them pink. Tyres are BOY stuff.

What I can (and did) do, though, is drive five miles on a flat tyre to the nearest petrol station to pump it up.

All you boys out there sucking air in over your teeth and shaking your heads – Yah boo, sucks to you!! It got me home, didn’t it?

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