We're going to Dover, no two ways about it
I want to tell you about my weekend but I feel the need to tell you about Thursday night first. I had tickets to see a Swedish pop star with my friend and although the concert was lacklustre (because the pop star was sick) our determination to get pie-eyed was not. On the Tube back to east London we shared headphones and belted out highly original versions of the Swedish pop star's hits that unintentionally sound like we are sick too. On our way to the next bar, we decided to have an impromptu silent disco in the car park of a cash and carry. One passerby stopped to film us on his phone. I imagine that somewhere on the internet the video has been posted by now with the description 'Binge-drinking morons dancing' or 'These girls appear to be on hallucinogenic drugs, but are actually just Irish'. When we arrived at the bar, here is a brief summation of what occurred: dancing, harassment of DJ, accidental head butt, ejection from nightclub. Smoking outside, a very young man came over to talk to me. After a while he asked for my phone number. I asked him his age and choked when he told me. "I couldn't possibly date someone so much younger than me" I said bashfully, "I'm going to be 29 soon for goodness sake". Which would be true, if soon meant four years ago. The next day I was violently ill, unable to hold down water, tea, or dry toast.
I lay on my bed, sweating a lot and crying a little and wished I was a kid again, when it was OK to vomit Ribena on your bedspread and someone else would come and clean it up. Ah, sweet bird of youth.
On Saturday morning, still feeling fragile, I arrive at Victoria station ready to go to Dover for the weekend. Two of the party (who travelled down the night before) keep sending back disheartening pictures of rancid frozen meals served to them in restaurants and slot machines in pubs. We make the train with a minute to spare. Dover, here we come.