Airport internet access is extortionate! No time for spell check.
Relations are strained at most. A night in the London Gatwick Sofitel is only fun if you have the budget to take advantage of room service and pay-per-view porn or the desire to shag on a very soft bed. If you're a pair of broke ex-friends, you'll just watch Shrek, drink wine and play air hockey (I won, of course). The sexual tension is rife though - I guess love switches off better than attraction.
I'm sat in the departure lounge watching planes saunter past as he buries himself in a book. Have only had one small breakdown regarding him preferring to be here with someone else. But the day is young.
It's ok - no man will be attracted to me once I've gorged myself on complimentary madeira cake within inches of my life. Must scurry to grab a stack of magazines... will talk again from the other side of the Atlantic...
Sunday, 11 February 2007
Thursday, 8 February 2007
Get packing?
In my suitcase, there is just a pair of pink shoes (Topshop leather flats), my electric toothbrush charger and a black corsage.
Needless to say, I didn't get much packing done last night. Instead, I cooked dinner, argued a little, made some confessions to my travel partner (who yesterday decided he wasn't going but then decided he was again) and ended up making an 11pm dash to Tesco for more Malboro Lights. I am thrilled that you cannot smoke in New York. Good work Giuliani. It'll help no end.
I also listened intently as he told me what his plans prior to the break up had been for this trip: a proposal on Valentine's Day a la Miranda and Steve, an autumn wedding, a month-long South East Asian honeymoon and possibly a resultant honeymoon baby.
Now, how many $2 beers am I going to need this coming week? I might add a counter!
Speaking of beers, my powers of Google-fu have thrown up some great cheap eats and drinks for the trip. If I am hitting the pavements and wading through the snow, surely I can justify just a few hot dogs?
Needless to say, I didn't get much packing done last night. Instead, I cooked dinner, argued a little, made some confessions to my travel partner (who yesterday decided he wasn't going but then decided he was again) and ended up making an 11pm dash to Tesco for more Malboro Lights. I am thrilled that you cannot smoke in New York. Good work Giuliani. It'll help no end.
I also listened intently as he told me what his plans prior to the break up had been for this trip: a proposal on Valentine's Day a la Miranda and Steve, an autumn wedding, a month-long South East Asian honeymoon and possibly a resultant honeymoon baby.
Now, how many $2 beers am I going to need this coming week? I might add a counter!
Speaking of beers, my powers of Google-fu have thrown up some great cheap eats and drinks for the trip. If I am hitting the pavements and wading through the snow, surely I can justify just a few hot dogs?
Wednesday, 7 February 2007
Stubborn is as stubborn does...
Ok, I know most rational people think it's ridiculous for us to go together. They're not wrong, especially those who've seen things unfurl since the split. But I've known this guy for almost 20 years. If we can't be nice to each other for a week, is there any hope for us as people? We were school friends – he ripped my Teletubbies bag trying to be funny and I should have suspected we'd end up in love for a little while after that. Even if I am gently simmering with anger, remorse, more anger and sadness, I can keep it under wraps for 168 hours, right?
I tried to persuade him to take another woman. He said no, as he thought it would be weird, it was our trip and he suspected he'd come home to a smouldering bonfire of all his worldly belongings and a ritualistic castration involving fishing wire... he has a point. He suggested I take my mum or sister. But I'd have probably spent the whole time moping anyway.
To anyone reading, let me stress that this is not a trip about reconciliation. That ship has long sailed. Something pretty fucking amazing would have to be happening in that city to make either of us consider jumping back into our relationship again. Maybe it's about strength of character. Or proving that lovers can be friends again.
Or maybe I just want some cheap shopping and to feed my soul. We shall see.
I tried to persuade him to take another woman. He said no, as he thought it would be weird, it was our trip and he suspected he'd come home to a smouldering bonfire of all his worldly belongings and a ritualistic castration involving fishing wire... he has a point. He suggested I take my mum or sister. But I'd have probably spent the whole time moping anyway.
To anyone reading, let me stress that this is not a trip about reconciliation. That ship has long sailed. Something pretty fucking amazing would have to be happening in that city to make either of us consider jumping back into our relationship again. Maybe it's about strength of character. Or proving that lovers can be friends again.
Or maybe I just want some cheap shopping and to feed my soul. We shall see.
But exactly how nice can a trip to
So, we’ve had this trip booked for ages, almost half a year, but a month ago we broke up. But both being too stubborn, we’ve decided that we won’t waste the money that we’ve already spent on the holiday and we’ll just make the best of it and try to be friends.
Let’s hope we can manage that…
And if we can’t? C’est la Vie,
Go West?
My name is Kelly and I have an addiction.
I am signed up for every travel company bulletin in Christendom. My job as a travel journalist partly accounts for this, but in reality, I am just a wanderlust hungry travel junkie who was looking for any opportunity to coerce my then-boyfriend into another holiday.
I couldn't resist the prospect of £150 flights to NYC. Opodo wouldn't let me pass up such an offer. Credit card in hand, I thought I had best call him to do a little sweet talking. We'd go for Valentine's Day. It'd be so romantic. It would get us out of that post-Christmas slump that everyone goes through. We could afford it (a partial lie!) and it'd be awesome. So we booked it.
Two Continental Airlines return flights to NYC, 7 nights in the cheapest hotel in the center of Manhattan... all in reasonable budget. And we had a whole four months to look forward to it. Now I'm of the Carrie Bradshaw generation... I sat a chubby geeky girl with an aptitude for words on the edge of my bed in the 90s, absorbing the glamourous life of a Manhattan icon who worked two hours a week in her underwear and wore £400 shoes to brunch every day. Why else become a journalist? Ok, so I know it's a lie now... I am working 40+ hours a week in a cold office wearing £6 Primark pumps.
Add to the Carrie Bradshaw glamour a big fat dose of Breakfast at Tiffanys. And the fact that I'd seen numerous rom-coms of dubious quality churned out by Hollywood that show blushing young affianced couples handing out Tiffany rings to rapturous applause. I was heading there for my little green box of dreams.
But then we broke up. Well, he broke up with me. Not completely out of the blue but unexpected, especially at the time. I have spent a month wallowing and dithering, chain smoking and drinking wine like it was water, crying and yelling, starving and gorging, burning stuff (not his in the style of Waiting to Exhale) and sobbing to strangers on the train about my heartache. Possibly making him glad that we have guinea pigs rather than a rabbit and a limited selection of saucepans...
It's not been easy on either of us.
The subject of New York has remained a spurious one. Do we go? Will we be able to enjoy it? What do we do? Can you have a romantic carriage ride through Central Park with a man who doesn't love you anymore? More importantly, is he obliged to pick me up when I go plummeting across the ice as I attempt to skate? What the hell do we do for Valentines Day?
Well kids, I'm about to find out. Tonight, we pack.
I am signed up for every travel company bulletin in Christendom. My job as a travel journalist partly accounts for this, but in reality, I am just a wanderlust hungry travel junkie who was looking for any opportunity to coerce my then-boyfriend into another holiday.
I couldn't resist the prospect of £150 flights to NYC. Opodo wouldn't let me pass up such an offer. Credit card in hand, I thought I had best call him to do a little sweet talking. We'd go for Valentine's Day. It'd be so romantic. It would get us out of that post-Christmas slump that everyone goes through. We could afford it (a partial lie!) and it'd be awesome. So we booked it.
Two Continental Airlines return flights to NYC, 7 nights in the cheapest hotel in the center of Manhattan... all in reasonable budget. And we had a whole four months to look forward to it. Now I'm of the Carrie Bradshaw generation... I sat a chubby geeky girl with an aptitude for words on the edge of my bed in the 90s, absorbing the glamourous life of a Manhattan icon who worked two hours a week in her underwear and wore £400 shoes to brunch every day. Why else become a journalist? Ok, so I know it's a lie now... I am working 40+ hours a week in a cold office wearing £6 Primark pumps.
Add to the Carrie Bradshaw glamour a big fat dose of Breakfast at Tiffanys. And the fact that I'd seen numerous rom-coms of dubious quality churned out by Hollywood that show blushing young affianced couples handing out Tiffany rings to rapturous applause. I was heading there for my little green box of dreams.
But then we broke up. Well, he broke up with me. Not completely out of the blue but unexpected, especially at the time. I have spent a month wallowing and dithering, chain smoking and drinking wine like it was water, crying and yelling, starving and gorging, burning stuff (not his in the style of Waiting to Exhale) and sobbing to strangers on the train about my heartache. Possibly making him glad that we have guinea pigs rather than a rabbit and a limited selection of saucepans...
It's not been easy on either of us.
The subject of New York has remained a spurious one. Do we go? Will we be able to enjoy it? What do we do? Can you have a romantic carriage ride through Central Park with a man who doesn't love you anymore? More importantly, is he obliged to pick me up when I go plummeting across the ice as I attempt to skate? What the hell do we do for Valentines Day?
Well kids, I'm about to find out. Tonight, we pack.
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