Worst weekend of my life.
I mentioned in my last blog that I had top secret plans. Well I might as well tell you now. I had tickets to London for the weekend, as a birthday night out surprise for my Dad’s girlfriend. My use of past-tense is probably indicating already that I had a problem, but I like my blogs to run somewhat chronologically, so I shall start from Friday.
Friday. I had work – I did presque sod all in the first lesson, but I took sections of the lesson acting as the teacher with the 3èmes which actually went pretty well. English club blagged itself, we ended up having a generic chat about English festivals after they decided not to do the research work I set them, claiming they had all “forgotten”, bar one, who had researched Halloween, but had not really understood why people like to butcher pumpkins and run around scaring each other. A chat about April fool’s day ensued, where one girl informed me that her idea of an April fool was to squeeze fruit compote into her friends face in the canteen.
Amateur. That was a standard lunchtime at my school.
Next week, they are all going to bring me their drawing work I set them – of the flags of the countries in the United Kingdom, as I am SICK TO MY BACK TEETH of kids thinking that the Union Jack is the English flag.
Anyway – after work I headed straight to the shopping centre to meet up with a couple of mates and buy myself a couple of new bags for my impending trip to the homeland. We chatted for a bit, it was a laugh, and when I got home I decided to start packing. I thought; right. If I get my important stuff together now (i.e. tickets – i’d picked them up in Paris before going home, passport, wallet, keys, in-train entertainment) then I could worry about which clothes to take after.
I didn’t get this far.
Where was my passport?
Not with the rest of my important documents where it normally is.
Not in my kitchen.
Not in my bathroom.
Not in my bedroom.
Not in my utility room.
Not in my hallway.
Not in the cupboard in the hallway.
Not in the bookcase in the hallway.
Not behind the fridge.
Not in the bins.
Not under my mattress.
Not inside a pair of dirty knickers.
It was gone. Vanished. Gone head-to-head with Osama in the world hide-and-seek championship. Don’t ask what I did with it, I couldn’t possibly tell you.
After approximately 6 hours of looking for it, I finally gave up, and let myself go to sleep for a little while before getting up and having one last look. Wasn’t there. So I went back to bed.
Much crying and raging later, it sank in that this particular lesson in life is going to cost me somewhere in the region of £350.
After telling Awesome Cika my story and hearing the most well-spoken French person I’ve ever met say “merde” 5 times in the space of thirty seconds, she took me to the Commissariat where I reported it missing to the police. I am going to the Embassy on Monday to declare it invalid, ask for a replacement, and apply for an emergency passport to cover me whilst I’m waiting for it. Bureaucratic twatbags can kiss my bum if they think I’m missing my next train on 17th December.
What I had planned as a nice surprise for my dad’s partner turned into a massive waste of money and a large amount of stress for me.
Still, at least I realised now and not at Christmas.
As you can tell, I have had a very homesick day. I have been excited about my “top secret plans” all week, and a poxy book with a picture of an obese blue-haired lesbian has stopped them from going ahead.
I’m going out tonight, to spunk even more money on a disgusting amount of alcohol – hopefully after a few beers I’ll forget what an idiot I am for a little while.
Mind you, I do have this horrible suspicion that I am going to stumble upon the offending blue-haired lesbian book by chance at some point in the future, obviously after I have invalidated it at the Embassy. In the event of this happening, I might well kill myself as punishment for being such an idiot. In which case, I would like to be cremated, and please will you play “Ha Ha You’re Dead” at some point during the service.