I thought I’d write you a blog, seeing as it’s been a while since the last one. Well, about a week, to be exact. Feels like forever though.
Wednesday, after a hangman game with Year 8 turned into my wanting to physically hang them after they decided that “suck my dick” was an acceptable phrase to write on the board, I headed down to the consulate to get my new passport and discovered that the picture wasn’t as horrendous as it looked when I got it taken. Result! After this I wandered about Paris aimlessly, hunting for Christmas presents for people.
Thursday and Friday were a bit boring, Went out Friday night and my card got declined, Santander took three months to realise that my card was being used in France you see. How clever! Not like I’d have noticed the few thousand quid that has disappeared from my account since 20th September or anything, thanks for realising after THREE MONTHS, Santander’s Fraud Team.
Luckily, I have a few awesome friends who looked after me and got me a few drinks so I just danced and had a nice time, then got the night bus home, missing my stop and being lucky enough to get to walk through Corbeil Essonnes at half past three in the morning in the bitterest of bitter cold I think I’ve ever experienced (apart from playing rugby in the snow in year 8 without a jumper – teacher was a bitch).
Saturday, I went out to Paris again after ringing Santander and being told my card was now fine for use. I got to the cash machine outside the bar and BAM! Your bank has declined this transaction, sorry pal! So I rang the bank again, and stood by an alleyway whispering my security checks down the phone like I was enquiring about a very substantial international drugs deal.
Turns out, the guy who had been condescending about me not informing the bank of my departure to France, had decided not to tell the computer that all France-related withdrawals were okay and that the machine should GIVE ME MY MONEY. Now who’s the dickhead?
The very nice woman on the phone fixed it for me, and I took some money out and went out.
The last thing I remember was buying a beer and sitting down.
I have a vague recollection of being very very ill, I just thought I was pissed, until I left the bar after realising my bag had been stolen whilst I was throwing my guts up. All my puking did not sober me up, even slightly, and I then proceeded to spend well over three hours trying to get to Chatelet from TWO METRO STOPS AWAY. I don’t know. I could have got on the wrong train and ended up in Amsterdam and then went all the way back.
Eventually found Louise on the platform where our train was going to take us home, she took one look at me and said “You got spiked.”
It suddenly made sense, how my words were not slurring but I had forgotten the conversation we had just had, how I was still walking in a perfectly straight line but feeling all over the place, how I had been so sick and not sobered up, how I had spent NEARLY FOUR HOURS trying to get to a station that was about 5 minutes away. I didn’t even sober up on the train.
When I got back to my building, the realisation really and truly set in that I was a bit F’ed. My bag had been stolen in the bar after someone gave my beer some added extra and made me very sick. I therefore had no key to get in the gate OR into my apartment. Over the gate and in through the window it was, then!
The next day I felt absolutely disgusting. I couldn’t face the essay that was due in Monday so I had to finish it in my broken bits of spare time over the course of Monday, before the 4pm deadline. It was tight, but with a slightly shoddy bibliography and VERY questionable grammar I managed to submit it at 15.59.
French time, that is.
Silly me - didn’t realise that I had until 4pm GMT to get it submitted, so I could have taken a bit more time on the bibliography and correcting the grammar. And I wanted to actually do well this year.
Oh well... It’s done now, right?
Now it’s Tuesday and I’m about to go and teach kids how to describe stuff. Father Christmas today. I’m gonna tell them he’s dead. I’m cool like that.