The next day I wake up in my Airbnb with a banging headache, paralysed with fear, unable to move. I had booked the cheapest room I could get my hands on, not wanting to impart any of my drunken emotional antics on any real friends. However, lying there between stained bed sheets, listening to loud, male, foreign voices talk on the other side of the sheet thin wall, this was a decision I was starting to regret.
Can I get a reeeeeewind……
Date: the night before
Location: F&F leaving do, Pianoworks in Farringdon
I raced (as fast as London commuter traffic can allow) down the A1 & arrived in my new home for the next two nights. A room in a top floor flat in a shady residential spot, 10 minutes walk from Kings Cross station, known for its hookers & dingy alleyways. But it had a free parking space & it was £35 per night (result!) & I would be staying with a sweet little Chinese woman called Jun & did I mention it was £35 a night?
Jun had left a key out for me which I couldn’t find for love nor money, searching on my knees in diminishing sunlight in a panic, trying to look inconspicuous, & in doing so managed to drop my phone on the concrete, smashing the screen. Fuck a doodle whatsit. I wince. That is the last thing I need, given my last pay packet came to an abrupt halt 2 hours before. But there was no time to lament. I continue the bizarre search, finally locating the key in a wheel arch of an abandoned vehicle & let myself in. It’s basic, I knew it would be, but the Ferrari themed bedspread comes as a surprise, but I suppose the stains on the towels & sheets really aren’t. For the price, (its £35, I don’t think I mentioned it) I couldn’t really complain & the kitsch, laminated guidelines everywhere – “You are in London don’t get your knickers in a twist, have a cup of tea” – above the kettle for example, elicit a smile. I drop my stuff & run straight back out with a slick of lip gloss. Barely have I closed the door of the Uber though when the phone rings. It’s Jun.
I answer hurriedly “Hi, don’t worry, I found the key!”
A faint, male voice responds. Huh?! my mind jumbles.
“Hello? Who is this?” I retort.
“It’s Jun! Listen, are there people in the other rooms?”
“Pardon.”
Cue rapid internal dialogue. What do you mean are there people in the other rooms?! This is your home surely. Why are you not privy to this pertinent information? And more importantly why on earth are you talking in baritone?
A confused conversation ensues & I take away the following facts;
- Jun is indeed a man. My bad, must have been a very unflattering angle on the photo
- Two other randoms will be staying in the room next door
- Jun sleeps on the kitchen floor
- My bedroom door has no lock on it
All in all, none of it welcome information but there is nothing I can do about it now. I arrive at Pianoworks over an hour late for my own party & sink to my knees on the spot upon seeing a booth full of beautiful, familiar faces. The frenzy of the last few hours & the emotion of the last 2 days hits me hard. It’s over. I’m finished. No more fit modelling. No more struggling behind a curtain, working myself into a sweat, trying to squeeze my ass into an innovative, new, non-stretch pair of skinny jeans, pulling muscles left, right & centre. No more bikini mishaps, illuminated under fluro lighting for full scrutiny by a panel of 6 or more, & super happily, no more pin scratches! Yay! I grab a drink from the table & start glugging, joyfully flailing my limbs around in a pseudo sexy fashion like a demented lap dancer (for some reason I pelvic thrust when I’m happy). And I’m not just happy right now, I’m euphoric. The waiter passes by & I order a giant porn star martini, two standard sized ones & several bottles of wine, & waste no time getting stuck right in.
The headache the next day is testament to this (as is the montage above). Lying rigid, strategically positioned between stains, I tentatively tiptoe my fingers towards my broken phone to inspect the photographic evidence of the night before. My mind is a buzz with blurry images of shiny, happy faces, attempted breakdances & hollering & hooting. I see an Instagram notification & nausea rises, but phew, its okay, it’s a nice pic of Lynsey & I
which artfully hides my sorry state really quite well. THANK THE LORD. I have previous with this venue… only 6 months before I had celebrated my birthday there & slapped a man round the face with my chicken fillet before chucking it over my shoulder into the crowd, leaving my poor friend Caz to go look for it. Oh god it’s all flooding back, she really had the short straw that night… she also had to get me back in my jumpsuit after a fight in a toilet cubicle with a helium balloon that I had tied & wound irretrievably around my body. Sorry Caz. Love you.
The male voices continue, & I wish I had managed to drag the dresser closer to the door to prevent any unwanted entrances. In an half-arse attempt, in the early hours of the morning I had tried to barricade the door but to little avail. The voices get louder & I wonder if there is also a laminated riddle courtesy of Jun on their side of the wall too – “Grass are greener but walls are also thinner, so please try to keep volume down” – but I guess not. I need the toilet but it’s not an option. I creep carefully around my room not making a squeak, gathering my toiletries, awaiting my moment to flee quickly across the corridor to the relative safety of the bathroom opposite. That has a lock on it right? I taste the alcohol on my breath, erghhh I need to get ready; I have my third leaving do tonight & staff shop at River Island opens in an hour & I have every intention of trespassing back onto the property for one last mega spend up. Evil cackle. <fade out>
