A recap and some other junk...

Well, needless to say, my secret meeting with the CEO went well today. Whilst two of my colleagues don't have jobs as of next week, I used my charm and boyish wiles to convince her that I was awesome and that I could single-handedly turn things around.
Or something like that. Actually nothing like that. I had to be very honest and admit fault but it seemed to work out alright. There was an unnecessarily large amount of talk of office culture though. I found this funny because this is a workplace overrun with middle-aged women with nothing better to do than talk about when they had a cup of tea once that was so hot that the cup melted a mark into the top of their desk and they had to hide it with paper for a week because they'd only been working there for a little while and were afraid they'd lose their job.
Imagine banal conversation like that. All. The. Fucking. Day.
Although I lie. These conversations are punctuated with me being told what smart-casual means.
"So we all have to come along to this event tomorrow night. Dress code is smart-casual. Jiminy that means you should probably wear a collared shirt or something. Maybe jeans, I think that would be ok."
Ahh...yes. Thank you for clarifying smart casual for me. Unfortunately this means I ironed my string vest and camouflage three quarter cargo pants for nothing. Damn.

In an effort to boost the morale in the place, they've opted to install umbrellas in the middle of the groups of desks. Like, big fuck off novelty beach umbrellas. No shit. It's ridiculous.
These are the kind of people that make every second Friday "Dress As Your Favourite Pet Cat Day" because they think it will be so good for morale, not to mention FUCKING HILARIOUS to see Laneesha from accounts dressed up as little Mr Tinkles. They forget however, that no one else in the office owns a cat, let alone multiple felines from which to pick a favourite. Everyone also knows that you let your cats sleep in your bed and that your just-used vibrator has picked up so much cat-hair from your sheets that it looks like an Alsatian's disembodied tail. Fools.

So at the moment, there's a big taffeta umbrella perched gaudily over a desk. A green one, with a parrot on it and fairy lights.
The other one is pink with flowers embroidered on it. And tassels.
I work near colourful umbrellas and tassels, however I'm not a cocktail waiter at a burlesque club. What has my life come to?

Why don't you just shape some shit into a ball, roll it around in your cat-hair sheets and call it a fucking coconut. Because that's closer to paradise than these stupid umbrellas you're surrounding me with.

So being the singular synthesiser of testosterone in a thick swamp of estrogen producing manatees I mockingly declared that I felt left out of the festivities as i didn't have an umbrella above my desk.
Bad move Jiminy. Manatees cannot detect sarcasm.
Yesterday a package arrived in the post for me.
"Open it." My boss says, grinning daftly with her fish-mouth.
I sigh and pull away the packaging.
It's a wide-brimmed hat with corks dangling off it. It even had a kangaroo printed on the front of it. Because that's what we all do in Australia these days. Seriously, live in the now. Why didn't you just get me a brochure for EXPO 88 or a block of cheese signed by Peter Russell Clarke. Why stop there though? Buy me the box set of Crocodile Dundee videos wrapped in prawns and soaked in Eucalyptus oil. Or save yourself the trouble and just write me a card that says HEY YOU'RE AUSTRALIAN. Cos that's about as funny as your fucking hat.

It's like me buying her some severed heads, cos isn't that what the English were into at some stage? Cutting off heads and sticking them to things to ward off their enemies? Or was it burning people? Maybe I could bring her some matches and a some sticks to make a pyre.
They wonder why there's such a high staff turn-over? Geez... I dunno guys, it wouldn't have anything to do with the incompetent managers. Maybe it's because there's NOT ENOUGH UMBRELLAS.

Anyways, I'm getting all worked up. The point of this was to paint a picture of the 'culture' in my office. It may seem to you that it paints a more accurate picture of my current absence of sanity but frankly, I care not. Me and Other Me are very happy with ourselves.

Anyways, my office sucks and I'm powerless to change it, unless I magically develop ever-shrinking ovaries overnight and miraculously turn into a bitter, thick-skulled ass hat.
Quit, you say? I'd like to but I need the cash as The Girl and I are saving furiously (which I imagine would look like a tiny kid frantically jamming handfuls of bank notes into a piggy bank) for our big Europe/India/South East Asia/Back to Australia trip at the end of June.

Looks like I'm in Grit-Your-Teeth-And-Deal-With-It City for three more months. Hooray.
Oh well, I hear it's full of umbrellas culture at least.

Reasons I love Edinburgh

This morning I decided to not sit in on the things I had organised for work. Instead I decided to do the tourist thing and go for a stroll around Edinburgh. Being daft I decided to do this in t-shirt and thin jumper.
Hello, dumb-ass. You're in Edinburgh. Put some fucking clothes on.
Needless to say i got cold pretty quickly.
I ventured back and got my jacket, laptop and my hat. (Yes, the one the homeless guy was into)
All packed up and looking like such a tourist that even some Japanese ladies with visors, big fuck-off cameras and pants-suits pointed at me and yelled 'Stupid tourist!", I set off. Within 15 minutes I had decided that Edinburgh is the awesome.

These are the reasons why:

- I climbed the Scott Monument. Awesome panoramic views over the harbour, old town, mountains and castle. On my way back down I noticed the best graffiti ever.
"Peanut woz ere. 15-7-79"
This on the world's largest ever monument created in honour of a writer.
Fucking poetic. Nice one Pea.

- I swear I've seen Christopher Lambert waiting for a bus at least 5 times. It's disconcerting to say the least. One guy even grabbed me and said "THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!... more minute until this bus arrives, I've been waiting for ages."
I'm lying again. But seriously, there's heaps of dudes that look like they're an Immortal from Highlander.

- Through a completely random series of occurrences, I just snapped myself a photo of the First Minister of Scotland (Which is their version of a Prime Minister) arm in arm with two guys who were protesting against the proposed changes to Scottish immigration law which will mean no more Curry chefs will be allowed to migrate from India. Or something to that effect. Anyways, I somehow found myself out the front of the Scottish Parliament, then I saw these guys with funny hats holding boards with all kinds of wicked slogans like "Save Curry!" The next thing I know I see them all huddled around someone and I think "CAPTAIN CURRY HAS COME TO SAVE THEM"
But no, it's the prime minister of fucking Scotland, wearing a little white curry chef's hat hugging all these Indian dudes. I took a photo because it's not every day you see the leader of a nation hugging a guy who's occupation involves giving people diarrhoea.

- I found a shop that sells Scottish souvenirs called 'Thistle do nicely'. Best regional-based store-name pun so far.

- I saw two dudes walking around in V for Vendetta masks. Which I thought was totally lame and if I had my way, I'd tie them to a stake and put fireworks in their eyes. But, Jeebus had taken care of things for me. So rather than forcing me to you know, commit murder or something, he just made these dudes such massive nerds that they still had to wear their massive coke-bottle glasses on the outside of the masks!
Ha! Way to be a revolutionary, Captain Degenerative Ocular Faculties. I decided his sidekick was called Myopia Man.

- I saw the Edinburgh School of English. Which sounds funny and weird to me. Probably sounds weirder to someone who doesn't speak English.

- I threw a pebble at a pigeon and hit it.

- I saw a tiny orange tractor driving up the steepest hill ever. Seriously, it was the size of a small ride-on lawnmower, but with a fully enclosed cabin and stuff.
What, no one else finds this funny? Fuck you. Go see television and tell it you want your imagination back. Also get it to eviscerate Ray Romano or whatever the fuck his name is. God I despise that guy. Also tell it to go drop off a map and a helicopter to the poor bastards on Lost. For fucks sake. Someone sort their shit out for them. How long can you not know where you are for? Tards.

Did I just lose COMPLETE TRACK of what I was talking about? The Scottish drunkard reading over my shoulder said "Aye, yer doom foch." Shut up, Christopher Lambert.

- There's a massive number of gingers over here. They have hair that's like, blazing red. Which makes me look like a brunette. (I have somewhat auburn hair. Shutup.) Finally I feel like I fit in. It's like I'm a monkey that was separated from my monkey crew when I was a monkey baby and made to walk around crashing cymbals together and wearing a fez and now I've finally been reunited with my kin. Although now I don't smell like my monkey brethren, so they all claw and bite my face and throw their stinky monkey shit at me.
Umm.. yeah.

I'm going to make a proposal for the Scottish tourist board. My slogan is going to be:

"Come to Scotland and be reunited with you monkey homies whilst the eyes of a thousand Christopher Lamberts and gingers burn into the back of your skull. Also you can throw things at pigeons and you'll actually hit them."

So yeah, that's why I love Edinburgh.

Photo evidence to come soon.

Some Pictures

As I'm lacking in words/brainpower at the moment, I'm posting some pictures instead. Words/brainpower expected to come back some time this afternoon hopefully.

In the meantime, here's some photos from my travels thus far.

Sunny days in Czech Republic. And some guy with a cross. Religion is a popular pastime for everyone there. Except statues, they don't do a whole lot. Posers.

The Girl partially obscuring a sunset. The alternative title for this was 'Sun? In England! Quick, grab the camera and take a fucking photo!' Or it could be called 'The Water's Blue, You're Just Colourblind, You Dumbshit.'

The trumpeteer. He also plays saxaphone.

Remnants of ads in the underground. One bit looks like it's part of an old ad for Giant Strangle Hands™

Waterfall. Splash. Or a humourous cut scene to represent a moneyshot in an old movie which would have been preceded by a train going into a tunnel, a rocket taking off and possibly a bottle of champagne being opened.

The excitement of Liverpool St station. It's usually busier than this. Maybe everyone ran away because the building appears to be being held up by pick-up-sticks.

More statues in Czech Republic. Statues are like Jesus to them. Wait, the statues are Jesus? Oh, it's all starting to make sense now.

London. From Southbank at night. Through a foggy lens. Crap.

Everyone's favourite holiday: Sit On An Orange Bench With A Stranger Near A Fuck-Off Spiky Green Bush Day

More with the silhouettes and the contrails. At least there's no statues though. Bet you're relieved.

The whimsical land of The Carnies. PS: It's not Frankston. It's a fair. I even got through this night without being pickpocketed, acquiring a giant panda or winning a shitty prize. What is it with Carnie prizes though? Yes, I got some balls to go in some hoop or something, it was damn hard and all you're giving me is a shitty lunch box from some cartoon that hasn't been on tv since 1995? Fuck you and your Captain Planet lunch box.

A study in cement. LAX is a boring, boring place. Especially when all you want is a fucking sandwich and no one sells food unless you count the beggar who'll give you some gum for a tenner. Which i don't.

Hoisin, bitches!

Most. Boring. Job. Ever. Since when do straps go above your chin? Is that even practical? I say no. I didn't tell him this though as he had a knife on a gun. That's the weapon combination I always choose to not fuck with.

Because everyone associates lions with water. Tie your boat up to a lion holding a ring in its mouth! Poor lion, all green and trapped in a giant brick with nothing to eat except a big circle.

Canary Wharf. On weekdays, home to a specific group of wankers called 'analysts' or 'brokers'. On weekends, home to sweet fuck all, apart from this here bridge and some seagulls. And maybe even some pigeons with arms

Fireworks. Or another cut scene representing some kind of sexual occurrence.

In London this is called an 'adequate measure' when combating a boring street-scape. Blue chairs. Wow. Inspiring. "Hey what you wanna do today? We should totally go down by the river and sit on a blue chair! How awesome would that be?... What do you mean 'no, you're a loser'? "

Don't be alarmed. It's just an installation I saw once. How alarming... No? Umm.. ... Err... They weren't real alarms- it was a collage, so i guess you could call them false alarms?
I don't know any more alarm puns. Ooh, wait: The gallery was such a rip off, we had to pay alarm and a leg to get in.
That is all.

An abandoned mill in a place I used to live. It's pretty abandoned. Is abandoning an antonym of bandoning? For example, 'you can tell it's empty by the lack of people bandoning the area'.

That's it. I have nothing else at the moment.

And we're back!

Hells yeah!

What's up peeps? As you are probably well aware, I had a bit of a screw up with the whole 'Italy Trip' thing.
Luckily, it all turned out to be awesome and was well worth the hassle of getting there.
So here's how the Italian Job went down. Minus the photos. This will be explained later. (Also, see The Girl's account of the trip for a more interesting version of this story)

* Ok, this is like... all kinds of loooong. So fix yourself an espresso, grab a slice of pizza and warm up your eyes. Also, If you awake in a pile of drool in a few hours time, I apologise for telling such lengthy, boring stories.*


Having had a day to dwell on my stupidity, I wrote myself a list of everything I needed to walk out the door with. I ate some soup and went to bed.
(An aside: Later on I came up with the idea of having a velcro suit made, then sticking the corresponding velcro to all the important things I need to take whenever I'm travelling. This would mean anytime I was had to go somewhere, I could just roll around in our room and everything I would need would be stuck to me. I could also have a suit made in the opposite velcro, and then put the corresponding velcro on all the items I need to say, go to work. If I rolled around our room, then I'd only pick up the items I needed for work, and my travel items, such as my passport wouldn't stick because everyone knows that the fluffy bits of velcro won't stick to each other. Man, am I a problem solver or what!?)

Ahem...

So I awoke with a start at 10 minute intervals from 2.00am through 3.20am, each time thinking I'd slept through my alarm and had missed my plane.
I rose at 3.30am. Got my stuff together and set off for the trusty night bus.
London at 4.00am is an entirely different creature. The air is crisp and there's a calm in the air. I felt energised as steam billowed out with each exhalation. I felt good finally being on my way.
In the back of my mind I worried I'd be caught out down 'Stab Alley' and mugged, however the closest thing to a threat was a wily fox that coolly snuck behind a fence as I approached.
I caught the bus at 4.07am. It was almost empty, warm and I felt really relaxed. Much nicer than my usual Friday morning commute. At Turnham Green a man boarded the bus wearing the fluorescent threads of a tube worker. Smiling, he greeted the 8 or so of us that were sat on the bottom deck of the bus and proceeded to hand out a Metro to everyone, accompanied by a cheery 'good morning!'
It was actually a really nice journey in as I had time to compose myself which I needed considering the past 24 hours' overload.
Getting to Victoria, I caught the 5.02 to Gatwick. Arrived at the airport at 5.47, checked in early and had a seat in the departure lounge and waited for boarding.
Had a chat to a nice Aussie guy from Adelaide called Andy and then caught a transfer bus to the plane which was waiting for us in what seemed to be a vacant field.
I was asleep before take-off. Which is weird because I particularly love the take-off part of a plane journey.
Waking up, I find I'm squished between an insurance broker named Emily and an unnamed man in a leather puffer jacket with the most porno moustache and hair I've ever seen.
Still tired, I put my rolled-up hoodie behind my neck and drift off again.

I rouse as we are passing over the alps and the view is amazing. I think I'm weirding the insurance broker out as she is in the window seat and I'm peering across her at the mountains which look like cream that's been whipped into firm peaks. I never realised the alps were so vast.
I expect I look like a small child, peering out the window and grinning foolishly. Insurance broker lady asks if airport is near Milan city centre and I explain how far from Milan it is in kilometres, minutes, how much the average cab fare is, how much a shuttle bus costs and how far away Milan's other two airports are. She looks bewildered and I explain that I know this due to my frantic attempts to sort out the whole 'forgotten passport/trasferred flights' conundrum.
She finds this hilarious. I'm still not ready to laugh about it, so I nod and force a smile.

We touch down in Milan. Finally, I set my feet on solid ground in Italy. Relief.
On the horizon, I see the rocky, snow capped peaks of the Orobie Alps and all my tension, stress and anxiety dissolves.

A disinterested customs official punches my passport and I head through to the arrivals lounge where I know I have a 4.5 hour wait for my transfer to Presolana.
I buy an overpriced lunch panini, a water and some gum which is called Vigorsol. I chewed two pellets, read the label and then worried I'd end up with a four day erection. I swear I've had spam with the words 'Discount Vigorsol' in the subject line.

I'm paranoid I'm going to miss my transfer, so I do all I can to stay awake. I decide to venture outside, however there's only carparks and no footpaths, so I return to the arrivals lounge to partake in some people watching.
I was of the impression that milan was the fashion capital of the world. I think on an episode of America's Next Top Model that The Girl was watching the other night, they described the style as 'Italian Sexuality'. I saw nothing that equated to anything even vaguely similar to this description.
Apparently if you're a man, you have to wear zip-up, roll neck knitwear, jeans with huge D&G embroidering all over them, a racing style leather jacket complete with Shell and Penzoil sew on badges, aviator sunglasses, nike runners (not stylish ones, but like cross trainers or something) and some unholy arrangement of facial hair.
If you're a woman, you must wear horribly cheap looking hooker boots, jeans with huge D&G embroidering all over them (perhaps they're unisex?), something that displays your adequate stomach protruding over said jeans and again, aviator sunglasses.
Oh, also you must be so orange that you'd outshine a bag of carrots.
The fashionistas and fasionmisters were all horribly unfashionable. there was no 'Italian Sexuality' unless sex in Italy is usually conducted in charity shop drop-off bins.
Watching these people, the time passed rather quickly.
The Girl sends me a few messages lamenting the language barrier, the lack of ski lessons and the uphill walking in ski boots.
I make guilty apologies and vow to be there soon.
A ray of sunshine enters through the automatic doors as Carlo, my friendly transfer driver walks in carrying a piece of paper with my name on it.
I jump up and resist the urge to hug the man that will finally take me to my intended destination. (Hmm... I expect this may turn up some hits from people searching for homo-erotic literature)
As we travel through Milan and into Bergamo, I pull out my camera as the alps loom higher and higher above me.
I learn about the local textile industry, the river and the abundance of activities the resort offers. Seamless salesmanship from Carlo.
I arrive at the hotel at 5.40pm. For those of you who don't follow maths, that's 14 hours since I left home.
By this stage I am so excited, I rush out of the van, and attempt to check in at the reception desk. This proves difficult as the lovely man behind the desk doesn't have the greatest command of the English language.
Carlo brings me my camera which I left on the van. (Need the velcro suit)
Hands are shaken, Carlo leaves and I head up to our room.
The Girl arrives back at the hotel a short time later and I sit on the bed with her and laugh as relief washes over me and I'm so happy to finally be there.
Showered, clothed and feeling fresh we decide to descend the mountain for dinner.
We go to Pizza l Rustico for dinner and we eat the best pizzas I've had. Proffering a mashed-up Italio-English-mime-a-thon, we also manage to order a nice bottle of red and tasty dessert.
Full and content we walk back up the hill to our hotel, and fall into bed where I sleep like a narcoleptic on Ambien. Which is extremely well, in case my analogy reads stupidly.

Morning, and I open the shutters to reveal a sun kissed mountain peak surrounded by thousands of pointy green pines.
We get our stuff sorted, head downstairs for breakfast of fresh mortadella, cheese, rolls, home made croissants and coffee.
We then dress and catch the ski-bus (which I thought Carlo was calling the 'caboose') up to the slopes.
It's sub zero temperatures, but there's not a cloud in the sky and the sun is warm on my face.
We hire The Girl a snowboard and then trudge up the hill a little way where we go through the basics and then begin the potentially volatile process of me teaching her to snowboard.

What can I say. She's good.
When I was working at the ski resort in the US, I usually ran a lift on the beginners slope so had a good understanding of the steep learning curve involved in snowboarding. As such I had expectations that like most beginners, she'd spend the most of the day skidding on her butt, be completely disenfranchised with snowboarding by lunch time and possibly have called me all manner of bad words and left by 2pm.

After an hour and a half, Non Blondie was getting up on her own and was doing really well...
I put it down to my superior instructional methods, although i'd be lying if I didn't say she did really really well. I was the proudest person on the mountain. Also, I had the sorest knees on the mountain from kneeling and explaining things on hard snow.

So we snowboarded, we rode a lift up the mountain (much to the dismay of The Girl who upon boarding, remembered she really didn't like lifts at all, but still calmed herself down very bravely) and we sat in the sun and ate lunch.
I haven't had such a good day in a long, long time.

Sore, bruised and tired, we retired to the hotel where we rested a while before heading out for a stroll around the lovely village of Bratto. We went for ice cream, wandered past shops filled with cured meats, fresh made pasta, all manner of cheeses and then found a nice place to have a coffee.
We sipped on tasty lattes (Boy, does that sound wanky or what?) and watched in no particular order, a burly man pump endless euros into a slot machine, a waitress casually chat with her friend at a table, said bury man drink shots of grapper/ouzo and a midget come in with a friend to order something I didn't understand.
Not being one to racially stereotype, I suggested to Non Blondie that the midget was the Mario you start out with in Super Mario Brothers before you punch that second brick and get the mushroom which makes him go bigger.
She shook her head and told me I was a horrible person.

We then sauntered back up hill, taking photos of the sunset all the way to our hotel where we readied ourselves for dinner.
Dinner was a three course extravaganza at the hotel restaurant, cooked by the lovely man who greeted me at the reception desk. Again we mangled pronunciations successfully and had ourselves a three course meal encompassing veal, venison, lasagne, gnocchi, amaretto, pear and chocolate torte and a bottle of chianti.
Thoroughly satisfied, we paid our outstandings, received a complimentary shot of local liquor and headed up to bed full, drunk and happily exhausted.
Waking to the alarm, we packed everything up and got ready to leave. I checked that I had everything. I then checked again, just in case. And I repeated this four more times.
Satisfied that we had everything we needed, we met Carlo at 7am and headed back to the airport.
We ate a horrific airport breakfast, then boarded our flight and sighed as we soared up and away from what could possibly go down as the best short holiday ever.
Like excited school kids, we took photos as we passed back over the alps and then watched quietly as small white coastal cliffs, and then the green patchwork of rural England slid past below us.
We waited for our bags at the 'Wheel of Fortune' baggage carousel. Non-Blondie's bag came almost instantly, however after half an hour and watching another flight's worth of luggage be spewed up and hauled away by it's owners, we decided my snowboard bag wasn't making an appearance and headed to Lost Baggage.
The guy ahead of me was lamenting his smashed up cello, which had been labelled as 'Fragile'. Unfortunately this probably meant very little to a non-Enlgish-speaking baggage handler in Italy.
The man behind the counter then explained to me that oversize baggage goes to Zone 10. This isn't made known to anyone at all, so frustrated at having waited for so long for no reason, we grab my snowboard bag and head off to catch a train home.
Train is filled with Chelsea supporters and we cram into the door way. After 40 or so minutes of idiotic, Stella fuelled football banter everyone disembarks at Victoria.
The Girl and I are walking towards the gates when a shockwave runs through me.
"Oh Shit!"
'What is it now!?" Asks The Girl.
"My bag. Where's my backpack!?"
"Oh my god..." She shakes her head. (Again, need velcro suit. Need it now.)
So I rush back to the train, where there is no sign of my bag. I report it to lost property, the train cleaners and anyone else that doesn't walk away from me like I'm a crazy man foretelling the coming apocalypse. I tell them all it contains some books, clothes, my camera (SHIT!) and ironically, my travel insurance documentation.
We resolve to call Gatwick once we get home to see if they have my bag and hopefully avert a bomb scare caused by a suspicious Fitness First backpack sitting on Platform 2.
Walking down to the District Line, the hand-scrawled sign informs us that the District line only runs to Earl's Court and then the Piccadilly only runs to Hammersmith.
Sighing and already lamenting being back in Scuzz City, we catch the District line, change to the Piccadilly, then alight at Hammersmith and join the 200m queue for the replacement bus service.
Around an hour later I walk through the door at home, throw down my snowboard bag and lie on the couch while The Girl picks up some ciders and falafel wraps for our lunch.
Whilst I'm stressed over the loss of my bag and all it contains, I'm glad to be home and am already recalling the relaxation and fun of the trip.
The Girl brings in sustenance and we flop onto the couch where we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening.

It's nice to be home. But it's even nicer to be in Italy.
Yesterday, I got a call back from Gatwick who have my bag and everything it contains! Hooray for honest people!
Once I get my camera back, I'll post photos.
I hereby declare that there shall be no more stupidity on my behalf and that I'm not going to foget important things anymore.

Also, I have some memes taht I've been tagged in to do, so Mikey, Feverdog and Non Blondie: Keep an eye out and I'll get them all done soon.

Absolutely shattered...

Guess who wins fuckwit of the week award?
It's me.
Fuckwit of the year actually.

I'm the guy that plans to take his girlfriend away for a few days skiing/snowboarding in Italy. I'm also the guy that gets up at 5.30am this morning, makes sure he has all his gear packed before heading out to airport.
Then I'm the guy that puts his girlfriend on a plane by herself because he FORGOT TO TAKE HIS FUCKING PASSPORT.
That's right. I'm that stupid.
So angry....
We got to Gatwick, Non Blondie grabbed her passport out of her bag, I see her do this and my stomach leaps into my mouth.
"Got your passport?" She asked.
"FUCK!!" I'm panicking.
"You're kidding aren't you? You can't be serious?"
"No, not kidding. Fuck it."

Cue much swearing, mad rushing and trying to shift flights, but there's no time so put The Girl on a plane and then proceed with much discussion with lady at Easyjet desk.
Apparently the only other flight to Milan today is full, so my only option is the flight tomorrow morning at 6.50am. But the only transfer I can get from the airport to the resort is at 3pm, meaning I don't arrive at the hotel until 5pm tomorrow afternoon.
We've changed our flights so we can stay for an extra day and night, but fucking hell....
This could have been avoided if I hadn't been so fucking stupid.
I don't think I've ever been as angry and disappointed with myself...
I had plans of taking her out skiing, plans of seeing her smile as she walked through the snow and plans of a nice, peaceful few days of fun.
But I go and blow it by being so disorganised.
Now I have to get up at 3.30am to get a nightbus at 4 which will get me to Victoria station in time to get a train to Gatwick in time for check-in. Hopefully.
While I sit here fuming at my idiocy, The Girl is having dinner by herself somewhere in Italy.
I am making a mental note of how gutted I am over this, so as it never happens again.
Sometimes, I could just punch me.
Anyways, hopefully this time tomorrow night I'll actually be in Italy with The Girl and laughing about all this.

Anyone want tips on how to sabotage a relationship/holiday? Give me a yell....

I guess this is what I get for gloating, hey Jay?

I'm going to bed... Long day tomorrow...