Warning: I wrote the next 100 posts at the beach when I was a bit too hot.
Sometimes I think Spain is worse than the French Exchange (and on that, Charlotte Daley and I were locked in the toilet by her penpal, Magali, and the doorknob removed from the outside.)
It's so hot, I don't understand 90% of what goes on, that Euphoria song plays at least twice a day.
I am so fed up of waking up here. You know the precious few moments upon waking in which you don't yet realise where you are? And then, oh yes, it floods back as strong as the sweat down my body, before, during and sometimes even in a shower. Oh yes, it is still too hot to breathe. Oh, and i can hear someone speaking happy Spanish, and I remember that i'm still an awkward mute. I think if I wasn't pleasantish to look at there would be no point for them of me to leave my room. In any case I'd much prefer to carry on lying on my bed playing "whose foot is that?" watching my calf downwards in the mirror. I even got it to look like a hand just now.
But then later we will go in the speedboat, and I suppose that's quite fun. As Bob has written for me in my paper diary: 'Cheer up, you're not Anne Frank.' This is true Bob. I'm sure I could manage to get out of my luxury apartment bedroom and join the family for some breakfast. It is by now midday after all.
And I'm sure I could manage this huge plate of langoustines later on. I might even crack a smile as I hammer into their shells.
Sometimes I think Spain is worse than the French Exchange (and on that, Charlotte Daley and I were locked in the toilet by her penpal, Magali, and the doorknob removed from the outside.)
It's so hot, I don't understand 90% of what goes on, that Euphoria song plays at least twice a day.
I am so fed up of waking up here. You know the precious few moments upon waking in which you don't yet realise where you are? And then, oh yes, it floods back as strong as the sweat down my body, before, during and sometimes even in a shower. Oh yes, it is still too hot to breathe. Oh, and i can hear someone speaking happy Spanish, and I remember that i'm still an awkward mute. I think if I wasn't pleasantish to look at there would be no point for them of me to leave my room. In any case I'd much prefer to carry on lying on my bed playing "whose foot is that?" watching my calf downwards in the mirror. I even got it to look like a hand just now.
But then later we will go in the speedboat, and I suppose that's quite fun. As Bob has written for me in my paper diary: 'Cheer up, you're not Anne Frank.' This is true Bob. I'm sure I could manage to get out of my luxury apartment bedroom and join the family for some breakfast. It is by now midday after all.
And I'm sure I could manage this huge plate of langoustines later on. I might even crack a smile as I hammer into their shells.
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