Off she goes lalala

My part time job at the local paper proved spectacularly dull, so I quit, having had my fill of writing articles about ice-cream vans and their sinister intentions vis a vis the waistlines of the nation's children or about local sporting events. Becoming unemployed brought a temporary feeling of both independence and- due to both pay day and a parental guilt cheque, a feeling of, well, giddy euphoria and carelessness brought on by actually having money to waste.

No comments about outrageous shoe purchases please.

So I spent money, got very drunk very often and bought new clothes- a bad idea when I'm moving out of here this Friday, and moving things about in black bin bags and cardboard boxes is a distinct possibility.
Then I got another job, waitressing. This won't come as a surprise, but I'm spectacularly bad at waitressing.

"Clumsy!" He snarled at me, as I tipped the contents of one plate at such as alarming angle as to disarry the carefully arranged contents.

"Be careful!" He hissed at me again, as he propelled me out of the kitchen, plates stacked high, and pointed me in the direction of the table.

I worked a fifteen hour shift: Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday. And tips get pooled. Tuesday evening I worked extra time; the new waitress hadn't shown up, and the place was packed. I worked on autopilot, smile fixed, hair slicked back (I can't describe how much I hate having my hair back out of my face) and ignored my aching feet- my black shoes give me blisters. On the way out I gave up, took my heels off and walked back to the flat barefoot, carefully avoiding discarded gum, cigarette butts and glass.

Joel met me as I leant against the door, scrabbling half-heartedly through my bag looking for keys; as he opened the door I stumbled through and landed in a dusty heap on a pile of curtains. He glanced at the clock; "Cupcake," he said, helping me up, giving me a hug and snatching up a cup of coffee from the shelf behind me- people who can multi-task simply amaze me. He wandered back through into the kitchen and I collapsed in a bedraggled pile on the sofa, ignoring my dirty feet, dishevelled hair and aching head, and fell asleep.

I woke up to him poking at my new ear piercing, "cupcake," he said again, "you need a holiday."

"Mmmf." I turned away and went back to sleep.

I woke up a few hours later to full dark, and Joel leaning over me explaining how he wanted to go away, that some friends in Dartmoor were expecting a visit.
And that he'd already packed for me.

He's just so bloody confident.

I ignored him and just went back to sleep- but in bed this time, rather than on the sofa. Then, got up on Wednesday and did the same shift- and the new waitress didn't show up again. I stayed on, pocketed all my tips with nary a guilty thought, then went back to the flat and agreed to run away from it all; something the boy does spectacularly well.

Foolishly, I didn't think to check what he'd packed for me- more on which might come later, but really, how many hats does a girl need? Much as I adore them. And how could he not realise I might want more than one pair of shoes and- this is the key thing, I think- how on earth could he not be aware that underwear simply has got to match?

So we went to Dartmoor, and slept on the train.
More to follow.