I left Australia and backpacked around New Zealand. I skied, drank mulled wine and wrote poetry by alpine fireplaces. I went to Indonesia and lazed around in Bali. I lived it up in Thailand and ambled around Paris before finally coming to the conclusion that there really was nowhere else to hide.
I was in The Three Ducks hostel in Paris. I’d never seen hospitality like it, surely the rudest staff in Europe.
I was tired of being burnt by the shower every morning. I was grumpy at the fat lady in the bed above me who woke me up every time she shifted in the night, her massive bulk sending the mattress springs into overdrive.
I was sick of the Italian girls who came in at 4am and put the light on to get changed and chat! I was fed up of being locked out of the hostel between 11 and 4 so they could ‘clean’. I was annoyed at being polite enough to speak French to French people – only to have them respond to me in English.
It was finally enough. Two years on the run from the real world and it was definitely time to move again.
I packed my bag and went to McDonalds to use the free wifi.
I found a flight leaving that night. I took it.
One Way: London Heathrow