Catching Up

Dearest readers,

I apologize for my prolonged absence from the blogosphere. Pan told me she had a new post today, so, after reading it, I went on my own blog and noticed that I hadn't posted anything for more than a month. The guilt almost overwhelmed me, I can tell you.

Many things have happened in my life in these past few weeks, emotionally significant events.
What happened that was such a big deal?, you may ask. Here's the list:

I got back from India,
which was traumatic, to say the least, because India rules and it reminds me of Turkey so I've developed an unhealthy emotional attachment to it. After three weeks of a mostly vegetarian diet, I was thinner and healthier, so much so that the first thing my mother said to me after not seeing me for ages was not 'Oh, TPF, apple of my eye, how I missed you!', or 'Oh, TPF, home is not the same without you!', but 'Wow, TPF, your skin is loads better.'

No, seriously, she actually said that.

And now for the visual aids.

Now this is what I call persuasion. Would you dare defy the author of this? I know I wouldn't. Of course, I don't own a car with which to risk it, but if I did, I'd steer clear of that gate. You know, this kind of reminds me of that scene from Godfather where Marlon Brando sends a guy the corpse of his favourite horse so that the guy wakes up in bed to see blood all over the place, lifts the covers and sees his dead horse. Of course, I stopped watching the movie after that scene because my 12 year-old cousin was with me and also because the volume didn't work and it was hard to understand Marlon Brando's sexy accent.

By the way, you've probably heard about the bomb blasts in Bombay. I was actually on one of those trains a month ago and I know people who use them every day. Luckily, everyone I know is OK, including adorable fuzz-head Eris, and Gary, whose house we stayed in for three days, but I think all that, plus the clubbing, plus the trudging in fashion street under heavy rains warrants a separate post.

I got a sexy tan
at Harry's house in Liguria (which is an Italian region by the sea). Yep, friends. I am no longer 'she of the sickly pallor', but 'she of the chocolate brown sexiness that goes with her prom dress'. Oh, right, the prom.

I partied
at the prom, which wasn't very good because the music was bad, but hey, at least I didn't buy a new dress for it. I used the same one I used in my tenth grade prom. Which means a) I haven't gained any weight, which is good, and b) My frontal assets have remained unchanged, which is decidedly less good. I personally like to think of option 'a' more.

I also partied at Vintage Girl's cool end of year bash/early birthday party where, believe it or not, there was an open bar and, believe it or not, decent music. Two mojitos, one vodka lemon, one sangria and liberal quantities of wine later I was having the time of my life. And this was the day after the prom. Thank God for Pan, who was somehow more sober than me (and that, friends, is an event in and of itself). And the day after that, at nine in the morning, I had to go for Graduation Day rehearsals.

Oh, right, graduation.

I graduated
from high school, obviously. My family was late for the ceremony. You know, I keep telling people that it runs in the family, that I can't help it if I'm always late, it's genetic, and people don't believe me. Well, if their parents were late for their graduation, they would believe me. And that's that.

Oh, Pan and I went to order photographs from the school photographer today and I discovered that I look positively miserable in my Graduation Day ones. I wonder why that is. Hmm. Maybe because my parents were late for it, and I soooo hope my mother reads this so she can see the pain she caused me. Sniff. I will so never get over this.

I went to the EXIT festival
in Serbia, where I got to watch Franz Ferdinand, Morrissey and, drumroll, BILLY IDOL. Oh yes. Billy Idol. Who is still incredibly hot despite his age. Who is so sexy I couldn't refrain from drooling and practically fainting despite the fact that my mother (also a fan) was next to me and I should have perhaps tried to maintain some decorum. Oh my. I am swooning at the memory of his hotness.

He sang everything. Everything except Cradle of Love, but perhaps that's a good thing, because I might have truly fainted had he sung Cradle of Love.

Franz Ferdinand were OK, but I don't like them much so I wasn't all that interested. Morrissey rocked, but I was disappointed because I'm much more of a Smiths fan and he didn't sing any Smiths songs. But he did sing How Soon is Now, which I happen to know off by heart because I used to watch Charmed.

Oh dear. I have just publicly admitted to watching Charmed. You know, I always hated Prue and was so glad when she died because every time I saw her I was inevitably reminded of Brenda Walsh from Beverly Hills, 90210 and I really disliked Brenda Walsh.

OK, now that I've got that out of the way...

I saw the Rolling Stones
at Milan's football stadium. Pan's post has more details on that. I can just tell you that it was amazing, despite the fact the Mick and Keith were little more than specks dressed in weirdly coloured clothing. And, oh, Start Me Up and Brown Sugar, one after the other... I practically died.

I got my IB results
which were good, and I am officially a Uni girl now! SQUEE! But term starts in October, so I have plenty of time to basically do whatever I want. Pan, Harry, Marry and I are supposed to go to Berlin sometime this month, but the way things are going, that is so not going to happen.

Speaking of Berlin...

Italy won the World Cup
for the first time in 24 years! AND I WAS THERE! Well, not at the World Cup, but in Italy. Italy went crazy. Even I went crazy, and I'm not even Italian! Seriously, I bought a flag for 10 Euros before I even knew if Italy was going to win or not. And I wore it as a belt the next day.

Meanwhile, the Middle East is going to war again and my life seems stupidly fickle and useless. Oh well. I shall indulge in the fickleness. Meanwhile, I shall also do some much needed blog-hopping and see how my beloved blogroll is doing.

Yours,
TPF

Out and About again

As Pan has so aptly put it, this academic year has been the year of the party.

In other words, it's been the year where we've all pretended to care about people we don't care about, doing our best not to buy the cheapest presents we can (because these people are turning eighteen after all, and surely a pair of Accessorize earrings aren't all that appropriate?) and generally keeping up appearances and wearing skirts all for the sake of a little dancing and a lot of alcohol.

OK, not that much alcohol.

As usual, the gift-buying part of the pre-party preparations was assigned to me. Pan seems to be harboring the delusion that I am a pushover and she's awfully keen to order me around and find excuses not to come along to look for decent presents even though we're sharing them, so the whole point should be sharing the buying process too, shouldn't it? Because buying presents for people you don't like and/or care much about is one of the hardest things in the world, right? But nooo, I have to go around and be all decisive, and get tempted by random T-shirts at Zara, all because someone is too lazy to get her ass off the couch and help, for a change.

End of rant.

I bought bags. When in doubt, buy bags. Women love bags. I even bought myself a bag in the process. It's beautiful. A weird greyish sort of colour with a weird pattern on it that some would call gran-like but which I call sophisticated.

But I digest.

Pan and I ended up walking to the party. It was just a twenty-minute walk, which is not a big deal if you're wearing normal shoes, but we clearly weren't wearing normal shoes. It was rather painful. My feet were already hurting before I even got to the dancefloor, and that's never a good sign.

Eventually, we made it to the battlefield. Smiles and ostentation of good feeling abounded. We gave our gifts to the birthday girls (both rather vapid and shallow creatures) and began socializing as we waited for the disco to open. Once again, I willingly interacted with Mole, that bitch, and actually ended up having fun. Somewhere, a pig has learned to fly.

I'm buying myself a T-shirt that says: 'Hipocrysy sucks, and I hate spelling mistakes.'

The party was weird. Most people seemed to be hovering between listening to crappy music inside the club with a drink, and milling about outside the club without a drink. I myself was rather torn between the two alternatives, which is a clear indication that the music must have been beyond bad.

Seriously, I'm not that much of a drinker. I'm just trying to sound cool. Really.

I asked the bartender to add alcohol to my mojito. Then, I asked her to make my sex on the beach strong. Sex on the beach is supposed to be fruity, not strong. She gave me a look. I looked back.

I got tipsy.

I told Mike and Jude that they were looking sexy. I had yet more friendly interactions with Mole. I stopped caring about upcoming examinations that will decide my future. I complimented someone's sister on her exceedingly skimpy outfit without managing to mask my giggling. I learned that L, one of the birthday girls, paid 'only' 40 Euros for the skirt she'd bought from Zara and decided to compensate by buying and wearing a 150 Euro Burberry shirt. I watched and cheered as Micky flirted shamelessly with her longtime crush. I had the following conversation with an alarming number of people (and multiple times with Mags, whom by now you know as 'drug addict extraordinaire'):

'Hai studiato economics?'
[Did you study economics?]

'No!'
[No!]

Manic laughter.
[Manic laughter.]

And, last but not least, I fell.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I fell. I tripped. I made a fool of myself in a semi-drunken haze.

Except that I didn't fall because I was drunk. If that had been the case, I would have mercifully forgotten about the whole incident, but alas, I was merely tipsy, hence the rather embarrassing memories.

I was going out with Micky and Pan for a walk and for some random reason, I decided to dance as I walked out. Somebody called my name. I turned around, grinned and then danced some more.

What exactly happened next remains a mystery, but this is what I have managed to surmise up to now. I took a step back, tripped on a white leather couch and fell flat on my face.

Well, almost. I did manage to break the fall. My face made no contact whatsoever with floor (I mean, ewww!). I was not in any way injured. I sprang right back up. I resumed the dancing. I skipped all the way up the stairs and out the club.

I was amused. Now I'm just embarrassed. No, that's a lie, I'm still amused.

I got home at three, took ages to fall asleep (because I am, among other things, an insomniac) and woke up at seven. I fell back asleep and woke up at one, which was definitely a more decent time. I am now sore in all sorts of places, including but not limited to: my neck, a few vertebrae, my jaw (?), my left wrist, my ankles and achille's tendons, my disjointed ribs (I have disjointed ribs. More on that some other time) and my right hipbone which, incidentally, was the only part of my body that made contact with the floor during 'The Fall'.

Sigh. I had fun. This is two outings in a row now that I actually have fun. What is wrong with the world?

(Dawning of A) New Era

School is over and I'm not sure how I feel.

Tuesday was the last day. Pan, Marry and I went to the supermarket in the middle of the day (and you can tell it's the last day of school when no-one even stops you to ask you where the hell you think you're going) and bought two bottles of quality wine, one red and one white, just to make sure everybody would get something they liked. How nice of us, don't you think? You still owe me three Euros, Pan.

We got back and very inconspicuously went looking for a bottle opener whilst dodging already tipsy classmates. Eventually, I decided to steal the staff bottle opener. Well, 'steal' is not the appropriate word as it implies stealth. All I did was walk into the staff room and ask them if they had a bottle opener we could borrow. The business teacher pointed me in the right direction whilst my history teacher gave me a suspicious look and asked me what I was up to. I gave her my best innocent and dazzling smile and said: 'Nothing!' She rolled her eyes and pretended she hadn't seen me.

Ah, the joys of being a nerd!

We started drinking. Pan and I got quite tipsy and decided to donate the remaining wine to the boys so as to remove the temptation. I think that's the best decision we took that day. As you have already heard before, a drunk Pan is a spectacle to witness (or not, depending on your point of view).

All this went on while our mature boys tied skinny freshmen to the basketball hoop or to the net of the goal. The most disturbing part was when one of the victims said: 'Do you want me to sit up a little?' I mean, seriously, was he trying to make it easier for them to tie him up? Because that's just weird.

Eventually, the tipsiness wore off and I started randomly crying. The thing is, I rarely cry for serious things. I cry for movies and very rarely for books (OK, that only happened twice), and I always cry in cemetaries, but I don't cry when people die. When other people cry, that usually makes me get all teary-eyed too, but it never turns into a fully-fledged weep-a-thon. However, once I do start crying, I can't stop.

So there I was, crying intermittently for an hour, and I don't exactly know why.

The thing is, I really hate my school and I hate the people in it. Well, some of the people in it. But in this last week or so, all the hate has been removed to be replaced with this strange tenderness that is so unlike me. It's like all of a sudden, all the bad memories have disappeared and I suddenly love everybody, even Mole, that bitch. Seriously, I found myself randomly hugging Mole, and my hatred for Mole is legendary. Yet, all I can think of is that deep down, she's a nice person, and so are Queen Slut, hAirhead, Alternative Junkie etc. I love them all and I'm never going to see them again, if I can help it.

My mum says it's because everybody's feeling sad and consequently, they're all being nicer, which ends up making it much easier for me to like them. I think that's probably true, and I just wish they could have been nice for all this time rather than just for the last week of school. Oh well, you can't have everything in life, can you?

Eventually, I stopped crying and went home.

That night, we went out to this very popular pub-like place near the centre. I met up with Pan and was late as usual (I'm still feeling horrible about that, Pan). We took the tram and got there to find that the atmosphere was not pleasant at all. And the idiots were sitting outside even though it was freezing cold! Pan, Marry, Harry, Micky, Vintage-Girl, Stick Insect, Alt. Junkie, Bad Hair Year and I all sat inside to be later joined by Mole, of all people. The night looked like it was going to be awfully dull, so a group of us decided to go for a walk. When we got back, the place couldn't have been more different. Everyone was talking to everyone else, laughing, drinking, flirting with random Irish guys met that night, reminiscing about old times and hilarious school trips... Pan and I even shared a cigarette (and we don't smoke. No, we weren't trying to be cool. We don't have to try, you know. We were born cool)!

Mags, drug addict extraordinaire, was strangely emotional. Or perhaps she was just high. Either way, she looked like she was about to cry, but she never did. Meanwhile, Mel, Mole and Vicky sat with the Irish guys and got themselved numerous free drinks. Pan and I took advantage of the opportunity ourselves and ended up drinking free beer. We also dared Vintage Girl to make out with the cutest of the Irish guys. She did. We owe her 10 Euros.

Eventually, I-I-N, our outrageously young economics teacher, arrived. We all flirted shamelessly with him and told him that when he first arrived (he's a new teacher) we all thought he was really hot. We ended up giving him a group hug and I even kissed him on the cheek and then proceeded to rub it in Vicky's face (Vicky's notoriously in love with I-I-N). Contrarily to what you might think, this did not result in death glares, but in more laughter and more unexpected love and tender feelings.

And then, just like that, it was time to go home. So we went home. In my thirteen years at this school, I don't think I ever had this much fun on a night out. And if it doesn't sound fun from my post, that's because it's just so hard to explain how it was to people who weren't there. Or perhaps it was only fun because it was the last day of school and everything was positively swimming in a sea of nostalgia and goodwill.

Yes, that must be it.

I'm sad. I haven't even started studying yet and exams are in three weeks. I just feel so weird. Thank God I don't actually like this school, otherwise I'd be awfully depressed right now.

'And I heard 'em say, nothing's ever promised tomorrow, today...'

Yesterday, I attended my very first church wedding.

Tardiness runs in the family; my mother insisted on tidying the house up before we left, so we ended up being almost late. And people wonder why I'm always late to school. Anyways, my dad was fuming, my mum was trying to shrug it all off and make my dad laugh (he sulked throughout the car ride), I sat back and enjoyed the scenery, refusing to get worked up until it was 100% sure that we were going to be late.

Thankfully, my brother is a fast driver. We ended up getting there early. Which proves my theory that you shouldn't be worried about being late until you're actually late. (My mum, who's reading this over my shoulder, suggests a Turkish proverb: 'Dereyi gormeden paçalarini sivama', meaning 'Don't roll up your trouser hems until you see the river.' OK, it sounds better in Turkish.)

The time-honoured tradition of crappily dressed bridesmaids was respected. The bridesmaid was dressed crappily. The bridal gown was OK. I, on the other hand, was wearing a sexy corset that, among other things, made me feel like someone out of Jane Austen novel. I swear, I could hardly breathe. I even refused to tie my seatbelt in the car, to the annoyance of my mother.

The ceremony (or service, or lecture, I'm not quite sure how to call it. I'm not exactly well-versed in Christian terminology) was rather long. I struggled not to laugh as the priest basically told the couple that it was God that had chosen them to get together. Pfft. Whatever. I think I might have smirked on occasion, and I'm pretty sure the priest spotted me; in fact, my brother and I were seated at the front row. Which is rather weird, because we aren't even related to the bride, we're 'just' family friends.

Now weddings are, by definition, an occasion to flirt and eat shamelessly. Unfortunately, due to the age average being approximately thirty, I was unable to flirt. That doesn't mean I didn't ogle, though. Mr. Hot Waiter provided ample opportunity for furtive glances and not-so-furtive drooling. At a certain point, I told my dear brother: 'Gosh, that waiter is hot.' He pointed out to me that it was the fourth time I was telling him.

I think I made up for the lack of direct flirtage by eating. A lot. The food was surprisingly good, and who am I to pass up on the chance to enjoy a good meal?

Of course, there was plenty of free alcohol also. Which resulted in me drinking. A lot. Just wine, mind you, but quite a lot of it all the same. What can I say, I just love wine! Besides, I was seated at a table with loads of people I'd never met. The only recognisable face was my brother's, and that of a guy who looked a lot like the ugly version of an Italian football player, Del Piero. A little wine helped to get some inane conversion going. It was also vital in ensuring my continuing mental stability by distracting me from the effusions of the couple seated next to me. The man kept running his hand along the woman's leg, she kept kissing his neck, and this was all rather inappropriate, considering that I am underage. Thank God for wine.

Speaking of, I had indulged in another great bout of wine-drinking the night before. My brother bought a bottle of red wine for dinner. My mother, who doesn't really mix well with alcohol, drank a glass. The rest was shared between the two of us, resulting in me washing the dishes in a state of giddy happiness and watching a serious political debate between Diliberto and Berlusconi on TV (I would enlighten you on Italian politics, but it's not half as fun to write about as my wonderful life) and laughing at the most inappropriate times.

Back to the wedding. It dragged on for hours. At the end of it all, I was pretty much in 'Fire bad, tree pretty' mode. Eating and celebrating the union of two souls is fun for a while, but seriously, there's only so much one can take, especially if one is wearing a tight corset and feeling exceedingly sleepy. My poor brother had to endure my constant whinging on those two issues, and he had to drive us all home. I really don't know how he did it. He must be Clark Kent's third cousin twice removed. Whatever that means.

My dear brother and I have had a really nice time together these past few days. On Wednesday night, he took me to watch a Champions League match, AC Milan v. Bayern Munich. I hadn't been to the stadium for ages, and it was breathtaking, especially as it was completely full. As usual, we were almost late because I took ages to get ready. The tram ride lasted an hour instead of the usual twenty minutes, but that's normal for a football night. I was squashed against the ticket stamper with drunk Germans singing and smelling and stamping their feet. It was rather uncomfortable, but definitely worth it. In the end, we were ten minutes early, Milan won 4-1, I screamed like a maniac at every goal and occasionally even swore in a very un-ladylike manner. It was great stress relief.

The week before that, we went to a Kanye West concert. I kept thinking throughout that I should have gone to the Deep Purple concert (which was on the same day), but Kanye was cool all the same. Mind you, we're not exactly huge fans, but I absolutely love 'Gold Digger', as much as I love 'Highway Star', in fact, and I really wanted to see the live rendition. Besides, as Pan quite eloquently put it, 'but they're old,' referring, of course, to the aged members of Deep Purple.

Unluckily, I didn't exactly see much. Being as I am of a relatively short stature, I spent 80% of my time trying to look past the impeding obstacle of a random creep's bald head. OK, fine, he wasn't a creep, but I consider myself justified in insulting him, as he practically ruined my concert experience. My brother suggested I stand on his toes (yes, he really is a sweetheart, isn't he?) but even that didn't work. I spent a good two hours craning my neck. Some diversion was provided in the form of two males playing tug-o-war over a sweaty towel Kanye threw at the crowd. This happened right next to me. In fact, I was shoved around quite a bit, but the scene was just so funny that I didn't even mind. Two full-grown men fighting over Kanye West's sweaty towel is definitely not something you see every day.


And that's all for now. The Kanye photo you see above was obviously taken by my brother, who is not so tall himself, but definitely towers above me. Replies from american universities are due at the end of this month, but I'm strangely relaxed about the whole affair. There's Juventus-Milan tonight, and I can't wait to watch that. And I'm listening to Backstreet Boys. Good times!

Out and About

Went out last night.

It was me, Pan, Harry, Micky, Jude, Mike, Juice and, for the first and probably last time on this blog (drumroll), Phil and Andrea. First stop: a restaurant named Speakeasy. In case you're interested, speakeasies were places where alcohol was sold during the Prohibition era, i.e. illegally.

Wow. It's amazing how nerdy my inner nerd is.

Anyway, this Speakeasy is basically a tex-mex place with fajitas and lamb chops and guacamole and all that kind of stuff. It also isn't very cheap. OK, litotes. It's overly expensive. (Um, yeah, the credit for that fancy 'litotes' word belongs to Harry, who mentioned it yesterday during a very nerdy conversation.)

We eat, we drink, Mike is annoying, Jude tells us more about his recent break-up with Pocahontas, Micky is her usual bothersome self (we love you, Micky!) and we end up paying 25 Euros each. This is what happens when you let Andrea organize things.

We take ages to decide what to do next. A few people want to go to the cinema. The rest want to go for drinks, but as often happens, the minority is very loud and very annoying, so even if most people clearly want to go for drinks, we end up milling about for ages, unable to decide on a course of action. Well, I was totally firm in my drinks decision, and not because I'm a drunkard but because poor Pan's parents wouldn't let her go to the cinema because she would have been home much too late. Besides, a drunk Pan can yield very interesting results; innocent vintage skirts tend to get caught in the crossfire.

In the end, Mike and Phil leave, the big idiots. Jude had left a few minutes earlier, traumatised by the uber-expensive restaurant bill. The remaining six head out for God knows where. Honestly, I had no idea where I was; I'm not very good with directions. I lied. I'm abysmal at directions. If directions were an IB subject, I'd get a 1.

We let Andrea lead us. Juice and Micky share Juice's cool new iPod nano. It's rather pretty, but I like my iPod more. He's called Bob. He's one of the older iPods, without the annoying clicker wheel that I hate. The earphones are falling apart, the battery life is ridiculously short, but I wouldn't change Bob for the world. OK, maybe for a video iPod.

After traipsing around Milan for half an hour, and it's a good thing the weather's finally turning and it's no longer freezing cold, we reach a lounge bar named Sid (OK, not really, but I'm obsessed with anonymity, so bear with me). We go in, we sit down, the waitress comes and we find out she's a real bitch. There's six of us, right? Five of us order drinks (absurdly expensive drinks, I should add). Harry, who's still on that pesky diet of hers, doesn't order anything. Well, the kind waitress makes a sour face and tells us: 'La consumazione è obbligatoria,' meaning that Harry too has to get something. So we tell her that Harry needs a minute to decide, so she leaves, telling us she won't tell the barman our orders until Harry gets something too.

Harry, stubborn as she is, refuses to buy anything. Micky is about to snap at her. I was rather hoping she wouldn't, and she didn't, thank goodness. We call the waitress back and tell her, quote: 'Ma scusi, siamo in sei, e cinque prendono qualcosa da bere. Non mi sembra un problema se qualcuno non vuole niente.'

Translation: 'Excuse me, but there's six of us, and five of us are getting something to drink. It's not that big a deal if one of us doesn't.'

She replies, quote: 'Si, ma mi sembra molto chiaro dal menu che la consumazione sia obbligatoria.'

Translation: 'Yes, but it seems to me that it is very clear from the menu that you must all get something.'

And still we refuse to give in, at which point she leaves looking mighty peeved and takes way too long to bring us our drinks. I'm pretty sure she spat in them, but I'd rather not think of that right now.

The night seems to be winding down when, lo and behold, who should walk past us but Vicky, Mel and Mags, drug addict extraordinaire? We rise and greet them. Mags is exceedingly tipsy. Mel and Vicky are on the right track. It turns out Mel's sister is having her sixteenth birthday party on the second floor of that same Sid we're sitting at! Now Milan is pretty big place and it's quite a huge coincidence for something like this to happen, hence the moderate excitement.

We talk. Evil waitress eyes us suspiciously. Mags goes out for a cigarette (because she's so cool). Pan and I leave Micky and the rest to converse with Mel and Vicky. We follow Mags outside. She's out there smoking with one of Mel's sister's friends. We completely ignore him. Mags offers me a cigarette, which I decline. She then offers one to Pan. An exclusive extract of that little exchange is right here:

Mags: Pan, would you like a cigarette?
Pan: No, thanks.
Mags: Do you smoke?
Pan: [hesitates for a moment] Um, not today.

I'm sorry, Pan, but I shall mock you forever for that little reply. 'Not today'- muaahhahaha!

We go back in. Micky leaves. Eventually, Harry, Pan and I decide to leave as well. A taxi is called. Andrea and I go upstairs to say bye to our decadent, bohemian friends. Mags is reclining on a sofa, laughing at the ceiling. As I say goodbye to her, she whispers in my ear: 'TPF, I have to tell you a secret: Mel's top is torn right under her breasts!' More senseless laughter.

I look at Mel's top. It is indeed torn right under her breasts. I tell Mags to tell her, and Mags replies: 'She knows!' More laughter. (Note: Mel isn't exactly known for her brains.)

Unable to stand anymore of this drunk opulence, I leave. Harry, Pan and I board the taxi. I get dropped home first because my mum tends to get paranoid if I come home alone late. What time did you get home, are you asking? Midnight. Sorry, were you expecting two in the morning or something? You're on the wrong blog, then. I'm a nerd. I don't do those things.

Total spent: 42 Euros: a record.

PS: Being as it is carnival here, I got sprayed with shaving cream on the way to the restaurant. My poor hair was hit, as was my favourite jacket. 'Stronzo!' I yelled after the offender. He just laughed and ran off. What an asshole.