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Day 6: See, I'm not always whining! I could even (after enough booze) book something similar again!

Distinct lack of Insta-twats today, apart from their little paddy this evening, slamming doors and shouting profanities whilst walking away. Not sure what it reminds me of most, the Toddler in the midst of rage or the Teabag that was. Only difference is one pisses herself when she gets angry that she can’t understand (and the other.... we'll just leave that there).

We’ve had a really awesome day. And I’ve got that warm fuzzy feeling that oxytocin, reconnecting with my Small piece, and having too much gin to put in the case home- brings. So this will either be short and sweet, or ridiculously boring. Either way I’m sure the blog will be falling by the wayside, as far less shits are given when things go better than expected. And let’s just say here, the bar was definitely set with the demonstrable shitstorm that the past 4 days have been, so in advance for our lack of catastrophe, I apologise.

I managed to buy not one but two pairs of shoes today, mentally resolving to not go shopping again when shit is cheap and the money card has no reverse exchange option. Plus, they’re really bloody pretty, will make me feel better for the vegans in the world as I eat my pigs in blankets in 3 days’ time, and waterproof. Because we all love functionality. Granted, the Tiny Tornado had full on Twat settings enhanced, fast-touch-fibres (that I was told I had as a teenager before discovering alcohol, fags, and being on the rotund side of life) poised ready to spring into action at each dash for the shop door. The mum-panic that sends your heart racing and philtrum pouring thinking you think you're not Adult enough for having had respawned.

A shit-ton of playground-ing later and we're back at the hotel. She ate.... SHE FINALLY FUCKING ATE SOMETHING! That’ll be one less black mark in the red book of Shame for me. I’m a firm believer in the environment affecting one's mood however, and have surmised that day 3 of this conference must be the less boring one, there are less Tits and Teeth and Suits at dinner than 2 day's prior, real, normal people. Less business scheduling in conference calls over IPhone 600s and more face to face conversation. And no formidable stilettos clicking, winner!

Bathtime in the ‘blue lagoon’ that is the mood lighting in our bathroom and Small dutifully passes out at a reasonable time, leaving me to drink gin and watch BBC1, after calling the Mothership to find out what time literally anything is on, because as she pronounces, this is the only time she has the Radio Times, saved.

So tomorrow is our last day, and despite the screaming, raging, floor rolling and pissy protests (which haven’t been quite so pissy of late, handy as I only have one pull-up left), and we're off to the beach. Still undecided as to whether to rent another Benidorm-mobile or if I should leave that life-lesson where it shat on me 2 days ago. To let her play in the sea and ‘make snakes’ across every single cute message written in the sand by likely the only other people currently in Icmeler (the malevolence with which she does this makes me think if I need to be worried for her teenage years, beyond the anticipated routine Twattisherisms). And we'll try and meet with our Dutch friend, if we manage to not get lost on the Dolmus. Or stranded by a half-charged pensioner wagon yet again.

And the suitcase is nearly packed. Although my dearest and nearest have already given me the odd off-the-record warnings about stepping into the Mothership's shoes, I’ve clearly not heeded and subconsciously become so. But it’s useful, and had I scorned the purchase of the Mum[bum]bag I’d have been majorly disadvantaged on our treks thus far, so I’ll have one for the team on that one.

Speaking of, I'm in a predicament. Very little of the one open bottle of Bombay, and not fancying finishing it off. Do I chuck it in or try to drink. Have in mere thought I just committed an obscene alcoholic blasphemy and be deserving of having my inner-trainwreck stripped of me? Answers on a postcard.

Love loves, the Dictator and I



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