8 months ago General

It’s been around three years since my last trip abroad. Now, to say that holiday was a disaster would be the understatement of the Century. I won’t go into too much detail but if I could summarise that horrific little vacay with a few key terms they would be “sweaty”, “sunburn”, “infidelity”, “Spanish waitress”, and “divorce”. Get the picture?

Anyway, I’m now well over Greg and his promiscuous ways, and on the advice of my Mother I’ve headed out on what is known as a “singles cruise”. My mother assured me, rather tastelessly, that these kinds of cruises are much akin to the Titanic love story (pre disaster); however a slightly more worrying take on the concept was a trip advisor review describing the cruise as a “hellish combination of Tinder and sea sickness.” I guess there’s only one way to find out…

…The first night has got off to a flying start. Earlier in the afternoon I befriended a couple of East End gals by the names of Marleen and Cassandra, who have now coaxed me into attending one of the on-board Salsa classes. Had this had taken place earlier in the day I may have managed to pull off a semi-acceptable dance routine, but I’m three glasses of wine deep and my Bambi on Ice impression has been summoned a little sooner that I’d have liked. My partner, a surprisingly interesting accountant named James, apparently saw the funny side and invited me to dinner in about an hour’s time.

After necking a couple more glasses of vino to calm the nerves I make my way over to one of the ship’s many restaurants where James awaits, dressed to the nines. What. A. Dish! I take a seat and the waiter heads over to the table to take our order, I decide to try something a little spontaneous and ask James to order for me. He orders the spaghetti as I drift away into vivid daydream, picturing the Lady and The Tramp moment that will surely ensue in around twenty minutes time…

cruisepic

This is sadly where my story takes a sour twist. Whilst intoxicated by both alcohol and James’s boyish charms, my craving for romance led me to underestimate the severity of my disease. Shortly after amorously spooning vast quantities of spaghetti into each other’s mouths, my intestinal tract decided enough was enough and started to fight back against my stupidity. For the second time in the story I will spare you too much detail, but the key terms “glutened”, “public humiliation” and “single for the rest of my life” should more than suffice.


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