...I've bin practisin'.
So here I am at Oli Tambo, and it's starting to sink in. I'm going to freakin' England. It's really taken some time for this information to permeate. Believe you me. It's always been like a 'Oh yeah, sometime next month I'm going overseas.' I'm going to Europe. Jesus.
It sunk in after I'd got my boarding pass and my mum was waving at me from the sidelines, you know, I'm going for two weeks and my mum is crying sortathing. And I bloody well started crying too. How embarrassing. It's obvious I'm not a backpacker and leaving for months - I have a laptop on my back and I've dressed in black on purpose to fit in the moment I hit Terminal 5.
I'm flying BA, into Terminal 5. Swear to God if my luggage lands up in Kathmandu, I'm blow fish & chips right out of Canary Wharf. Not that I'm going to Canary Wharf, but you knowwhamean And don't joke - flew out of Austria once and they tracked my lost bag in Kathmandu. So it's not out of the question. (How the fuck...)
Anyway. After moving for 12 solid hours yesterday and pulling all sorts of new muscles in my body I never thought I even had, and locking myself out of my new flat once, and basically feverishly trying to get shit together before I go, here I am.
And I'm frigging excited. Am going to kick back with a double g 'n t once on board, and ponder whether I should take the Heathrow Express to Paddington and then find my way down to Victoria, or whether I should just take a good old fashioned tube when I get there.
Luckily, I arrive on a bank holiday. Fucking-a! No hustling with commuters and chavs! Although I'm willing to bet the £40 on me that I'll spot a pikey with 5 kids before I leave the terminal. My aunt's going to meet me at my hotel, and then we'll probably delight ourselves with a wonderful meal of Spotted Dick and then maybe visit the Tate Modern. Or somefing.
Hayzoos Christ I'm excited.