The really lame thing about going on holiday towards the beginning of an autumn month is that you have no money left to deal life’s inordinate costs when you get back (endless Oyster top-ups, seasonal boots and coats, a fiver for a tiny carton of Canary Wharf soup etc). The …
Some years are defined by a hot summer holiday. You know the kind I mean; a holiday that you wait all year for because you genuinely believe you have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and seeking out sunshine will miraculously cure your blues (HAPPY).
Just to preface this, what follows is a completely selfish blog post; the below travel journal entry won’t mean as much to anyone else as it does to me. But I hope it conveys the triumph of experience over opinion.
Due to popular demand, I have decided to reveal my time-honoured secret recipe to my Asian-Mexican veggie spicy dish, designed for people who hate tradition. Stop the press.
When I was about fourteen, I grew about six inches in the same amount of months. I towered above my classmates, had cavewoman hair (it was way before GHDs revolutionised my life), and thought I looked like the Honey Monster.