The One I Couldn't Write...

The one I couldn't write...
So my best friend did.


The journey home by Kelly Jo Charge.


(Kelly)
My heart rate has just about returned to resting as I sit in the sweltering heat outside the famous ‘Miller’s Villa’, after having another one of my ‘Cockroach’ escapades. (This generally involves me spotting another of the black, malevolent creatures scuttling across the bathroom floor, and then screaming at the top of my voice whilst frantically running up and down the road outside in just my towel like a lunatic – in full view of all neighbours and passers by – what a plonker).

As I sit on the patio chair, desperately trying to soak up the last rays of sunshine before my return home to London, Miss Miller and her delightful dad, Adrian, are squabbling inside whilst they decide who tidies which room, who should leave the money for the cleaner, and more importantly who mistakenly left the stove on full whack over night (ahem Adrain..)

Our Liam, who (god-knows-why) agrees to the numerous airport runs all summer, finally pulls up outside and helps us load the car with the numerous suitcases that would make anyone else believe we had been in Spain for years. Mel slowly slides the villa door shut, and turns round looking anxious. To be honest with you, as much as I’d just decided last minute to venture to Espagna for three days to top up the tan, to feast on seafood paella by the beach, and to have a couple of crazy nights out, I’d also gone with the intent to escort my best friend home; making sure she got there safe and sound. Apart from her close family, I feel I’m one of the only ones that really understands this girl, as much as she understands me in return, and I know that she has been dreading this journey since the day she arrived in July. She is my Patsy, and I am her Eddie, after all...

There’s quite a funny story as to how Mel and I met... which I shall divulge to you... If I can remember rightly, it was the very first day of uni in freshers week. I had only met Mel a few times passing by in our halls on campus. To be honest, I was a bit intimidated at first... she was loud and proud, wore funky clothes... and the first person I’d ever met from the oh-so-notorious Essex. But we ventured out to the union that night, both drinking copious amounts of Glen’s Vodka and Snakebite to lessen the awkwardness in our new group of friends...but someone (ie. Me) ended up taking advantage of her newfound freedom, drank a little bit too much, and ended up being carried out of the establishment into the campus bus and back to halls by two beefy bouncers. Now, the bouncers weren’t brave enough to carry me up to my third floor room, so kindly dumped me into Mel’s bed on the ground floor, making Mel and our dear friend Jack (who I barely knew at the time) kip on the floor in a sleeping bag. After making a slight mess on Mel’s floor and up her wall shall we say, I dozed off. I woke up early next morning, sat bolt upright and yelled “WHERE THE F*CK AM I?”
To which the girl on the floor replied, “Hi This is Jack, and my names Melody”...

Three years on, taking one last moment to turn back and stare at Millers Villa, I felt a sudden wave of sadness, knowing that this could well be the last time I stay at this little gem of an apartment, where I’ve gained so many great memories from the last three summers here... the numerous barbeques Mel and I have hosted (where we basically invited the boys over to cook food FOR us)... partying with shot boy and the rest of the seven smelly ones (before the blocked toilet incident)... and of course the long summer evenings spent sipping G&T on the patio with my one and only best friend...

So anyway, we are well on the way to the airport, with both the air-con and the music blasting, and I can’t help but dread the thought that this time tomorrow I would be sitting at work in my office, in the crappy English weather, back to the ‘real world’. I squeezed Mel’s hand as I sat behind her (or more like she was squeezing mine, so tightly I couldn’t actually feel it anymore), not able to see her face, but knowing she certainly wouldn’t be smiling right now. Adrian was sat next to me in the back, bopping his head to the beat of the music, and clutching his packet of fags tightly, anxious to squeeze in as many puffs as he could before the flight...

After Liam drops the three of us, and our three years worth of luggage off outside the airport, we make our way inside. “Dad! What are you doing! Get outside!” Adrian seemed to have momentarily forgotten that smoking inside airports is mostly a ‘no-go’ to be honest, as he stands there gormlessly by the check-in desk, lit fag in hand, and blowing smoke over the ground staff. He was a bit embarrassed, as you can imagine, and scuttled out through the sliding doors for one more before he got arrested.

Now, I know Mel had been dreading this flight for many months, but I’m not a great flyer myself. I used to love flying until my first flight to Spain with Mel in 2008, our first adventure together to this little Spanish town. Mel was the nervous flyer but somehow it seemed to rub off on me- now I shuddered and jumped at every bump especially the first few minutes after takeoff- not that it ever stopped me. We always reflect each other- when one of us is having a phase about flying, the other seems to be ok with it. It’s a strange see-saw that seems to ensure we’re always perfect flying companions.

‘Murcia to London Stansted will be delayed for approximately one hour’. Shit. Another hour in this airport. Adrian on one side of me was pacing up and down, dying for a fag, Mel was on the other, rolling a can of Coke over her head to keep her cool... I just wanted to be home. I hated seeing my best friend like this – it just wasn’t her. She was quiet, reserved, shaking slightly, and I could tell she just wanted to cry. As I cuddled up to her in the boarding queue, I remembered the overly-confident, bubbly, care-free Mel... the Mel that would get up and leave the country with a mere hundred quid in her pocket, the Mel that would give anything a go once... I hugged her even tighter, and reminded her, as I always do, that this feeling wouldn’t last forever.

The French air traffic control strikes disaster was to strike our little journey home. With Ryanair’s genius system of none existent seat numbers (in a bid to get you to spend money on ‘priority boarding’) we ended up not sitting next to each other. I assured Mel she was going to be fine, that I was only a few rows in front, but her face said it all. It wasn’t a good start. We were informed that there was going to be an hour’s delay. It passed. Me and Mel were texting each other. Then we were told ANOTHER hour. They wouldn’t let anyone off the plane and refused to sell ANY food or drink insisting they couldn’t because of trading taxing laws- if they sold products whilst on the runway- they owed tax to the country. Not even tap water.
I saw Mel walk past me to the front.

“Could a Mister Adrian Miller please come immediately to the front of the plane!”. Uh oh. I watched as a bumbling Adrian waded passed the crying children and the luggage scattered throughout the walkway. He was sweating profusely (and obviously hadn’t had a fag in a good three hours now), so doubted very much he’d have a hope in hell of calming Mel down, and was pretty sure he’d need some calming down himself.

One minute later-
“Could Kelly Charge please come to the front of the plane... I repeat...” I laughed (not that this was a remotely funny situation) at the thought of Adrian’s attempt to comfort Mel not really working... and ran to the front. I stared down at this slumped, quivering, crying girl on the floor, not really recognising this as my bubbly best bud, but as someone that had lost control... She was completely pale (well, quite green if I say so myself), and her skin was burning. Now, I’m a pretty supportive person most of the time, I mean, it’s my job to be, (I’m a mental health support worker – and have to pretend to be cool calm and collected even in the most chaotic of situations), but even I was feeling overly nervous now. I waited, sat on the floor hugging Mel as tight as I could – praying that this damned plane would take off sometime soon...

All the passengers had bombarded their way to the front of the plane. They were screaming and shouting at the poor air-hostess, who had kept us on the plane for three hours now. It was a complete nightmare. An old, balding man shouted, “I’m gonna make sure this is on the front of every fucking newspaper tomorrow!” “I’ve got this on video! You’re getting sacked!”
“MY BABY NEEDS WATER!” The screaming was getting louder and louder. The air hostess was crying. Melody was crying. I hadn’t got a clue what to fucking do. Half of me wanted to punch the old, balding man in the face. The other half wanted someone to punch me in the face, at least then I’d be knocked out and could wake up several hours later in my own country. Do we leave the plane? They said if we did we wouldn’t be able to get back on. Do we stay and possibly wait ANOTHER three hours!?

We waited. The airhostess was bent down on the floor with Mel, holding her hand and said to her “I promise I’m going to get you home. I’m going to get you home.” She was crying too.

After 3 hours grounded on the runway, with no food or water sold to anyone, with the doors locked shut and no one allowed to leave as we waited for the all important flight slot, we finally took off. Finally headed to Stansted. I’ve never been so grateful to see grey old London. Back to work tomorrow, back to the daily grind, back to the “no-more-partying-now-missy”, back to the “real world”, back to the Post-Uni Blues...


____________________


(Melody)

The only thing I can add, is what I wrote at the time- on that plane doped up on valium finally on the way home. I copied it from the back of the ready meal bought in a daze from the airhostess who was talking slowly and kindly to me as if I was a mental patient. (To be fair I definitely resembled one at this point.)


“This wonderful Scrum-diddly-umptious meal is not just delicious, it’s a taste sensation! One small warning though: Expect the same high levels of satisfaction and comfort found only in a big warm cosy hug!”


Are you freaking kidding me? Please order the pasta on your next Ryanair flight just so you can read this sorry excuse for a product description which must definitely violate some sort of advertising code in being so clever as to not actually mention the product itself- since its maker obviously realised that actually, they were trying to sell small boxes of regurgitated crap to frustrated people on planes so the consumer better be distracted with a paragraph of warm and sincere bullshit.

I read it, copied it, ate it. (The pasta, not the box. I hadn’t lost my mind completely.) For some reason I had the feeling it was written by an American on anti-depressants. It’s the only thing in my journal about that entire horrific 5 hours of my life. Because it summed up Ryan air-

A big fat pre-heated load of bollocks.



*****

That day was literally the incarnation of the worst thing I thought could ever happen to me. And it happened. And I didn’t die. It didn’t ruin me or my mental health long-term which is my worst fear- that it will get so bad I’ll loose myself and never find me again.

In fact my mum said that when I woke up that next morning back home in England, I was smiling. I was smiling before I even opened my eyes. She said that every day she was with me in Spain, I’d wake up looking afraid- she walked into my room once at 8am and my eyes were already open and I was just lying there in dark, in silence. I don’t remember being awake- I don’t remember they’re being a difference when I was all lost like that. But she said that I’m not that person any more since I’ve been back. Which is quite a relief. Indeed.


*****


So now we’re in the notorious land of Essex! And this tale of a (slightly insane) beach bum, post-graduate isn’t near its end. I think I’ve began to resolve this post-uni question, by filling my life with sunshine, laughter and tears- learning that the answer doesn’t have to be found behind the desk of an office in a grad-scheme for it to be the right answer.

In fact I’m having a little more faith every day that there isn’t a right answer- a correct path or route to go down. I always say to my friends I swear blind that things happen for a reason, which means there is no such thing as mistakes- because things happen, exactly the way they’re supposed to happen. So if there are no mistakes, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Ta Da.

The Essex girl has returned… and there are more adventures to be had as I search for the answer to the post-uni question in this mysterious land of the vajazzled and the tangoed.
I get the feeling there are a few more blogs to be written too…