I'm booked.
I've been booked twice.
I made my reservation, but then got an email saying my card didn't clear, so I reserved again.
I think; I hope that it went through the second time.
It's a pain having a plastic that has a weekly limit, but I know it's a good idea. I could probably change it back to a normal one now, but that is an administrative task I purposefully never get around to. I think it has saved me from many a disaster. I have the family gene of over spending. Or more accurately, deluding ones self that the money will go twice as far as is possible. We call it the Micawber syndrome. 'Something will turn up'.

"Nil Desperandum! -Never despair!"

Knickers, I didn't do it.
What a wuss.


...but there is always tomorrow...

It's cool being able to write like this. I usually scribble on bits of paper and 'file' them or write on the computer, giving the documents a password that I can't remember. There's a load of those...

I'm going to get drunk and book a ticket to Istanbul.
I haven't decided to do that, but I know it's coming...
At least that way I can blame the wine for the money spent. Tenuous I know, but it works for me.
There's a party.
It starts elsewhere, in another city I have been more than longing to visit. But I can just about run to the cheapest ticket at the most inconvenient arrival and departure times to the second venue of the celebratory weekend.
The cousin, not mine, is celebrating his birthday. His extraordinarily young, glamorous and strong girlfriend invited me ages ago, long before any destination was confirmed. As it's the first time I have been formally invited by a member of the gang I want, (in a determined WANT kind of way), to go. It has the huge bonus, that actually completely outshines the event, of the man being there too.
We tried to make a plan, but the finances just don't stretch. The plan was for me to head to Paris and the following day we were to fly to his home city. Then on Thursday we would head to Istanbul with the rest of the crew for a weekend of fun. We were to come home via the home city of the man.
Unfortunately, hells teeth, unfortunately the money isn't available.
Since his daughter started her studies in London he has been bleed dry. Ish.
I never had anything in the first place of course, I've always relied on him to supply. Crap I know, but between trying to spend time with him and being a mother back home it doesn't leave much time for following up a career, that I hang onto by my fingernails, and earning money. Besides, I earn approximately, 18,000€ a year if I'm lucky. He earns over five times that; at least; that's a guess; but it's not less.
So the finances don't reach and the plan has crumbled. But...
I found a flight, a direct flight that I can 'afford'. So I am going, stuff the money, stuff everything. All I want is to spend some time with him and if it has to be in Istanbul then so be it. (Christ, I don't think I need to get drunk to do this, my mind has decided for it's self already by the looks of it). We'll have a cool weekend together, though my weekend will be shorter than everyone else's it doesn't matter.
I'll spend the entire time feeling under dressed and under groomed, but I'll get over that as usual.
If I put on the sensible head I shouldn't spend the money. But if I don't go then I shan't get to see him until the end of January. That's the problem you see? Not enough time together and huge gaps between seeing each other.

Do you want to hear this? It’s maybe interesting; if you like screwed up people telling you their dysfunctional stories. Or should that be dysfunctional people telling you screwed up stories?

I am poor. I never earn enough money to be anything more than scrabbling by. I live in the south west of France, it being the cheapest area the ex and I could find. When we separated I bought the cheapest habitable house in the town. My son and daughter and I live there together, cheaply, when I am not away being paid badly for the work I do well, or hiding in the loving arms of the Man.

The cocaine fuelled frenzies are long over. Everything gets dull if you do the same thing for too long. At least that’s the philosophy that has always saved me from going too far.

The cocaine fuelled guy went too. I sacked him when I fell in love with the man.

The man and I did some awkward years together before he imploded with the fabulousness of it all. He popped the balloon with an email and then a few months later sank into a quagmire of regret and misery.

Just over two and a half years ago I returned the coded contact of the man...