Christmas Edition: My Worst…Christmas Reunion
Coming home for Christmas is arguably one of the best feelings in the entire world. The anticipation of seeing your friends, exchanging gifts, (more importantly exchanging the latest gossip about a mutual friend’s dalliances on Tinder) your childhood room, and just being HOME with the promise of your mum’s Christmas dinner makes for a very exciting time. However this year was different.
After spending six months abroad sunning myself in South of France and studying in Toronto, I hadn’t seen ‘him’ for a long time. He, (who shall not be named) was basically the love of my early twenties, and broke my heart. He’s since been trumped in both categories (this is another, even longer story) but at the time the thought of seeing him again evoked such a sense of nausea I actually did a shot of Pepto Bismol before leaving my mum’s for our local.
Never one to shy away from a party, and feeling the full force of Christmas cheer I bundled myself into a taxi with my best mate. Despite her best efforts to distract me, that short drive consisted of several scenarios of what I would say (ideally just a casual ‘Hey, how are?’ after walking elegantly through the door, strutting across the floor and flashing my best smile), thoughts of who he’d be with (please no other girls, please no other girls) and my constant chorus of ‘are you sure I look OK?!’.
On arrival I scoured the floor. He wasn’t there. So…time to let loose I thought! Several drinks and booty shaking Beyoncé moves with the girls later I was done. Feeling a little worse for wear, a grabbed my bag and faux fur jacket and made for the door with by best friend in tow. The second I got outside there ‘he’ was. Now whether it was the air, the sheer shock of seeing him or (most likely) the many Cheeky Vimtos I’d consumed during the course of the evening I will never really know…but what I do know that I was sick outside of the pub that night…right in front of ‘him’. Mortified I ran into a taxi and spent the rest of the Christmas holiday under self house arrest. Disclaimer: I haven’t had a Cheeky Vimto since.