I Put the "Scar" in Scarborough
I was 14. I'd warned the parents in advance that Scarborough looked shite but my sullen demands fell on deaf ears. To make it worse, I was on my own. My older sister was off to the South of France with her mates, my older brother off to the then-Yugoslavia with his.

I knew things were going to be bad when I was shown to my room at the very, very top of the boarding house we were staying in. It was tiny, with bobbly blankets on a lumpy mattress and My Little Pony paper lining the fusty smelling drawers. I decided to distract myself by checking out my view, being so high up I was sure that it'd be a cracker.

It was the local graveyard.

And so it went on. We went to the seaside. I go in for a swim. I'm surrounded by pink bog roll and lumps of rust from the pier. We go to the local water park, I slip and fall on my arse down a flight of stairs. No one helps me. I fight back more tears. The landlady serves crap grown up food every single day which I won't eat. My Dad gets even more pissed off at me. We go to see Cannon and Ball's summer show at the theatre. I piss myself laughing. I needed a laugh.

We only stayed a week. On the way home I got the double whammy of crippling period pain and travel sickness. I didn't care, they were heaves of joy.

My only consolation was that I ruined the holiday for the parents too, with my deep sighs and sullen visage. I did fucking warn them.
(Hoopla, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 19:32, Reply)