Something tells me, I shoulda known. I mean, hello, I am Miss Travel-Sickness. I shoulda known that this wasn't a logic idea.


It was my never-ending want for things that made me even come here in the first place. When Will asked me if I want to go along with him to help document it, I swear, it felt like someone had slid a trampoline under my feet, I was jumping so high.

Will is the editor of The Daily Cherub, one of the only broadsheets still breathing after the Wi-Fi revolution. We tend to call it The Headquarters - an inside joke. I have a part-time job there, spending most of my time there when I'm not on my University course in London.

Anyway, that's not important right now. What's important is I need to get a bucket or (preferably a bathroom).


I walk away from my cupboard 'on-suite', wiping the extra vomit from my mouth with a ball of tissue. I throw it into the wastepaper basket under the desk. The room, which I shall call my own for a little while, really isn't very big. It's just big enough for a small single bed, a bedside table with brass knobs and a plastic telephone waiting to be used on top, a wardrobe along the left hand side, and in the left corner is a little corner desk complete with a work lamp and office chair.

The laminated door hanger gets caught in the door as I pull it shut. You know the kind, I sure, they're the ones you get in hotels with the 'Do Not Disturb' on one side and a note on the other asking for it to be cleaned. They always translate to the following phrases: 'Clean me, 'cause I'm too lazy/rich to do it myself' 'Enter at your own will, ba-ha-ha' or my favourite, 'You can come in and tidy it, but you'll just have to come back again tomorrow and do again, because pigs in sloppy mud are cleaner than me'.

After wrestling with that door hanger, and then the door-key that just would not lock the door despite my many profanities and cooing, I finally make my way down the uninteresting corridor, the rancid taste of sick still polluting my mouth.

As the automatic doors zip open like in the Star Wars films, my eyes are disappointed by the so-called fabulously rich people looking, well. Fabulous and rich.

I sigh.

No expulsion on how the celebrities, billionaires and the offspring of the named, can actually dress like normal people. They have to be so frickin' perfect, don't they? Ah. When like gives you lemons, you make lime-ade, as they say at The Headquarters.

A large see-through, window shows the world - or rather, lack of world - beyond. I should be marvelling about the vast, unclaimed space, dotted with the fire-y, glowing stars that light up the skis back home. But alas, the pessimist in my brain is screaming about the impossibly of have something so see-through in space.

Time to find Will, methinks.

The End

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