Got back to London on Wednesday financially, physically and neurologically ruined. And I wanna go back! Immediately! Waaay too many class As, clubs and too much dancing in the space of four days... I am covered in mystery bruises and appear to have had several possessions stolen, either that or they are buried on bora bora never to be seen again...

On the flight on the way over, the one Ibiza virgin out of the dozen or so of us who were flying over turned to me and said "I'm surprised that the people on this flight aren't more chavvy"... and looking around at the well dressed, good looking bunch of 20 and 30somethings on the plane it was difficult to imagine a less chav-like crowd.

One of the massive misconceptions about Ibiza, and one that I had myself till one of my mates convinced me to go for the first time two years ago was that it was full of the sort of people Channel 4 make vomit-filled documentaries about.  Thankfully, it's not, or at least nowhere I've been on the island has been even remotely infected by such people. Ibiza is an island of beautiful people. Too many beautiful people. My people watching gets taken to extremes there, as there are just so many gorgeous human beings and fabulous outfits to look at.

So a round up of events... or what I can remember of them (I seem to have lost a rather large chunk of memory over the four days, ahem):

Defected night... boat over the water, disco balls and dancing...

Pacha... not beautiful enough... but a good laugh, met Italians who went to Alter Ego... 2hours sleep and then...

Space for daytime dancing... beautifulgorgeousfabulous... fed chupa chups by fit shaven headed Italian boy... music fabulous... lots of lovely londoners.... heard the track of the weekend about three times "rocking music" by Martin Solveig... then straight on to Bora Bora beach for dancing in the sea, on tables... mischief with cute Spanish boy and oh no! Came back from antics to find all my worldly possessions scattered all over the place and rather a lot of them missing....

home and sleep for a couple of hours and then time to get dressed up for Circo Loco at DC10 more day time dancing... met the fittest tallest Italian boys ever from Milan who fed me pills... then on to ciaorosina's on Talamanca beach for smokin' Jo's bbq... MORE dancing, and then home....

Salina's for our last day and adventures involving a boat-sized yellow pedalo...  with about 15 people either pedalling, lying on lilos floating along side it or dancing to the music being played on the beach...

Well, I certainly put an end to my six months of narc-less-ness in style... Christ alive, no wonder I'm feeling fragile!

ciao kids!

me in white hat at DC 10

stuff... lovebox on clapham common on saturday... i think someone who is medically qualified may need to check whether or not i am still alive or no... lost more posessions as well... god what is happening to me!!! Am leaving bits of my memory and belongings all over the world!

today went to hayward for rather fabulous lartigue exhibition that is currently showing...

feels very strange writing from where i might possibly run into people who are reading this - seems a lot more real and a damn sight less virtual - rather uncomfortable i think.

The following interview with me consists of five questions chosen by Blackrat who I nicked this from... If you want to play too, it works like this:

1. Leave a comment on my blog saying you want to be interviewed.
2. I will respond and ask you five questions.
3. You'll update your blog with my five questions, and your five answers.
4. You'll include this explanation.
5. You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

My answers to Blackrat's questions...

1. What was the hardest thing to leave behind when you returned from Italy?



There a lot of things I miss about Italy. I miss teaching, my beautiful marble floored antiquey flat overlooking the Arena, I miss Elsie, my bike, and cycling round the pretty little cobbled streets sans cycling helmet. I miss getting squills from badly behaved Italian boys, fresh fruit gelato, apperitivi and choosing a glass of wine by name instead of just saying ‘a glass or red or white’. I miss getting dressed up smartly on a Sunday and going for a passegiata to see and be seen, and I desperately miss going dancing with a bunch of fashion-fabulous girls to Alter Ego up on the Torricelle.




However, the question was what was the hardest thing to leave behind, which implies something a bit more heart-wrenching. The thing is, had there been any one thing that was really that difficult for me to leave behind in Verona, I probably wouldn’t have left at all. This is a tricky point and makes me think about all the reasons I went to live in Italy in the first place, and what it was I was hoping to get out of the experience. My year there was kind of a test for me, a test of whether or not I could survive outside London, whether there was enough life outside London to make me stay there… I wasn’t exactly loving the capital when I left it this time last year. I was burnt out – working in the City 9 – 5 in a job I didn’t really care about, where I spent a vast amount of time skiving on the net rather than doing any work, and living only for my weekends, when I went out partied just about as hard as my body could handle and far more than my head could handle. I wasn’t learning anything, I wasn’t remotely fulfilled, and my friends were all further along their career paths that me and I was getting left behind. So, I opted out for a bit. I was totally open to the idea of staying in Italy for more than a year… I just thought I’d see how it went.




I think whenever you go somewhere new, be it a new country a new job or a new flatshare, whatever, it’s the people you meet that make it or break it. And I’ve been lucky enough to meet some very lovely people in Verona, but maybe not the ones (or the one) that would make me say, ok, I’m gonna stick around for a while, maybe forever.




Then there’s also the fact that I ended up in Verona by accident. I’d actually decided I wanted to go and live in Bologna. It’s about the same size as my home town, and like Sheffield it’s a student town – I was promised infinite opportunities for dancing and fun, and a youthful atmosphere. However, it wasn’t to be, so I stayed in Verona, which couldn’t really be more different. Verona is beautiful, but it’s also prim, conservative and quite ferociously right wing. I spent the first two months there feeling rather uncomfortable, without really knowing why. But slowly, I realised that it’s the veronese conservatism that prevails through everything. For example in terms of fashion, everyone dresses so similarly, they dress well – smartly and with style most of the time, but for someone who thrives on stylistic variety, it was too homogenous.




So it’s back to London I’ve come. Back to toil, grey weather, overcrowded tubes and overpriced bars. And there’s a little niggling thing in my mind that keeps going ‘what if… what if… what if…’. So we shall see. I’m not convinced that London is the be all and end all anymore, but it’s home for now, and I’m determined to make it work for me as best I can.





2. A secret. Reveal something about yourself that you've not previously disclosed on here.



I have already revealed faaaar too many secrets on this blog, as anyone who’s been reading for any length of time will know… all of which has now been removed due to people too close to home finding me here…



3. What's your greatest regret?



Tough one. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that I totally regret – usually some good has come out of most things.



4. What, realistically, would you like to achieve before you die?



Happiness, financial security and to become someone in fashion.



5. Wealth or happiness?

Office work is a dull, grey, depressing business. You come to work bleary eyed, still looking bed-ruffled and manage to hold it together on the tube, balance your take-out coffee in one hand as you push the revolving doors, zap your electronic ID card (avoid eye-contact with the security man - too early in the day for niceties), almost drift off in the lift, finally make it to your desk, flop into your swively chair and begin another day of sitting on your arse, creatively avoiding work, running on a diet of caffeine/pret sandwiches /whatever sugar pops out of the snack machine to keep you awake.

You write official sounding emails which are really about nothing at all, talk haughtily on the phone (you are your own PR sweetie… your open-plan-office buddies will believe whatever you let them!), huff and puff about whether you will choose green or pink post-its from the stationery cupboard and make infinite trips to the water cooler (à la Yaag) in a bid to calm the bum-ache sitting at a desk for seven hours a day induces.

And then, into this grey, miserable and pointless plight (no no, not pointless, think of the money, think of the money), walks Him. The New Boy. A sparkle of sunshine on a gloomy day. A pound coin in a sweetie jar of coppers. A person who promises escape from the greige of the office hum drum…