Collateral.

Gripping with my hands, for something more or less helpful. The pain keeps moving. A dull, achey, intolerable kind of pain. It's friday. It's raining. And at risk of sounding melodramatic, EVERYTHING HURTS. From my tongue, to my toes, my  kneecaps to my eye lashes, I'm an aching, stumbling, wreck of a person. A former shell of myself. Today marks six days since I got back from Menorca to rainy, cold Newcastle. Since then, if I haven't been sleeping or eating, drinking or moaning, I've spent every minute with my boyfriend, Lukas. Who, I may add, I missed unbelievably when I was away. 

However, today is supposed to be good. It's Friday. Excitement fills the air and fuels the parties. And then there's me. I am currently showered and dressed and have crawled back into bed as a way of channeling pain. This is definitely a holiday comedown. No more sun. A severe lack of Vitamin D, or actually light whatsoever. I'm burried under a tartan blanket and hoping, -no, praying, someone brings me coffee and a sausage sandwich to my bed. I don't know what a Friday feeling is meant to feel like, but aching bones and heavy eyelids aren't exactly a great sign. I'm craving autumn. Let me bury under wooly knitted jumpers and wear boots and my parka again. Cosy. 

Nothing like it.

Curled up in bed together, the rain cascading down the window pane fervently. My head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat and strumming along to the familiar, comforting thud with my forefinger. I smile, and you feel my cheek swell, a tell-tale sign. An eyelash strokes your cheek every once in a while and you laugh, or giggle, as it tickles ever so slightly. The way you smell seems to drift onto me for hours after we've left one another, and for that I'm always thankful. A tear to be shed when we part next. Difficulty, if only temporary. I feel like there will be an aching void in my chest for eight days without catching a glimpse of your cheeky grin and deep eyes. I well up just thinking about it. Clutching hands say goodbye, salty tears like the raindrops, cascading, yet, speedier, gloomier, more heartfelt. I hug your pillows, taking in the scent, they smell of you. Familiar, safe, my happy place. The one I'll leave tomorrow night, and return to next Sunday, with brand-spanking new holiday snaps and a topped-up tan! Slap a smile on, Ellie, you're supposed to be excited.

#homesickalready 

Book #9: Room by Emma Donoghue.

(Okay, reminder, this is a week ago in writing, sorry guys.)

It's 12:53 Ibiza time, my head is pulsating with the intensity of the heat, and also, at what I've just finished reading. I feel like I've been deprived of words on this holiday so far, so I'm writing this in my notes and will publish it when I get home on Monday/Tuesday. Tuesday probably, considering our flight lands in Newcastle at around 10pm Monday and I'll have other things to do than rewrite my inner thoughts that are three days stale. So with my up and coming tan lines I've worked many a tiring day to afford, here goes. 

This isn't a book recommendation, I really must say this from the off. This book is like nothing I've ever read before or am unlikely to read again. Gritty is one thing, but this is unbelievable. Emma Donoghue's 'room' has won awards, rightfully so. More so, I imagine, recognised for the content of the narrative than the writing itself, which is kinda sad, but it makes sense. A novel in it's own right, Room is more than that, it's a journey. The writing is exquisitely fresh and unbelievably well thought-out. The perspective in which it is told is comforting and yet makes Emma's writing more perverse than you can ever really comprehend. This story is none other than an art-form frankly. It is so well written that it made me cry, made me sick, and made me laugh. Donoghue combines the naivety of the narration with a sudden realness you absolutely must bring to a story about kidnap. Oh, didn't you know that? I didn't either. I had no idea what Room was about until I opened it on my kindle a few days ago, surrounded by an Ibiza coastline and lots of suntan lotion. So now, as I'm basking in the rays, room is on my mind. I honestly had no idea what this book was about, never mind that it was a piece of fiction so harrowingly considered when it comes to abduction.

A subject matter I would shy away from usually, but I can't say this enough, this book is BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN. It's riveting and shocking and at times, surprisingly it's very funny. I want to rave about it and thrust it into the hands of those around me, just so I can have someone to discuss it with. I felt drained as I finished this book, and understandably so. It kind of breaks your heart and then pieces it back together again. It doesn't need recommending, it doesn't need praise or advertisement, because the writing speaks for itself. 

Departure.

In less than 48 hours, I'll be departing Newcastle airport and arriving in Ibiza. The pilot will announce over the receiver the local time and the temperature outside, and be greeted with a few hundred passengers all cheering happily. Excitement brews. Prospects are all over the place. A week, two weeks? Ten days? All of these people have something in common, a holiday destination. And yet, they'll all have very different holidays. 

A girly holiday is our chosen plan. Betty, Steph, Sarah and myself are ready to hit the white isle for a second battering after last year's drunken antics. This time, with a little bit more money, a year's worth of preparing our livers, and an even more desperate need for a tan. 

This time however, things are different. I'm excited to go away, but there are things pulling my back. Ties I've made. Things I don't want to leave, not even for seven days. Excitement in the air, a tear in my eye and euros in my purse, I'm ready. Well, okay, that's a lie. My suitcase isn't even packed. The flight is Monday afternoon. I literally finished shopping for stuff today. I'm very, very disorganised and it's totally not like me, at all. My camera isn't free of photos, my iPod isn't stocked up with new songs, my money isn't properly sorted. I'm out of sorts. It hasn't quite hit me properly that I'm actually going away. Part of me still thinks it should be January or something. Madness. Let it begin.

Goodbye for now.

With less than 24 hours to go until I'll be jetting off, from Newcastle airport, to the sunny isle of Ibiza. Seven days of blissfully sunny (I hope) days, and a few too many party nights. Excitement, nerves and anticipation are in the air. A week with my two best friends, what could be better, you ask? I'm hoping we have a fabulous time, (Did I mention it's All Inclusive?) and come back with some brill holiday snaps, a tan and one or two funny souvenirs. With our Ibiza playlists, Factor-15 and beach-wear at the ready, there's nothing else to do, but check in, order a large drink, and get on our way. I'm even taking a notebook with me, as you do, as an aspiring writer. So, think of this as a little goodbye. (I'm getting teary-eyed!) I'll be back in a week or so, to update you with my holiday antics and whatever else may or may not be going on in my life. Meanwhile, hope you all have a fabulous week (after all, Britain's having a heatwave) whatever you're doing. I'll speak soon, much love.
#BoundForIbiza.