Leap year

Wednesday 29 February

This is the time when women can ask guys to marry them.  Also when that horrible, useless little month of February attempts to eek out it’s nasty, dull existence a day longer.  Thank goodness it’s almost over and summer is around the corner.  Of course it doesn’t really effect me as I’m still living in the city of eternal spring.  Once again I attempted to rise and leave, and once again I fell back into my pit and covered my head with the pillow.  I’ve discovered that sleeping with your head under the pillow has it’s benefits.  It helps block out the daylight, as well as the horrible gurgling snores coming from the rest of the dorm.  Plus you can pretend you’re trapped in a dragon infested cave on the way to save a sexy naked elf tied up in the chasm of doom.   I would suggest you give it a try if you don’t already.

Maybe not that last part.

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Unhappy hour. Ish

Tuesday 28 February

Now I should really have left today, but quite frankly I want another bite at the cherry so to speak.  That and when my friend taps my leg awake I tell them to bugger off.  I went to bed around 9 and they want me up for 11.  It’s not going to happen.  The day is wasted as usual and although my liver protests, I find myself at the happy hour of a hostel in town.  Here I enjoy a good few hours talking, laughing and attempting to charm the young lady from the previous night.  We discuss the merits of throwing a drink over the person you’re attracted to as a possible chat up line.  Playground tactics.  Pulling the hair of the girl you like.  Stealing a boys baseball cap.  Splashy, splashy in the swimming pool.  I think we both come to the conclusion that a face full of rum and coke isn’t going to get you laid.

Not that making her laugh all night makes a blind bit of difference either.

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Monday 27 February

OK I don’t manage to leave today.  I might go tomorrow.

Instead a new and very sociable crowd arrives and very nice folk they are too.  Oh who am I kidding; I stayed because of a girl.  It’s officially my last night in Medellin and I’m persuaded to don the kilt and accompany the new intake into the Zona Rosa.

At some point things get a little carried away, and someone has thrown a drink all over the very attractive girl.  As the plastic cup spills onto the ground, the assaulter has reached to pick it up, and then thrown the dregs back in her face.  Apparently.  I wasn’t there to witness this, but judging by the irate Irishman I’m restraining, it was pretty much bang out of order.

I spend much of the remainder of the evening trying to smooth things over and console the young lady who had been called a “stupid fat ugly bitch”.  Nobody can actually understand what had happened but by all accounts it sounds like the booze has much to answer for.  Perhaps it will all be forgotten in the cold light of day?

Speaking of the cold light of day, that’s what awaits me when I finally leave their dorm room after managing to hold a sing-a-long guitar session for three hours.  Not only did I wear my kilt at the behest of this fair maiden, sing a stars-in-their-eyes quality version of Isn’t It A Wonder by Boyzone; (she’s a big fan), play her favourite song which brought a tear to her eye, AND make her laugh all evening, I also spent much of my night cheering her up after she was soaked with rum and coke.

This is the week where she’s decided not to kiss anyone.

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Sunday 26 February

I’m keeping my head down and being a good boy over the course of the weekend.  I’m also going to try and leave tomorrow, so I don’t intend to get hammered or do anything that would jepordise my chance to leave Medellin, catch up with friends and see more of Colombia.  Then the mighty Liverpool FC go and win the Carling Cup, my plans are ruined and so am I.

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Saturday 25 February

My bank card has for some reason been blocked and I cannot leave with my friends today until it’s been sorted.  I’m forced to learn how to use Skype to make numerous phone calls to my banks fraud department, where I eventually convince some chap I’m not running around South America racking up huge bills, spending wildly and frittering money away.  Even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Thanks to a horrible wine hangover I desperately need water when I open my eyes.  Peering through half shut eyelids and smelling my own wood mouth breath, I croak for the fridge key.

“Stuart, Stuart, Stuart”, the girl behind the desk shakes her head.

“Yes?”  I manage.

“You’ve been misbehaving haven’t you?”

I’m then told off for my antics last night, and informed that I have “been good up until now”.  Furthermore there is to be no more guitar.

How old am I?  Are you my Mum?  Have I suddenly been sent back to school?  Only my desperate desire for H20 stops me from firing back some cheeky retort, but I’m tempted to write a harshly worded letter in the strongest terms.  I’m not really.  I just go back to bed with my tail between my legs after a groveling apology and promising it will never happen again.

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