After my horror show this morning my first priority is to get normal. I sit in my kitchen drinking tea but everything seems different-I don’t remember the house being so big and all the house creaks sound unfamiliar and eerie. I cook myself a nice big bacon sandwich but after only a few mouthfuls I find myself puking into the sink. I finish off my tea and head straight for a shower. It’s so great to be back home under a nice warm shower as the jets relieve me of my airplane drama and begin to slowly cleanse my body and spirits. The thoughts of going to Menorca tomorrow make me feel sad. I don’t feel ready. Ideally I’d love a couple of days to recover at home with my creature comforts. The mirror confirms my suspicions as I dry my gaunt face devoid of colour and life. I have a quick step on the weighing scales and am shocked to discover I weigh just under nine stone. I don’t know why I’m so surprised as we barely ate the first week, and gave up on food completely by the second. But still to lose over a stone and a half can’t be good.
After catching up on all the gossip, repacking, and watching some TV I waste little time in going to bed. I’ve haven’t slept in 48hrs and want to bring my A game to the table tomorrow.
The clock by my bedside confirms I’ve been struggling for over an hour now but I’m nowhere near sleep. Normally at this stage of the night I’d only be at the beginning of my pre-nightclub cycle probably downing a few beers. The bed feels foreign causing me to toss and turn relentlessly.
Another hour goes by and if anything I’m more awake because my stomach keeps on churning. I’m about to go downstairs to make myself something to eat until I remember how that last experiment turned out. Instead, I figure a few beers will probably do the trick and head downstairs to raid the fridge returning with a six pack of Carlsberg.

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