Mum's gonna be pissed.
One of the most obviously scary things about being a sexually-active 25-year-old woman is what happens when you leave the comfort of your current home- the four-star hotel- every morning, get to work, and throw up. Yup. Every morning. I realised how much this sucks when I failed to make it into the building and so was crouched by a trash can at 7.45a.m. one day this week, gripping my stomach and hurling up my croissant and cappuccino as I wished for somebody- a passerby, God re-incarnated, a Pokemon, ANYBODY- to swoop in a save me from my absolute humiliation of being a British tourist under the judgement of the well-dressed Italian posse of the Riviera. And MY LORD their judgement really is harsh. I even got bollocked by Antonella, the cleaner, this week. “Do you need your washing doing?” she asked me one morning. “Nah, I’m good,” I told her, in the made up Italian I use whereby adding vowels to the ends of words and shouting a lot normally gets my point across. She looked me up and