The Day I Put My Foot Down (And My Sanity)

Date: 1/27/2026

I’m going on holiday with my friend, Kylie. I say “friend” — but we haven’t spoken in three and a half years, a span both fleeting and eternal. They say time heals, and what better way to rebuild bridges than to carry the hope across borders and see if it holds. I arrive at the hotel alone, dragging my suitcase behind me like a loyal wheezing dog — flopping theatrically at crossings, hind legs dragging in protest. No Kylie. Of course not. My phone lights up. A single message with the emotional commitment of a shrug. Running a little late. Typical Kylie. She’d be late for her own funeral and still blame traffic — possibly the hearse. I don’t let it bother me. I’m calm. I’m adaptable. I’m a woman who absolutely has her life together in a loose, interpretive sense. I’ll unpack. I’ll settle in. Freshen up. I unzip the suitcase. It is empty. Not empty-empty. Empty of anything remotely useful. No clothes. No spare outfit. No toiletries. No money. Just two bulky parcels, shrink-wrapped and anonymous, lying in the base like smug accusations. “Shit on a stick,” I murmur. I stare at the abyss as if prolonged eye contact might manifest a bra through sheer willpower. My first thought is brutally practical: “Oh man — I’m going to have to make these knickers last a week.” There are only so many rotational freshness strategies before hygiene becomes an abstract concept. Then a darker thought creeps in. I could open the parcels. Nobody would know. I’m in another country. I could become a morally flexible international woman of mystery — a soft launch into villainy. I lift one parcel slightly. Guilt slaps me around the chops. Even in dreams, I’m cursed with a conscience. I place it back gently, like a sleeping baby I’m not legally responsible for. I catch my reflection in the mirror. Jesus wept. I’m wearing my old pyjama hoodie — my sacred hoodie. The one that smells slightly funky and has crumbs from several nations residing in its fluff. My hair resembles a scarecrow pecked at by vicious crows. My face has the grey pallor of someone mildly disappointed already, expecting worse. “Oh well,” I tell my reflection. “This won’t ruin my holiday.” Newsflash: it absolutely will. I head to the theme park. The park is rammed — bodies packed together like anxious sardines in sugar-sweat and overstimulation. The queues coil endlessly. I join one optimistically, assuming Kylie will appear at any moment like a delayed apology with legs. I keep checking my phone. Nothing. Again, nothing. My brain begins its familiar anxious itch. Maybe I've been forgotten again — politely abandoned, carefully erased. Maybe there’s a flight delay. Maybe an accident. Identity theft. Maybe Kylie is just being… Kylie-shaped. The queue snakes forwards relentlessly until suddenly I’m at the front. Brilliant. Perfect timing to be abandoned at the altar. I fire a text: Where the fuck are you?! I step aside politely, letting everyone else pass like a Mother Teresa of Leisure Parks. That’s when Sophie appears. Sophie from secondary school. Same bushy hair, same chapped lips, same haunted eyes that pierce my soul. We fall into easy laughter, reminiscing like no time has passed and no emotional growth has occurred. People brush past us — a conveyor belt of huffing, cursing, simmering rage. Then I clock her outfit. Victorian. Petticoats. Gloves. Tiny parasol. The whole haunted doll starter kit. “Loving this look,” I lie politely. “Oh thank you,” she beams. “I’m totally obsessed with Victorian aesthetic.” Yeah. You and tuberculosis. My phone finally pings: Sorry, kiddo. Five minutes. Promise. The ride operator clears his throat ominously. “You must ride or rejoin the queue.” “We can ride together,” Sophie suggests brightly. Against my better judgment, I agree. It’s a water slide. I sit in front. Sophie big-spoons me like a corseted, wild-eyed menace. As we launch forwards, her talon-like fingernails start jabbing into my back — like a human pin cushion — sharp, insistent, relentless. “Can you stop that?!” I squeal. “It’s part of the ride!” she cackles. I ricochet wildly inside the chute — half-laughing, half-dying — until I shoot out the other end soaked, shaking and suddenly aware of warm liquid that is not water. Blood trickles down my side. “Are you sure that was part of the ride?” I ask weakly. “Positive,” Sophie says, eyes glinting with something unpleasant. I limp away, invested in surviving elsewhere. Kylie finally appears — radiant and unapologetically late. We hug — awkward, unfamiliar, slightly too polite for old friends who used to count each other's poo plops. Her face drops. “No hate, but what the fuck are you wearing?” “Ah yes. Funny story. I may have forgotten to pack my suitcase.” She snorts. “Looks like you forgot to pack your sanity.” And then adds: “We’d better find you some other clothes.” I pat my empty pockets. “May have forgotten my money too.” The scene shoots me straight to the gates of hell. I am back at the depot. I clutch my cardiologist’s letter — pages of medical authority explaining in sober fonts why my heart should not be treated like a stress ball and handled with care. I hand it to my manager, Paul. He tears it into shreds without reading it. “Won’t be needing that,” he says cheerfully. “You’re out with Lloyd today.” Lloyd. King of vanity. Botoxed forehead, blinding white teeth, legs smoother than my own — not exactly hard during the winter months. He powers his round on energy drinks and self-love, practically sprinting between doors like he’s late for his own reflection. I pant behind him like a dog that’s had enough of walkies and is quietly reconsidering loyalty. I’m sweating. I’m wheezing. My lungs burn. I’m two shaky knees away from collapse. We complete the round in record time and return with fifteen minutes to spare. Normally we’d kill time — door-to-doors, extended toilet breaks, small rebellions. But today the toilets are out of action. Some catastrophic event has rendered them biologically unapproachable. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. GAS MASK REQUIRED, a sign reads. “Fuck my life,” my soul whispers politely. Paul points to a solitary portaloo squatting proudly in the middle of the yard like a hostile art installation. “Hmm. I’ll pass,” I say quickly. Glastonbury ’08 still lives in my bones and has night terrors. Paul senses hesitation like a vulture smells hope. “I’ve got a challenge for you.” He pushes a york piled with random objects towards me. “You’re going to go out and find exact replicas of each object and bring them back. Your fifteen minutes start now. Go!” Charlotte and I are paired for this madness. We load the bizarre artefacts into the van and tear off like criminals in a poorly funded heist montage. First object: an actual chainsaw. We find a man calmly chainsawing a tree. Without hesitation we swipe it straight out of his hands and throw it into the back of the van — still revving, still furious. “Sorry!” Charlotte shouts out the window. “No time to explain!” Next object: a real-life hamster. We smash through the park gates like fugitives, straight over freshly manicured lawns, just shy of a petting zoo. They offer guinea pigs and rabbits — but no hamsters. I grab a guinea pig. “This do?” “It’ll have to,” Charlotte says. “We’re running out of time!” The guinea pig sits on my lap like a resigned hostage, tiny heart rattling against my thighs like a trapped metronome. Next object: Y-fronts. We stare at each other. “How the hell…?” Charlotte mutters. Defeated, we return with only two objects. One revving dangerously in the back of the van. The other, incorrect and actively gnawing his way to freedom and possibly revenge. Paul’s face drops — then crumples into hysterics. He collapses onto the floor laughing, gasping, clutching his stomach. A grown man reduced to a wheezing pile of managerial glee. “You girls are too funny,” he cries. “I was only messing with you!” Of course you were. A complete waste of adrenaline, dignity and potential criminal charges. “I’ll take the guinea pig.” Charlotte says. Paul’s laughter abruptly stops. His face sharpens. “Mind dropping that chainsaw back?” Something in me finally snaps its elastic. I think of the empty suitcase. The unopened parcels. The knicker rotation. The stabbing water ride. The waiting. The running. The panting behind Lloyd. The torn medical letter. The stupid pointless game. The thousand tiny permissions I’ve handed out like loose change. I look at the chainsaw. Then at Paul. “No.” The word feels illegal in my mouth. Heavy. Delicious. He frowns. “What do you mean, no?” “I mean no. I’m not taking it back.” Silence cuts through the depot, thin and sharp — a hundred tiny blades hover, eager. The knife finds not my back. It rests elsewhere, and I don’t flinch.