Sunday 11th November

Australia. I mean… what the actual fuck? Me, swapping old man wine bars and boredom for Aussie gays and sunburn? Who do I think I am? I can’t remember the last time I left Essex, let alone the flipping hemisphere.

Just a few weeks ago I was Yahoo-ing mortgages and puppies and planning for the future. Even in the aftermath, the idea of going backpacking on the other side of the world was as alien to me as car mechanics or cunnilingus. And then Bev came knocking…

When she and Rachel had turned up, I’d thought they’d come to see how I was doing, freshly single, broken hearted, and two packs of Jaffa Cakes down. But no. Instead, they were dropping a bombshell of their own. Bev, my bestest girlfriend, my drinking buddy, my rock and my confidant was about to leave to Australia for the year. With Rachel of all people. Talk about selfish. It felt like I’d been dumped for a second time that week.

          “Oh, don’t cry babes!” Bev had said, smothering me with what she refers to as her chesticles. “You’ll be fine! You’ve just gotta get back out there!”

“But we’re ‘Bev and Kev’! We’re a team!” I whimpered.

          “Geez, snap aaht of it!” Rachel interrupted, barely glancing up from her phone as her fake ‘Essex’ accent made my eye twitch. Rachel is always a tad louder than she needs to be and that voice never needs help to cross a room. She didn’t even sound like that until Katie Price did ‘I’m A Celeb…’ a couple of years back and its as irritating as all hell. “You’re better off wivout him. Dahn’t just sit there with a cob on, do what we’re doing. Go to Oz or summit, like us.”

And it hit me. There was no one to stop me. Why the hell shouldn’t I? We sat in silence for a minute longer as I considered Rachel’s offer.

“Okay,” I finally said. “I will!”

Cue stunned silence. No wonder really, I’d surprised even myself.

          “I can’t believe I’m going to Australia with you!” I screamed.

That was two weeks ago. Since then? Well, I’ve taken out a second credit card, treated myself to one of them fancy new Apple phones (major bragging rights), and tried to prepare my pale English skin for the Australian sun by having a few cheeky sunbeds. Not that you’d know, I’m still positively Daz-white. But I did learn not to fart in an enclosed environment with circulating air so it wasn’t entirely pointless.

I suppose I should probably email a few people and tell them I’m going.

4.30am – technically Monday. Four hours until departure

Can’t sleep. Who knows when I’ll be lying in this bed again? It’s making me feel a little nostalgic, after all it has seen a lot of action. Late night snacks and movie marathons mostly. For a Gay, I’m practically virginal.

My initial bed-based shenanigans may have been with the moist bikini-areas of lady-folk, but I’d never enjoyed them. It was never natural, just endured. Something to get through as quick as possible and with the minimum amount of gagging. Deep down, I always knew which side my bread was buttered, but I’d heard people say things like “it’s a phase” and so I planned on ignoring it until the phase was over. It wasn’t until I turned twenty that I finally accepted that I was, in Rachel’s words, a ‘total bone smuggler’. By which point, I’d wasted several years of my life focussing desperately on women, putting myself through some pretty significant mental anguish and, through some kind of psychological association, developing a seafood allergy.

My existence developed glorious new meaning when I’d finally relented and discovered… well… cock, to put it bluntly. I’d given myself a thorough online education, then dived straight in with New York Nick, a one-night stand that lasted two energetic weeks whilst mum was in Switzerland with those lesbian friends of hers who’d tried to take her up the Jungfrau. Then came a few more brief encounters (technically boxer-brief) and then Phil swaggered into the bar like a podgy Poundland Brad Pitt and we know how that ended up. We’d chatted an hour. He gave me his number. He must’ve seen something he liked back then, though it probably had something to do with the drinks being free when I saw him. He’d been a bit of a sex-pest at the start, but there was something quite thrilling about being sent a dick pic whilst you’re watching the X Factor with your Gran. I got caught up in the whirlwind of it all and we were ‘official’ by the following weekend. Worst. Mistake. Ever. He lost interest almost as quickly as I do when I’m dragged around IKEA. The most excitement I’ve had since is when I’ve ‘won’ something on eBay.

I wasted nearly two years of my life to him, but the part that really stings is I broke my promise to Gran.

Not long before she died, she took my hand, her favourite butterfly blanket tucked around her disfigured knees, and said:

          “Don’t waste a single day.”

Her hair was all messed up so we knew she was in a bad way, and there was sadness in her usual sparkly eyes.

          “Don’t live the same year 80 times and call it a life.”

I hadn’t realised what she’d meant at the time.

A few days later, high on pills, she looked at me with a mischievous glint and said, “I’ve come to realise that life is a lot like a toilet roll. The closer you get to the end, the quicker it runs out!” She’d giggled then, despite her issues. My God, I miss her.

“Will you promise me something, dear?” She looked serious now.

I’d taken her hand and nodded. “Anything.”

          “Experience something new every day, dear.” She patted my arm. “Then, when you get to my ripe old age, you’ll have a treasure chest of so many lovely memories to open and go through.”

It was the last thing she’d said to me before the ambulance came and she disappeared forever. My chest hurts when I think of her. Worse than when I think of Phil. I let her down. I’d shut myself away with him, doing what I was told, letting my world shrink down to one miserable relationship and a bar job he didn’t like me having. Well, no more. Tonight, I am retaking that promise.

I will experience something new every single day I’m away. Even if it’s weird. Even if its scary. Even if it’s just dipping my toes in a new sea or an Aussie river with a name I can’t pronounce. Because a day without something new is a day wasted. And I won’t waste any more. Because I promised my Gran.

Right. Suppose I better TRY and get some kip before I go.

SHIT! I HAVEN’T PACKED!