I’ve been arrested.

I think? I WISH I was kidding. I’m locked in a room so small that when I turned the page to write this I bumped my elbows on both walls. There’s a guard stood at the door almost in touching distance and I think his name might be ‘Wang’, which is appropriate because he’s wielding a big old weapon at waist level that I’m sure could do me a lot of damage.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is… What the actual effing fuck?

We’d landed in Hong Kong no problem. Then I’d spotted an Asian woman at the gate holding a card with my name on it. Bev and Rachel had been dead impressed, thinking I’d arranged a chauffeured trip around the city before tonight’s connecting flight. I was almost entirely sure I hadn’t, but I stepped forward anyway, curious to find out what she wanted. The lady gave me a shy little bow, whispered a word into a radio on her collar and, before I knew it, three armed-policemen had appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my shoulders and were marching me away. No explanation.

I’m BRICKING it. What if they make me ‘disappear’? I’ve always hated magic.

At first, I assumed they’d arrested me because of being gay, not that it declares that on my passport or anything, but I Googled it and apparently the ban on homos entering the country was lifted in the late 1990’s when they decided that we were, regrettably, legal. I’ve since learnt that the problem is because the name on my plane ticket doesn’t exactly match the name on my passport. Ridiculous. Long story short, Rachel booked my ticket so I could sit with her and Bev, but seems to have been confused by my surname. Clearly, ‘St. John’ is too posh for a girl whose favourite sex position is, and I quote, “close to a phone-charger”. I guess it is my own fault for all the times I’ve corrected her on how to pronounce it.

“It’s not Sinjen! It’s SAINT. JOHN.”

Which, on closer inspection, is exactly how it is written on my plane ticket. I’d wondered why the customs guy at Heathrow had called me your holiness. Unfortunately, Rachel wasn’t around to help clear up the situation so I’m stuck here. In fact, the last time I saw the girls they were skipping off to McDonalds saying, “at least the food there looks safe.”


I’m so impressed by my email home earlier. It comes across as cheerful and upbeat, when in truth I typed it on my phone with trembling hands, a thumping heart and a spasming a-hole. I want so much for everyone to think I can do this, but I’ve not even made it to Australia yet and already I want to go home.

Things have got so much worse in the last ten minutes. How was I supposed to know taking a photo out the window would be illegal? All it looks out on is the airport but it’s probably all I’ll see of Hong Kong! You’d think I was trying to shoot a person not a picture. Wang got right in my face, shouting unrecognisable words, all of which seemed to need a lot of saliva. The machine-gun at his hip had swung to face me and I swear I nearly vomited out of my butt. And that wasn’t even the scariest bit…




Yes, I wanted new experiences on this trip, but being someone’s bitch in a Hong Kong prison cell was not on the cards and I’m convinced that’s where I’m off to next. I can’t help but expect a cavity search at some point, which is a horrible thought as I’ve seen Wang’s fingernails.

I can’t get my head around it. Yesterday, I was at home having a cup of tea and a hob-nob. Today, I’m literally halfway across the world, locked in a room with a big Asian policeman and his mighty weapon, and… it just feels like I’ve popped out for milk.

I didn’t even feel sad when I was leaving home. I was saying goodbye to everyone I loved and everything I knew, and I had no idea when I was going to see them again, but I didn’t shed a tear. Didn’t even want to. Mum had stood there in the rain, crying. Sis had hugged me a tad longer than usual, and Little Tommy had stumbled after the car, sobbing his heart out. Michael hadn’t even bothered to show up like he’d promised, but none of it mattered. I felt detached from everything. As the car pulled off, Bev asked if I was going to press my hand up against the window and gaze out longingly as they disappeared from view, like they do when they leave Albert Square. Instead I’d just stared straight ahead, feeling… what… Numb? No. Determined. I knew a new road now lay before me and I needed to see where it led. And I don’t mean the M25, I knew that led to Heathrow.

It’s ironic. The whole point of escaping Essex, England, and my life as a whole, was to keep my overactive brain occupied with exciting new adventures and possibilities, and to get over Phil without having time to actually stop and think about it. Unfortunately, I go and get incarcerated for hours with nothing to do but think…

“We’ll be together forever,” he used to tell me, and being the hopeless romantic I am I’d accepted that without question. Even after those words sounded like a life sentence instead of a promise of enduring love. Who was I to turn my back on someone actually willing to be with me? So I’d stayed, like a faithful puppy, even when everything I did seemed to annoy him. Was I really that bad? I know I didn’t force that random stranger into bed with him, so why do I feel guilty about it? It pisses me off to admit it but I miss him, even with the image of him sprawled out, legs in the air and begging for it burned into my eyeballs. He’d snuck away from our own anniversary party to meet someone… and, seeing him like that… it was like someone had wrung all the air out of my lungs. Gasping, I’d stumbled blindly to my car to drive home. Being so drunk, I should probably count myself lucky I only crashed into his neighbour’s garden.

He’d pleaded with me for two weeks to take him back, desperate for another chance. Making me feel increasingly unreasonable until, stupidly, I’d given in.

“I forgive you.”

And that was all he’d needed. His face had changed even as I was reaching out to him.

“About fucking time too. I’m always the one that gets to do the dumping.” His eyes had turned cold, his lip had curled back. “And you are officially dumped.”

He’d wanted me back only so he could finish with me himself. Is there any way to humiliate someone more completely? He’d left then, taking what little remaining self respect I had with him, along with a pair of my favourite jeans that he’d been wearing at the time.

But you know what? Maybe being forced to sit in this room and do some thinking wasn’t such a bad thing. Instead of asking myself, “Why did he leave me?” I’m now thinking, for the first time, “Why the fuck didn’t I leave him?”
That’s got to be progress… right?




Never miss an update!

Every time I post a new page, you will get an email. Hey, and the more subscribers I get, the more I will be able to push to get published (so please help me out!).