Page 2 of Are We Nearly There Yet?

Followed by burning sausages under the grill (kitchen fire optional).

Followed bygroup-passing out in my room because it is slightly bigger than Eva’s.

Followed by three hours of sleep and then hangover fear so bad that picking at thedried-out, charred sausages to block out all feelings seems like a good idea. And because there is nothing else to eat.

But now, because I am turning thirty, it has apparently been decided that I am too old for fun anymore. Now we must beadultswho eatfood. And there aren’t even any sausage options on this menu.

So that is why I’m thinking about going to see a man about some sadcomfort-sex. And come on, there must be someone.

Correction: there must be someonewho is not him. Surely there is more than one option?

But there is not. There is only one person:TD.

I loathe him, Iloathehim.But at least it would be easy. He will be free, he will put it in me without much fuss and then he will scratch my back afterwards. I will hate myself enormously afterwards, of course, but what other option is there? Yes, I could go on Tinder right now and find a shiny new man to do it with. That part would be easy, but, oh theeffortof getting naked with someone new.

Plus, I’m feeling veryinsecure about my vagina after my smear test last week. I had an idea in my head – since I’d had it done once before and was obviously therefore an expert – that I would be very cool and laid back and, I don’t know,Frenchthis time round. I would casually whip off my cigarette leg trousers (v French) and be likeHERE IS MY VAGINA, DO WHAT YOU WILL. But then I got into the nurse’s room and climbedup on the bed – immediately ripping the thin tissue paper with my sweaty buttocks – and was suddenly seized with panic about my socks. Like, I know you don’t wear socks for sex, but a smear test isn’t sex, is it? Don’t answer – I know that for a fact.

So, I kept them on but suddenly felt very silly. I was also very aware of my hairy legs. I was worried the nurse might be offended I’d madeno effort before getting naked for her. Then she got down there with her scalpel (I know it’s not a scalpel but come on, it feels like it is a scalpel) and muttered, ‘It’s too small’.

And lads, I was momentarilyDELIGHTEDwith my tiny vagina. My vagina, that is too small for inspection. Too small for insertion. So small it is basically sewn up! No wonder I never get any sex – it’s becausemen sense I am too charmingly delicate down there.

Then the nurse spoke again, tutting as she declared, ‘Yes, it’s too small, I need a bigger one. I’m not sure they do them any bigger though?’ And I realised it was not my vagina that was a tiny fragile flower, but the device. My vagina was, in fact, a giant gaping monster. A wide, pink cave that eats speculums for breakfast.

And so.

You understand.

Right now, it’s myex-boyfriend, Twat Dan, or no one.

The waiter passes my chair and I swipe at him, catching a fistful of shirt sleeve.

‘Three more double gins just for me,’ I hiss, and when he looks appalled, I smile blankly, adding, ‘And four shots of tequila please.’

I watch him glide towards the door and I blink hard several times, hoping I can magicallymake Eva walk in.

Where is she? I miss her so much suddenly. She’s my best friend and my flatmate, it’s her actual job to be here first, holding flowers or something. She texted an hour ago to say she would be a little late but had ‘a big surprise’. And she used a bunch of emojis she specifically knows amuse me – the octopus will always do it for me – so I expect she’s been picking up my present.Late as ever. Late as Eva.

I kinda hope the present is a taxi away from here.

The waiter is back, and he lines up my drinks judgementally before me. Amelia barkscheersnervously across the table and I grin at her as I do the first shot. The warmth of the liquid coats my throat but the rest of me feels cold. I do another one. If I have to be thirty and if I have to be here, eating likea cheat, then I’m at least going to make sure I get really, really drunk.

‘Can I have one?’ my brother Mark asks, leaning across from his seat on my right.

‘Get your own,’ I mutter belligerently, and he raises an eyebrow as I pound my second shot.

My brain begins to swim nicely as I stare broodily at the door.

And finally, she is here. I smile widely as Eva walks in, jumpingup and scraping my chair loudly across the floor.

Ooh, I’m drunker than I realised.

Eva is here! Yessss, Eva is h ... Oh fucking what! She’s broughtJeremy. Ugh, yuck,Jeremy.Why did she need to bring him, he is awful, I hate him so much. Nobody used to bring partners for our sticky nights out, and now – look around – it’s a sea of beige boyfriends and even beiger husbands as faras the eye can see.

Eva and Jeremy have only been dating for seven months, but Eva’s, like, obsessed with him. I don’t get it, he’s so dull. I do not understand why she’s chosenhimover me. She’s fully replaced me in every aspect. She’s even replaced me in her Facebook profile photo, which was, until recently, a picture of uscross-eyed drunk from our holiday to Cornwall last year. Rightafter that picture was taken, we decided Justin Trudeau was in the same bar as us, so we spent the whole night following him around until he told us to shag off in a very distinctive Cornish accent and we realised it probably wasn’t him. Now her profile picture is of her and Jeremy from last Halloween. I have been literally replaced.

I hate Jeremy.

‘Alice!’ Eva screams, throwing her armsaround me, ‘Happy birthday!’ She hands me a gift bag and a very large helium balloon that says ‘Birthday Wanker’ on it.

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