My title is a little cheeky given my home is nothing like a German POW camp, and I’m definitely not Steve McQueen. The fact remains though that living in my house is often like being in a camp (just ask about the food!), my kids behave like prisoners, and we do go to war. That escape is needed is a given. There’s even a motorbike in the carport to speed me on my passage, if I had a clue how to ride a 1000cc piece of metal.
Not so long ago, I did it. Flew the coop, jumped the razor fence, hit the road and got the hell out of dodge. I flew to Brisvegas for the inaugural Convention of the Loungers. In attendance were Rachel the Very Inappropriate Blogess the I, Sarah from Slapdashery (this is something for all of you young folk to aspire to, if, like me, you’ve stepped back in time to watch the hogwashy-twaddle of Mr Selfridge on TV); and yours truly, Falling all the way north on my Face.
How do you escape? Do you stare down the barrel of a wine bottle, strap on your goggles, and giggle at the idiocy of everyone around you? (It’s not YOU, it’s THEM). Do you lie prone in the grass making cloud shapes into rabbits or hot-torsoed men? Or do you actually get moving, and exercise for escape, or run away to freedom like me, exercising your non-Constitutional right to bear trashy reading material in an airport Lounge?
This is The Lounge. So I’ll tell you the tale of the Lounge Convention. It was … conventional? Let’s stick with ‘Loungey’. And I’ll only recount the tale in part, because we all know the rule. What goes on tour, means I’d have to kill you if you stand next to me while I snore and talk in my sleep.
What is more conventional is my approach to hotels. Every hotel has its quirks. Every Kim has her quirks. They must be dealt with methodically. The steps (for hotels) are as follows. I’ll leave the management of Kims up to you.
Step 1: Look in all the rooms
Step 2: Look in all the cupboards. Look in the fridge
Step 3: Deposit my vastly superior tea (yes TEA SNOB I AM) near the kettle, stashed in snaplock bags from home. Don’t judge. You’ll be wanting some and I won’t share if you’re mean.
Step 4: Read ‘The Book’. No not the bible. They’re all the same. The hotel one. What if, one day, I stumble into a freakish hotel that has a happy hour or free drinks and I MISS OUT because I didn’t READ THE BOOK?
Step 5: Choose my imaginary dinner from the room service menu
Step 6: Scoff at the mini-bar prices. As if you’d pay THAT much for a Mars Bar.
Step 6: Open mini-bar again and gaze wistfully at the little bottles. Picture myself glugging them with gay abandon on beds like they do in movies. Drink some wine.
Step 7: Drink more wine. Paint toenails. Spill nailpolish. Scream
Step 8: Lie on bed like a starfish. Jump on bed like a starfish.
Step 9: More wine. Buy Mars Bar from minibar. Vow to replace it from 7-11. Forget.
What? Anally-retentive control freak? Pah. I spit on your laissez-faire attitude to dropping your bags and going out for dinner. You could be missing out on a cornered toilet roll.
In any case, Rachel and Sarah soon arrived to relieve me from my relentless pursuit of being me, and we were OFF and running.
Girls’ weekends. That’s escape in a nutshell (if a nutshell has beds and a lot of wine inside). It’s possible there was some dinner, a ridiculous amount of hipsters missing from Melbourne, a waitress in a bunker looking like Minnie Mouse who snarled, a dearth of teapots, OPI black polish all over a table, some quilts, a migraine, a few hangovers, a Cooker and a Looker (MWAH Amanda!), a Southbank cider reviver, a tequila (WOW!) a taco (WOW!) and a stupid amount of laughing and FALLING OVER WHILE SOBER. But also, possibly not. Cos, remember, tour rules.
Rachel and Sarah, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. When you first arrived, other than your voices, everything about you felt instantly familiar. You don’t judge. You listen. We understand each others’ brains. Your hearts are enormous. You are both true, wonderful friends. That’s what blogging is for. Friendship, escape.