In January of 2019, I bought tickets to see a couple of plays and a football game in London. I thought I’d just book a hostel to stay in, how bad could it be? The answer was very.
I arrived at the hostel and went upstairs into a dark, sauna of a room with 6 triple decker beds, packed to the brim with people. Someone had stolen my deck, so I had to sleep on the one below. This vagabond then proceeded to loudly breathe like a dying rhino shot by a poacher. The window was open but instead of fresh air, I was merely assaulted by a cacophony of noise, ambulances, police cars, and the inadequacies of the general populace. I didn’t sleep the whole night, just bathed in my own sadness on a mattress thinner than a sliced atom.
The next day, I just wanted to leave so I went, inexplicably, to the National Science Museum. I got there and realised I needed to use the toilet. I’ve defecated in a public toilet three times in my entire life. I can’t handle it emotionally. I got in and basically cried for 30 minutes as a child in the stall next to me kicked the door with the force of a furious donkey.
When I left the bathroom, tears wiped away, I binned the hostel and got a hotel room. From this point on, I had a lovely trip, marred only by being insulted by a hotel clerk in an admittedly reasonable way. I guess this isn’t the worst day anyone’s ever had, but as a majestic little crescendo to a deeply depressing start to Uni, it was perfect. It’s nice to remind myself in low moments, I could always be sweaty, unwashed, crying through my own grime, on a toilet in the National Science Museum as an obnoxious toddler shakes my world with legs like Usain Bolt. That sort of thing puts life into perspective.