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So I was all set to fly up to Christchurch – flights booked, outfits planned – all to see this guy I’d been chatting with. Two days before I’m meant to go, he suddenly gets cold feet. First, he asks me to shorten my stay. Fine.
I ask for confirmation if that’s actually what he wants. He says yes, then vanishes. Comes back later saying, “Actually, nah, don’t come at all.” Excuse me? You don’t cancel me like I’m an expired milk special at PAK’nSAVE
Well, at least I’m that bitch. I don’t cry, I multitask. So I simply text another guy in Christchurch. (Pro tip: always have a plan B.) And this one, bless him, actually sticks to the plan.
Fast forward to our first night. Things are going well until he mentions the hot bath. How lovely, except… he and his flatmates had already rinsed all the hot water. So what do we do? Boil. Every. Bloody. Pot. In. The. House. Kettle, saucepan, even a dodgy frypan got involved. We sprint up and down the stairs like we are getting ready for Hell’s Kitchen: Plumbing Edition.
After all that manual labour, we finally had our steamy bath, and let’s just say it ended up hotter than expected. Tub, sink counter, shower, you name it. By the time we were done, I reckon his poor flatmates were seconds away from booking therapy.