The Passport

Our life was meant to be one of adventures. And it’s true: I did enable her to travel the world, with me close by her side. But I never got to see the Taj Mahal, and we never frolicked in the sea. Instead I only ever got the negative parts of travel.

The start would, of course, always seem fun. Delightedly she’d find me (sometimes having neglected me for months), clutch me tight, and together the pair of us would head to Gatwick, or Heathrow, or Luton, or some other hellhole. But that’s about it for our shared excitement.

Because come the other end, once we'd got through airport security together, I'd be all but forgotten for the week. She'd leave me back in the hotel whilst she gallivanted around on mopeds, drank cocktails and flirted with boys. Sure, she'd bring me out when she needed my help to exchange money in some sweaty internet cafe - but otherwise I was left in the dark in our room. She said it was in my best interest: she didn’t want me to get lost or worse kidnapped. Hah! Personally I think it came down to the fact that she had started looking older than when we’d got together; and that I reminded her of her youth slipping away.

But truth be told, our relationship was more toxic than that: sometimes she’d literally pimp me out for accommodation, handing me over to the hotelier – as some sort of insurance that she’d pay come the end of the week. Good times, not.

Do I wish her ill? No. Am I glad she forgot me? A little. Left me here in Goa? Not a jot. And do I laugh at the thought of her missing her flight? Always.

HER: Where the f *ck is my passport