A glittering turquoise and the sapphire seas

Today we step out into the bristling heat of Menorca, palm trees helping to set the scene. How did I get here?

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It’s like seventh grade with bank accounts

LB and I descend into the pit down a flight of steep, wide steps and I laugh under my breath that it feels like we’re Cinderellas entering the ball. I’m not overexaggerating much. LB attracts male attention anywhere she goes and here men outnumber women at least five to one.

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Drinking French, being English

I was primped to within an inch of my life: blow wave sleek, nails shellacked in inoffensive beige, Hobbs heels on, hair hidden under an equally beige hat, dressed modestly, lipstick lacquering my lips. The only hiccup was my name badge: Miss Alexander E. Alexander. I was about to go rub modestly-covered shoulders with London’s best coiffed and I was going to do so as an Alexander.

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Gap minded.

It was this little realisation, made at freezing cold Paddington station as Sunday’s sun gave up on its feeble attempt to warm the day, that threatened to evoke my first panic attack. And it’s the equally little things that are helping to settle my jiggling ‘what have I done’ anxiety.

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