metulji - jan peteh

The Sign

However much my back hurt, I was out of bed before I'd even fully woken up. Stars of all different colours heavily clouded my vision, but I couldn't bring myself to care. This was it. Nausea, excitement, apprehension all blended into different parts of my body - causing my head to spin and my legs to quiver.

The moment I'd walked into the apartment the previous night, I had just collapsed straight onto the sofa and not wanted to move. Everything had been so complicated throughout the day, and every move I made just depleted my energy dramatically. By the time I made it through the door, sleep was the only thing that remained on my mind. For this reason, I was still wearing the clothes I had travelled in - which now reeked of sweat and that musty public transport smell that, even now I had left Britain, I was still unable to escape.

As I raced from the room, trying to shake all of my body's reactions to the sudden stress, I noticed my small, pink suitcase sitting lonelily by the door. I was grateful for its hard shell, given that, at some point during the two flights, it had faced a mighty battering; it was covered in chips and marks. I was hoping that it had managed to keep everything inside it safe, given that I had a particular item in there that needed to be in crisp condition.

Sitting myself down on the floor, I began to unpack what I would need for the day; some new clothes, some toiletries, etcetera. It suddenly occured to me that I had not packed anywhere near enough clothes for the time period I planned to stay for, and it wasn't exactly like I knew my way around Ljublana to find a suitable shop. Taking out the rest of what lay inside the case in a sudden panic, all of the items quickly became strewn across the sofa.

Yet, despite them looking like a huge amount, I had only counted less than a week's worth of outfits.

And I had bought a one-way ticket over here.

I decided not to worry about this right now and press on; there was a chance, however small I believed it was, that I would be packing back up tonight to leave in the morning. Pressing on through the array of objects, I finally reached the bottom of the suitcase, finding the supplies I'd brought to help me on my Jan-retrieval mission.

'Do you mind if I invade the stationary drawer?' I asked my mother cautiously, hoping that she would absentmindedly agree. She was currently loading the cutlery draw with new knives, forks, and spoons that she had bought from the town centre.

'Why?' she replied. However unfocused she seemed, she could always tell when I was up to something. I supposed it was an ability that came with being a mother.

'Well, me and Sanjay are going to get crafty on our little getaway.' I phrased, trying to make it sound as appealing as possible - my mother loved art, and would undoubtedly agree to anything if I showed some interest in it. It was a white lie - I was, of course, planning to use them for just that - just without Sanj to do it with me.

'Of course, sweetheart. I'd rather you do that than be out with boys.' she answered trustingly. This was my opportunity to pocket all of the permanent markers; one that I would not waste.

Pens on pens, and a long strip of cardboard I'd taken from a huge box in the basement, emerged from the very bottom of the suitcase. I was surprised to find that none of them had exploded under the pressure; it was a possibility that I had prepared for by wrapping the pack tightly in cellophane.

The main idea was that I would prepare the sign in the queue; maybe find some other English-speaking fans to help me if they were willing. They would be able to provide me with inside jokes, concert-related ideas, that my dull mind could never even dream of finding itself. According to my maths, if entrance began at 7:30PM, and I joined the queue at 1, I would have more enough time to find people to help me out and get the sign to an acceptable quality to attract Jan's attention. Hopefully, I would also be able to make it to the front row - to position myself as close to him as possible.