The Budding Roses

Psycho

Saturday 3rd August

Despite sizeable efforts on my part, any hope that relations between Harry and I may have thawed prior to this doomed trip have failed. I've tried my damndest to make amends; I really have, even going so far as to blatantly smile at him whilst we ate our sandwiches at the service station. Do I have no shame? But still he remains unresponsive, forever insisting on avoiding contact with me eyes. Maybe he's worried that once glance will entrap him within the pools that Liam so queerly described, or maybe he was just thinking what an idiot I am, staring at him like a grinning monkey?

Oh how his silence only serves to rile me more, making me want to slap-bam-pow him around the head even harder than usual. Would it really be that hard for him to grace me with the effort of opening his mouth and tell me just what it is that I've done that is so cataclysmically wretched that it's rendered his ordinarily big gob so suddenly silent? That way I could at least make an attempt at an apology. Not that he deserves one, the stinky old goat.

            'He's just sulking because he knows he doesn't stand a chance with you,' Niall informed me whilst shooting at the computer screen.

            'Well if he wants to go out with me then he's really not going the right way about it, by being so mean all the time.' Yet further evidence that he is the immature member of the party, and therefore why should I be the one to apologise? I'm such a flake to even consider accepting the blame for Harry's self loathing. It's hardly my fault if he wants to behave like a soggy smelly trump for the rest of his life. It's time to take a stand; I'm not responsible for the actions of this pathetic little twerp, and I'm certainly not going to let him ruin my life any longer. Okay so this is great in theory, but the problem is that Natasha too remains insufferable, and with both of their evils combined, it's becoming harder to breathe through the toxic web of fumes which is determined to suffocate me. Cough, cough.

Sunday 4th August

We've just returned from Vogue, the campsites open air nightclub, which isn't nearly as suave as the name suggests, what with the limited clientele and the poo stained toilets. The poor place might have stood more of a chance, were it located somewhere exotically sophisticated, like Miami say, but we are definitely not in Miami, we are entrapped within this rain sodden underbelly of middle England.

            'It's SO cold! Please can we go inside?' Of course my mood was less than exuberant, but still they ignored me, continuing with their insipid conversation about who could drink the most of that noxious lime green liquid they seemed so excited about.

            'Are you sure you should be drinking that? It looks like it should carry a hazard warning label.'

            'I can't believe you are flirting with that scum waiter,' Harry staggered, 'you're such a bitch, a completely manipulative bitch.' How delightful of him to make such an observation; and flirting with the waiter, oh how I wish I was, since now that he'd been pointed out to me was rather handsome.

            Either the alcohol was affecting him quicker than he cares to profess it does, or his totally over the top sunburn was causing him hallucinate – talk about an Oompa-Loompa. If I didn't think it would ruin the trip for everyone else why I would have at last, really this time, no more threats, smacked him hard about the chops and demanded to know what it is that I've done, so terrible as to deserve being treated like such a stinky turd all the time. But forever the good little girl I bit my tongue.

            Damn my manners but how I wish I'd spoken up, if only to save him, for I truly believe that he needs to see a psychiatrist and quickly. Now you might think this a bit extreme, but let's consider his spectrum of behaviour; firstly he spends years being a totally annoying pest, and then poof, he transforms in to Mr Perfect, what with all his, "I want to be your best friend Simone. Let me save you from Liam, and Weirdo Woodcutter, oh and any other male who happens to be threatening my territory" crap, and now he's suddenly become the vilest specimen. If that's not evidence of a chronic personality disorder then a terrible tumour must be pressing down hard on his pre-frontal cortex, and I strongly believe that he needs medical assistance. I really should call for an ambulance right now.