As you do.
Whilst we'd originally planned on going on a roadtrip, thus offering Pascal many places to discard my lifeless corpse on the way through Austria, Italy, France and Switzerland, the car broke down the day before we left and we were forced to make an emergency blind booking - ending up in Belgium.
It was awesome.
I not only survived, but I ate more chocolate, waffles and chips than I thought was possible. We saw Smurfs, the works of my favourite artist Rene Magritte and had an apartment on the fifth floor with a private balcony spanning the whole outer rim of the hotel which we managed to book on a random deal that saved us almost 80% of the normal rate - life was good.
Of course there were some minor hiccups...
Whilst travelling I like to take a photo of every second thing I see, so naturally as we were walking along the streets of Brussels and I spotted a fortress/tower thing I needed a photograph of, I completely lost track of what was being said all around me. Unfortunately it seemed that this was the moment Pascal decided to utter those three little words that Romeo whipped out after knowing Juliet for all of ten minutes like a creepy stalker pervert... Now I'm a one trick pony when it comes to keeping my mind on track (note my launch into how much I hate Romeo and Juliet), and I had already decided I wanted a photo of Pascal in front of the tower; So despite my extreme girlish happiness, gushing and such in the moment; not two seconds after I told him I didn't hate him in return I leaned in for a hug and whispered "now get in front of the tower" sweetly in his ear. Well at least I thought it was sweetly...turns out I sounded more like Golem threatening people for the return of his precious. Now Pascal doesn't like his photo to be taken at the best of times. If it must be done he grimaces and looks like he's hurting inside - but somehow this seemed to be even more awkward - did I ruin the moment?At least my social faux-pas was nothing on Pascal's. As we sat in a little church somewhere in Bruges, a little girl dressed in a short red skirt, pink jumper and knee-high, shiny black boots walked past us. I remarked that she was adorable and that I loved her little boots, to which Pascal replied by suddenly turning into something out of Mean Girls and calling her a special S-word that wasn't sweet or sassy, (or sexy...just for the record). Unfortunately for him, her Scottish father was sitting next to me and overheard it, but for what it is worth Pascal was in his own little world and kept repeating it, completely disregarding her father talking under his breath and giving him death stare from four feet away - I grabbed his arm and speedily dragged him out at that point...luckily no black-eyes were received this trip.
Well I better go for a jog now, work off all those delicious waffles I ate you know?
Or maybe you don't...
Hope all is well.
