"Oh darling!" a shrill voice stops me. Pausing for a second I hide my hatred and turn round.

"Julia! Oh, lovely to see you", I say with fake happiness, "Sorry I'm in a hurry". I run off leaving her in the reception. "Oh, and you can stuff your office job, I'm off to Paris".

Arriving back home, I weigh up the pros and cons of going. I mean, if I go I'll hardly see my parents, but there'll be lots of opportunities there, good jobs (preferably without a boss that can't make her mind up if she hates or loves me) and tons of people. Oh, and the shops... Chanel, Dior... I think I'm talking myself into this.

No, I can't go. I can't leave my family in this state. My Dad's neck-deep in debt and my Mum's unconscious. They need me right now; it's not my place to go jollying off to a foreign country. And I've never been independent in my life. When I was in middle school they offered to take me to Canada skiing, and most kids would jump at that chance, but no, not me. I stayed at home. It's not that I'm a home bird or anything; I've just never needed to be independent. Everything I've ever needed has been at home, so that's where I always am.

Right, so Paris, enough reminiscing about my childhood. Should I stay or should I go? Hang on, how long's the holiday for? I check the ticket. Two weeks. I mean that's not long, that'll fly past. I look at the ticket one last time, am I actually going to do this? Yes, yes, you are Kelly Kennington; you are going to Paris...

I pack all my belongings up into my suitcase and take one final look at my room. It seems smaller somehow. Oh, get a grip. You're going for two weeks, not a lifetime. Swiftly, I head down to the library to see Alfred's granddaughter looking through Dad's files. "Weird", I think. Must be sorting them. Better leave a note for Daddy when he comes home. Don't want him to get worried and send out a search party. Again.

Alfred is standing in the hall regally (as usual) and nods to me.

"Alfred, can you tell Dad that I'm going to Paris?" I ask cheerfully. Alfred just nods again and walks off into the dining room. Right, Paris here we come.

Getting into the car, I wave goodbye to the house and drive off. It isn't a far drive to the airport and I'm soon waiting in line for the metal detector. Lines of excited children, (very) tired looking parents and stern security officers patting everyone down were in front of me. Wandering through the metal detector, it beeps loudly and two officers look at me alarmed. They then pounce on me patting me down and checking my hand luggage. Okay, maybe I shouldn't have worn boots with studs on them. Reluctantly I take them off and they inspect them, pulling open all the zips and basically being rather rough with them. "Hey, be careful with them, mister. They were a birthday present", I shout at him.

"Oh sorry princess, I'll go and get my gloves because these are obviously the crown jewels of the shoe world", he says sarcastically. What a grump! I crossly snatch them back off him and wander off. Anxiously I wait for the call for me to get on my plane. I have a Pina Colada on order to calm my nerves. Though let's just have the one, I don't want to be drunk on my first day in Paris. A posh looking waiter comes and brings it over. After thanking him, I neck it down and take a deep breath. I'll save the pineapple for later. "Plane number 11309 to Paris. All passengers now can board". That's my cue. Goodbye New York, hello Paris.

I walk briskly down the corridors, past the screaming kids, past the buggies that have now decided to stop working and past the stressed mothers that own both.

Finally, a door. That doesn't lead to another corridor. I open it, hoping to be met by sunshine and cocktails, instead I'm met by the cold and a few miserable looking air hostesses. Maybe it'll be better in France.

I gracefully hop onto the plane and cheerfully hand my ticket to the air hostess, who promptly snatches them off me. God does everyone in national service employment act this grumpy. Though who can blame them, who would want to wear that shade of blue all day.

Right, seat 32, seat 32. Please, no. Two humungous men are sitting either side of my seat, well, what was my seat. Now what. "Excuse me, I think you're sitting in my seat", I say perkily.

"Oh, sorry, love. Here", he replies and shifts over a tiny amount. I squeeze myself on the end and pull up the chair-arm. Finally, I can breathe. The air hostess comes past with a fake smile on her face and wheels her trolley into me, knocking me off the seat.

"Sorry!" she screams at me. Great now I'm embarrassed and deaf. "Here, a bottle of water on the house". She hands me a bottle and struts off. She could've given me wine.