The Innsbruck Inquiry By Ruby Boukabou

Everything is finally rolling in Innsbruck: I've fluked myself a great flat for a month with two Swedish magicians and a phenomenal view of snow capped mountain; after a fortnight I've monopolised the massage business in a glitzy Hotel (I`m thinking of importing Valium to sell to American tourists to triple my income) and am in the last stages of shooting a no budget short flick. I`m finally starting to understand Austrians, am getting off European mid winter weight with my flatmate's roller blades and am learning juggling with a passion. But something isn't being satisfied. I`m not homesick, that isn`t it...
Blading up Maria Theresa Strasse, trying not to do the accused kangaroo style, hopping over tram tracks, it hits headfirst (like dozens of cars would have by now if I'd been blading like this in Paris or, gulp, Italy): I realise what it is that`s not right...

I haven't had a hit in two months. London, at Flat Boy's apartment- I can remember the exact occasion. I'd convinced him to buy even though it wasn't really his thing. I'd begged. Thought it a one off craving. I never thought I was addicted. Sometimes you don`t know the basics about yourself until you travel. I knew people who used way more than me at home. I wouldn't even call myself regular. I had found out once that my mum had had a problem, but it didn't seem like it was bad from what she said and anyway, as far as I knew it wasn't hereditary. Yet it explains it all: the spurts of dizziness, the manic states, the waves of high and low and the gaining of weight; bighting nails even- had never done that before but just put it down to nerves from filming with non actors who can't grasp the idea of rehearsals when the snow is good and resort instead to heavy improvising on set.

But these are the facts. I am an addict.
I need Vegemite and I need it now.

Full word count 2000 words