Amsterdam Nights 3

I wake up in a sweat. My heart is racing. I look around trying to figure out if I am still dreaming. But there is no sign of Danielle Lloyd and one of the german women in bikinis wrestling in an inflatable swimming pool filled with warm baby oil. Ronnie corbett is not refereeing in a black and white striped shirt. It was all a dream.

Reality is far different. The german chicks are long gone. The new leader of the passepartout (the stag) is ordering me out of bed and into the shower
"No time for breakfast!"
"Get packed in the next five minutes!"
"Find the room keys!"
I guess the holiday is over. But it was worth it.

I learnt how to bimble. And I love it