I pack more than this for a weekend in Hayfield. Though the fact the bag is mostly full of dinky sundresses wholly inadequate for a British campside in July has helped to save a lot of space.
I find packing incredibly difficult. This is my first solo long-haul trip since – well, ever. It’s not like I didn’t make all the travel arrangements when I had an other half, and I am going to a place where most things that I may have forgotten can be obtained with a credit card – not sure what the position is on size 10 ladies shoes, but other than that I reckon I should be fine – it’s just becoming harder every time I do it.
The situation is not helped by massive work stress. I live in a happy rose-tinted world where the fact that you were hired to do a job matches up with the fact that it needs doing, you do it well, and everyone is happy. What I can’t cope with is having to fight for the opportunity to get off the starting blocks – after being hired to do the job in the first place. This is my problem not theirs, it must be because the same difficulty has followed me round in my various employments. I have to manage another day and a half before I get to leave it all behind, if only for a little while. First I head to London to celebrate Christmas with Lee Mead and some very fine lady friends, and then it will be about another 24 hours before check-in. I was worried about the plane journey but after this week even a screaming baby in the next seat will be a welcome relief.