So, I’ve been shouting from the rooftops (that’s probably why the pigeons have stayed away) that we’re off to the Land Down Under. Tonight. Really. Yippee. Yay. But …
Packing is a fine art (which I don’t possess). A sign of an organized mind (which I don’t possess). For a trip of 17 days, I’ve thought about packing for a month earlier. I’ve put in clothes, and pulled out the clothes I put in, then had a panic attack about the weather there, and bought new clothes for the kids, then had a panic attack about my own wardrobe and pulled out everything I packed once more.
It’s the Easter week, says Ma, so put in good formals for church. Good formals go in.
You going to Australia, says my neighbour. Everyone wears shorts there. Good formals come out.
Gonna be chill nights, says my Bhabhi. Woollens go in….
But hot sunny days. Woollens come out and Tees go in.
No meat products allowed in through Customs. Out come the prawn pickles. They have oiled up my gifts. Rush out and buy new gifts. Suitcase smells like a haus-frau’s kitchen.
Swimwear, plus rainwear. Shoes or sandals? Or keds? The kids meds take up half a suitcase. Then one of them goes and gets loosies 4 days before we leave, (totally uncaring child), so I have to yank out everything and pull the med case out again.
Packed their toothpastes too yesterday, so let them go 2 days with gooey teeth. And where, asks Ma, are her specs? Ooops, right at the bottom of the case, wedged in to the lingerie.
So, now we’ve got empty suitcases, and a pile of stuff to be packed piled up in the middle of the TV room floor. The dog is running around with the prawn-smelling lingerie. With exactly 2 hours to leave.
Wottodo? Wottodo? Wottodo? Got it! Ignore it all, open my laptop and start on this blog.