There is something so exciting about asking Father Dearest to get my suitcase down from the attic. I get a rush, a pang, a burst of adrenalin knowing that I’ve to pack before I jet-set to somewhere exotic.
In case you’ve not caught on from previous entries, I’m a bit of a saddo. I like packing: I like raking through my clothes pulling items out for the ‘yes’ and ‘maybe’ pile, then neatly rolling my tops (for minimal creasing), folding my knickers and stuffing shoes, electricals and bottles of wine down the sides. Afterwards I look down at my ‘good work’ with a sense of pride, grading myself with an A* for effort, artistic ability and time management.
The initial enthusiasm I got from packing has long gone though, for the last five days I’ve been living out of a suitcase. My grey ‘holdall’ does not ‘hold-all’ it seem. Despite my best efforts, I have failed at maintaining the tidy environment I created last week.
It started off well. I even laid out my travel outfit on the top of my case which was filled with wardrobe gems like my favourite beaded cardigan, shoe boots and my lucky pants. I ruined it all after a drunken scavenger hunt for my pyjamas on the first night though: the suitcase lost all of its original dignity and let it all hang out thereafter. Gutted.com
Right now I’m back home for a day to wash, iron and re-pack my clothes before I live it all again for anther five days. Hangers, how I’ve missed you.