Well, it’s that time of year again — when Mr Thomas and I brave the depravity of economy class, spending twenty-four hours in cramped conditions in order to get ourselves over to the UK.
To say that I’m frazzled by our preparations (packing, cleaning the house, organising enough food for Penelope and Martini so they might, just might, not notice our absence, paying bills etc, etc) is an understatement. Next year, I’m sure, Mr Thomas will invest in some Valium, dosing my morning coffee every day of the final week before we go.
Mr Thomas thinks I actually enjoy the holiday preparation process. But just because I create a ‘holiday’ file in my Filofax, write To Do lists which are colour coded as well as colour coding my diary so we know where we will be for each day of our trip, does not mean I enjoy it.
I’m one of those people (and I know there are a lot of us out there) that like the organising aspect of things. I like the lists, the To Do lists, the different coloured Post It’s combined with the different coloured hi-lighters and pens. I love all that shit. I love it so much that I become a little obsessive. You should see our calendar at home. It’s a work of art. And my Post It’s are my life. I’ve a secret stash of them. Mr Thomas does not know where they are kept. He’s not allowed to touch them, anyway. If he needs a Post It, for whatever purpose (and goodness knows why he ever needs them as I’m the one that does all of the organising) then he has to request a Post It from me. A single sheet is handed over with great ceremony, the words, ‘use it wisely,’ are often used. So yes, yes, I love all that shit. It’s putting things into practice that I’m hopeless at.
I should be fine, though. There’s not a lot left to do (yes there is!) and at the end of the day if it’s not done, it’s not done. I can’t get stressed over the fact that I’ve only packed ten black tops or I only have enough underwear for the entire length of our trip, but no more. Sometimes you just need to say fuck it, and get on with things.
If I do listen to my own advice and we actually make it on the plane without me being in a straight jacket (you think I’m joking) I have high hopes of sharing my trip with you. Mostly it’ll be off-the-cuff stuff. I’ll take a picture and post it to Instagram. It’ll be something random like a tree I find particularly inspiring. Or a shade of green you just don’t get in Australia. Or, I may continue with last year’s theme of comparing the colour of people’s tans to my handbag collection. This was frowned upon last year, so I may not be doing it again. Let me stress – I was not at all being racist in any of these posts. I just find it unbelievable that British folk are willing to bake in the sun until they are the colour of my brown Coach handbag. There is also a part of me that believes, as an informed Australian who has been warned of the dangers of sun exposure throughout her whole life and is therefore a lovely pasty white colour as a result, that I should use my time in Britain to inform others. For example – if your skin begins to take on the appearance of LEATHER, you have seen too much sun.
So if this kind of thing tickles your fancy, you can follow our trip through the following social media sites:
I look forward to having you on board. Apologies in advance for one too many photographs of English countryside, small villages, and the inside of Marks & Spencer.