I have a list. My list has a list. Greater lists have little lists upon their backs to bite them.
It's like the first few times Chris and I went on holiday together, when we were still new to this being grown-up business, and it took three weeks to plan for every holiday and six weeks to recover from it. These days we have a routine, and it takes a couple of evenings. This year I found myself pondering what clothes to take for a week in Britain during what is alleged to be summer, and decided just to pack the same as last year. It worked. I know what I need for trains and boats and multiples thereof, I know what and what not to expect from self-catering cottages in picturesque surroundings.
But I haven't done planes (boiled sweets for take-offs and landings)(got) before, nor a country so disinclined to allow visitors in (is passport machine-readable?)(yes). I've decanted my liquids (is lipstick a liquid?)(opinions vary - put it in liquid bag to be safe)(get mini-mascara)(done). I have debated what the epitome of English tea-toweldom would be (you'll see). I have selected a Very Fat novel (can I knit on a plane?)(yes - but Heathrow won't allow knitting needles through, so no)(fortunately, I do do other things). I have reminded Chris to pack his musical goat for Dorset (don't ask. Really, don't ask). I have pondered the existence of airline food (whether we'll get any, and whether it will be anything recognisable as food) and gone to the supermarket (Marmite breadsticks, cereal bars). I have reduced myself to two pairs of shoes (paint toe-nails)(done but still drying, and the toe-separators are giving me cramp). I have taken five minutes to despair of the Church of England, and wonder whether I could become a distance-Episcopalian (since part of the problem is cross-border incursions, I don't think it would help). It will all work out in the end. Just give me another cup of coffee, I need to wind down.