To anyone who read my column two weeks ago, thank you for talking me into that holiday!
I can’t justify it but am nonetheless buzzing to fly to Lanzarote tomorrow.
Don’t worry, we’ll all pay for it in instalments as I write about my summer of belt tightening, walking to work and home-brewing gin on a shoestring.
But back to the holiday, and specifically, packing. I have a problem with packing, in that, however excited I might be to go somewhere, I can’t bring myself to pack until five minutes before I have to leave.
I’m pretty sure it’s a syndrome. I think it’s called ultra-pressurised-post-procrastination-panic-packing – it’s an acute form of last minute-ism, and it drives everyone I travel with mad, myself, included.
But for some reason I just can’t make those kinds of decisions (which pants? Which tops? Bikini or one-piece or both?) without the gun of time cocked and pointing at my head.
My bags do always get packed in time – and at lightning speed. You could mistake this for a talent if I ever actually packed what I needed.
Sometimes I do by accident and am pleased with myself for not wasting time humming and hawing about what to bring for a three-day trip to Blackpool, for instance – where I went last weekend. But this was patently a fluke, and/or because I’d flung in five times as much stuff as I needed. But at least I wasn’t lacking any essentials. Going on pants alone, I could have stayed for a fortnight without washing a load.
Usually, I’m not so fluky. In fact, one Christmas, I chanced on the other extreme when I got up to my parents’ house in Stonehaven, this time to stay for an actual fortnight, and discovered, in my ultra-hastily packed case, that I had neglected to put in any pants at all.
I was completely pant-less, on Christmas Eve, with no way of getting to M&S or any other emergency underwear outlet until at least Boxing Day.
I’m not saying I was happy to borrow my Mum’s pants for Christmas. I was unhappy for the first three days. It felt weird and (sorry Mum), somewhat baggy. But by day four I was happier to wear my mum’s pants than suffer the shops on Boxing Day. And to be perfectly honest, once I got used to the ‘looser fit’, they became even comfier than my own pants. In fact, occasionally I still wear one or two pairs I accidentally packed into my case at lightning speed when I came back home.
Just this week, I have twice neglected to pack my phone and laptop chargers moving between Glasgow and Edinburgh – causing losing-a-limb level panic in both cities.
I arrived to stay overnight in Edinburgh with two pairs of trainers stuffed into a rucksack and zero socks. I also came within seconds of forgetting to pack my hairbrush, which, if you’ve ever seen my bedhead or post-shower hair, you’ll know is disastrous. If you electrocuted Einstein, he’d be less in need of a hairbrush.
So, to avoid disaster when I pack five minutes before leaving for Lanzarote tomorrow, I’ve prepared a bare-essentials mantra: ‘passport, phone, charger, adaptor, pants, bikini, hairbrush, book’. And if I can find all that in five minutes, I’ll be laughing.