I love holidays. And when you live on a tiny island in the North Sea, it doesn’t take a long haul flight to declare it a holiday. Tomorrow I’m flying to Aberdeen with the Silver Clan, for a long weekend in Peterhead.
Now, not only will be watching my very best friend marry her very best friend, I will also be seeing my wonderful sister. So a time of immense celebration is ahead. However, a time of considerable packing comes first. And if there is one thing in this world that I hate as much as I suck at it…it’s packing.
When I was and “I”, not a “we” I would happily gather the items that needed packed loosely in and around a suitcase until the day before I went. The suitcase would reside is some spare corner of my house and it would take a bit of a reshuffle, but it would eventually fit. I would always feel I’d forgotten something, even though I’d taken far too much. And even though I found it all quite easy, I hated it all the same.
On my return from whichever tropical place I’d been (sometimes as exotic as Edinburgh or Glasgow), I’d unpack immediately. All dirty clothes would go straight into the washing machine, and would be ready to go on the airer by the time I’d unpacked the rest and had a nice cup of tea. Then I was free to update my Facebook status to alert everyone that this traveller had returned.
Obviously, I’d cleaned the house from top to bottom and changed the bed before I left. The fridge would be emptied of perishables and wiped down. The black bags were taken out and the microwave scrubbed. Because who would want to come back to a dirty house? Not me. I would return to a gleaming home, feeling relaxed and revived.
Well fuck you, Past Me. You are a total twat. You live in a stupid, clean and tidy house devoid of character and lacking in dust. And I am totally not jealous in the slightest.
Current Me is on the couch under a snotty, teething, sweaty, snoozing child. I am still in my pyjamas. Lunch was a bowl of microwave rice, reheated on a dubious looking turntable, surrounded by splashes of red stuff. I don’t know what the red stuff is, but I can safely assume it’s whatever I last emptied out of a tin and fed our precious Minecraft Addict the last time I couldn’t be arsed to argue over home cooked food.
My current fridge contains 82% food that is past its sell by date, 3% cheese slices, 5% kids yoghurt, 2% milk that requires the sniff test and 8% half filled jars of sauces. 99% of the jars will have at least one blob of mould in them.
The reason the fridge is a scientific research facility is most likely down to the bin I haven’t emptied. And once I do empty it, I won’t want to fill it with off food, will I? And there’s no sense in removing off food from the fridge until it has a final destination…because then it would be a real life actual problem. Instead of one which is frozen in time behind the fridge door.
As for the beds…well…Daddio changed them the other day. Because he’s awesome. And because the Tiny Tyrant had shat all over the duvet cover.
I’ve spent all morning trying to pack. I am no longer stressing over which shoes match which going out outfit. Oh christ no, I’m worried about how many extra items of clothes will be needed due to the expulsion of some bodily fluid. (And by that I’m talking baby snot/spew/poo/wee…. or maybe a boob leak if I’m really lucky.)
I’m driving Daddio mad asking how many nappies we will need and if he has enough socks. I’m also being the stroppiest cow possible because I’m stressed and really just want a nap. But as soon as I have a spare moment, I really need to dye my hair or find a travel shampoo.
I need to keep sight of what matters. My dear girl is getting hitched. And not only that, she’s arranged the wedding whilst raising her 8 year old and caring for her baby twins. She’s an absolute legend. And I have no earthly idea how she does it.
So if that Tiny Lady can do all that, I can probably pack our suitcase. I can probably even get a grip, apologise to Daddio and ask for some help. And you never know, I might even empty that fridge before we leave…