I really shouldn't be here. I should be packing. Laying out our things on the bed, counting the days per outfit, selecting those useful 'go with everything' items the glossy magazines tell you about. I will never be the person to leave the country armed only with a passport, bikini, sarong and a lip gloss. Every possible scenario is thought of and then multiplied. What if it snows? What if my son has a nosebleed before breakfast? What if there isn't a shop for thirty miles? The bag is almost packed two days before, comfortably full, and then crammed with last minute items 'just in case.' Then disaster strikes. The case is too small for my son's cricket bat (a must-take item). Once I've retrieved the larger suitcase from the loft, the extra space allows for so many more packing opportunities.
I shall be glad when we finally leave the house (after brief paranoia about security, central heating and the contents of the fridge). Until then, my suitcase sits and nags.
So, as I said, I really shouldn't be here at all. Instead, I shall go and compile my holiday reading list.
And leave the packing until tomorrow.