‘Two days!’ said the sensible, yet irritating voice inside
my head, ‘you’re going for only two days!’
Well yes, I know, but … well, I don’t get away much.
I am not one of those seasoned travellers, who are able to chuck
any old thing in a bag at the last minute and arrive at their destination
relaxed, looking fabulous and, having spent all of five minutes packing, are
completely confident that the chosen attire in their bag is utterly fit for
purpose.
No. That’s not
me. Such a degree of slick is the stuff
of dreams. Sadly, my recent two-day trip
to Newcastle to see Mel and Derek merely underlined the limitless ineptitude
that is my lot.
The expedition’s itinerary was established well in
advance. Obviously the less-
than-two-hour journey had to be planned with regimental precision and provision
made for being seen in the city of Newcastle in possibly up to three public
places in order to partake of a spot of lunch and the odd glass or two. There had been mention of a stroll on day two
to view what would soon be Mel and Derek’s new home, prior to partaking of yet
another spot of lunch and quite possibly the odd glass or two.
Much to do!
And how does one dress for a programme packed with such
potential?
Now, unlike most women I don’t have a lot of clothes. My wardrobe consists of either pyjamas or
posh frocks, with very little in-between.
The little in-between is usually hidden beneath my bag-lady coat, which
I don when I walk the dog. These garments really shouldn’t be exposed and would
certainly not be accompanying me to Newcastle.
With only weeks to spare, the steady stream of parcels containing
‘fit-to-be-seen-in-public gear’ started arriving daily.
-
Only to be
returned the very next day.
Panic buying started when a mere measly week was all that
remained prior to the launch of this mission.
Tops that went with absolutely nothing were snapped up. Trousers that were six inches too long, or
two inches too short somehow came home with me.
Three pairs of flat boots
(remember there was to be a ‘stroll’) of varying colours to partner the tops
that went with nothing and the ill-fitting trousers nudged their way into my
wardrobe.
At forty-eight-hours before lift off, I hit the ‘next day delivery’ button and an
avalanche of uncomfortable but will-have-to-bloody-do jeans hit the
doorstep. I hate jeans – they hurt.
Offering up a ‘please don’t be too cold’ prayer, I purchased
a snazzy-looking suede jacket and also a scarf, in case the prayer didn’t work.
And so, to packing …
Faced with the jumbled morass of pitiful purchases that now
littered my bed, I begged for help from my sister Paula, whose talents, when it
comes to sorting, folding and packing, are unequalled.
The PJs jumped in the bag with that self-confident air
assumed only by those who know they are the beloved favourite. And then, well, it got a little tricky.
‘Should I pack some choices of outfits? You know, just in case?’
‘Absolutely not!’ yelled Paula. ‘All you do is take your indecisiveness with
you and you spend the next couple of days agonising over what to wear.’
Good advice.
The three pairs of flats, most of the tops and all of the
trousers never made it to the bag. A
very old pair of jeans, some ‘comfy’ old trousers and a nearly new jacket
did. The only shoes that made it were
agonisingly high and so that stroll would have to be in the car.
When Paula had left I unpacked and repacked, and even had
the stuff that belongs in the ‘little-in-between’ category out of the wardrobe
at some stage.
Finally, after many hours, I finally put a stop to this
ludicrous, self-inflicted torture and vowed to change my ways. I will throw out all the rubbish from my
wardrobe and replace it with items that fit, match, don’t hurt, look good and
like to travel.
And with a four-day trip to Becky’s in July already in the
diary I had better get a move on!
Time to start packing!
