I am not sure where today has gone. This morning at 7 my alarm went off and believe me, it was not a welcome interruption. Packing had taken me until half past one the night before and I succeeded only with the benefit of some advice from my sister - to vac pack my clothes. This amazing and lifesaving (yes, really) invention - just a plastic envelope and a vacuum cleaner hose - stood between me and a minor case of insanity. Picture this if you will. Me, a very large pile of clothes (for which I may be forgiven) a small suitcase and a very large tantrum. It was not a pretty sight. Having wrestled with it for well over an hour I needed to at least go to bed knowing I could get stuff in and more important, get the damn case shut. Which I did ..... eventually. So, as I said, the alarm going off at 7am dragged me kicking and screaming out of subconcious and into the realisation that I was going on holiday in 24 hours and I still had so... much..... to.... do.
So, I chained myself to my desk (now, no getting any ideas) and worked my way diligently and with a certain amount of panic through the remaining items on my 'to do' list. My frenzy fueled by the fact that I had an important date at 1 o'clock with my beautician. There are just some things a girl has to have done before she goes on holiday and today was the day to be pummelled, plucked and steamed all in the name of beauty and it could not be missed. I redoubled my efforts.
Now, it's an interesting fact that you come out of a beauty salon looking worse than when you go in. A bit counter intuitive but true. All those essential oils and creams they smear liberally over parts of your body in an effort to fight the onset of age somehow manage to not only do the job they are supposed to do but seep into, and coat bits you really wish they didn't. For example, having a facial usually results in me looking like I've washed my hair in used chip fat. After having my legs waxed it looks like I've just taken a stroll through a field of poison ivy (don't even go there with the bikini line wax). and having your nails done means you go around for an hour afterwards having to pick things up with your elbows. A tip for life girls - never, I mean NEVER agree to meet your man after a bout at the beauty parlour. Instead, you should skulk out, preferably via the rear entrance, wearing a broad rimmed hat and sunglasses. Beauty parlours are a girl's best friend, but only eventually.
Back home (isn't writing a dream? One minute I can be skulking out of a shop unit in Peterborough and the next, in the strike of a pen I am back at home having a cup of tea and admiring my toenails) I take stock of the final few things to be done and check my messages from Gap Year for Grownups to make sure there are no last minute hitches. Air Namibia is still in business and my seat is booked. I start to feel a strange sensation of weighlessness as the stress and pressure starts to lift away from me and I remind myself that in 24 hours I'll be at the airport. Crazily I have agreed to meet a friend for dinner (why do I do these things? At 45 you think I'd remember that there are only 24 hours in a day. God, I wasn't that dumb at school. Please, no comments from school friends or ex-teachers on this particular point please) and that means I have a trip to Stamford to do. But, heck, the poison ivy rash has receded, the chip fat has given my hair a wonderful glossy finish (if not a particularly alluring smell) and my eyebrow tint deserves an outing. So off I pootled.
More tomorrow. NA minus 12 hours. Yikes.