I’m going away for the weekend. It’s not a long weekend, just two nights. It isn’t far, just in Wales, so why can’t I cure myself of the habit of packing as if I were going to Antananarivo for six months? Though I know perfectly well that I can do without almost any of the items I packed, still a nagging voice says, ‘But what if you go hiking?’ That’s ok, I say, I’ve got my walking boots in the car. ‘But what if there’s a party, or a formal dinner or what if all your clothes get wet or destroyed in a fire? What if it’s really hot and you feel like wearing a dress? So I end up packing for just about every eventuality though I know full well that all I’m going to do is visit my sister, go to her ordination and then to the pub. The most adventurous thing I’m likely to do is take the dogs for a walk. Yet the thought of being caught out without the appropriate clothing trumps all of this.
Sigh.
See you on the other side.
Kirk out
Sarada Gray 