Packing

I feel like a distraught heroine, falsely accused of cheating on her marriage and spitting on her mother in law by the love of her life, as I sweep through my wardrobe, emotionally yanking down a handful of wispy fabrics and piling them into my little bag. I pause, my dignity somewhat ruffled. I should have a suitcase. One that snaps shut. But I am a woman of the 21st century, so I shrug it off and count off the number of days. Seven. How fortuitous. I survey the colourful selection strewn over the bed... Eight. In as many minutes, I'm done. Dresses, bikinis, hide from colour changing cover-ups, fetching slippers. Oh. Hat. I wonder if the Hungarian will decline to recognise me at the airport if I exit with my floppy sunhat atop my freakishly small head. Hmmmm....

I've left a back up dress at work for when I come back next Thursday morning. Overkill? Naah. My heroines always have enough for a song dream sequence number. All that's left is the boring stuff. Now, or later? This naturally is pure rhetoric. I'll be demoted at Club Procrastination if I even contemplate working on Pila in Poland or Africa till I've done everything else imaginable. That might even include putting away the laundry. No, it's time to say good bye to Cala. Or maybe that can wait till after I've dealt with the tendrils of renewed hunger tugging at my wily nily, demanding attention. I should prioritise. There is no better muse than rolling dark hand made chocolate around your tongue, body heat beating it into submission. Mmmmmm. Sunblock. See, just the thought is inspirational. Oh! Check in. I can do that. Passport. Fetch. Toothbrush. Too much work. Food. Now.