I am supposed to be packing. I'm not. I'm procrastinating. This also begins with "p", but achieves a lot less in a relatively similar period of time.
I hate packing. I mean, no-one likes it, but my last job involved living out of a suitcase (not literally. That would make me a mime artist), so I'm naturally wary when I have to pack. And so I put it off. And put it off. And finally end up throwing into a suitcase a whole load of clothes that don't go together and which I haven't tried on for a year. This is why I am wearing all of Erica's clothes in the Kenya photos - mine just didn't fit. Not that I'm wearing all of Erica's clothes. This would have left me rather on the warm side, and her rather naked. It wasn't that sort of holiday. Well, not really. Though I do have one compromising photo of her. I will trot it out on her wedding day. Or other appropriate family gathering.
I hate packing. But packing I must do. I always forget something. It's usually pyjamas. I always forget pyjamas. Or my toothbrush. Never anything vital (yet) like my passport... usually just irritating enough to cause one of those, "Oh bugger" moments.
I have tried making lists. In my youth I had extensive, colour-coded lists that itemised objects and clothes in a three-layered suitcase system. Then I got a life. Well, not really, but I did pay a visit or two to Ann Summers. Basically I don't do the list system anymore. I do the "chuck it all in and hope for the best". This is how I ended up going round the world with seven pairs of trousers and only three tops. And a woolly jumper. Quick note for anyone planning on Fiji in February... the woolly jumper wasn't that useful.
So I am packing. Well, I'm not. I am writing my Plog. And then I shall probably watch Ugly Betty and tomorrow I shall probably re-tidy my already tidy flat and maybe go for a walk. And on Monday morning, three hours before my flight leaves, you'll hear a squawk from Heathrow Terminal 4.... "Oh bugger, I've forgotten my pyjamas."