Aaah, the joyous month of July – traditionally holiday time. That much anticipated week or so away, leaving all cares, duty and domesticity behind.
How I dread it. Not the holiday itself, but the preparation for it. According to a recent survey, one of the chief dilemmas facing the prospective traveller is deciding what to take when going away. As a professional ditherer in the art (or is it science?) of holiday packing, I know whereof I speak – and draconian sanctions on size and weight of aircraft baggage are an additional irritant. Not to mention those miserable little plastic bags for ‘liquid, creams and pastes’ with nothing exceeding 100mls or they take it off you. As for ‘airline approved’ clear plastic bottles you can decant cosmetics into, I once stood for 40 minutes while they tested my cleanser, skin tonic and moisturiser for illegal substances.
Whether it be a week or a weekend, I do not willingly travel light. One of fashion’s great myths is the concept of ‘the capsule wardrobe’. I couldn’t even fit my face into one of those foot-square cabin cases they permit in overhead lockers. Besides, you’ve got to squidge your handbag into it as well.
Over the years I’ve evolved a fail safe packing system. It’s time-consuming but effective. I fling a dust sheet over the spare bed and lay out garments in four categories, viz. Absolute Necessities, Definitelys, Possiblys and What Ifs, (as in “what if it’s hot/cold/wet?”) Lack of space may well mean utilising a second spare bed for jewellery, cosmetics, shoes and handbags. This was a source of some exasperation to the late Loving Spouse, who’d survey the pyramids of stuff and observe drily: “If you’re emigrating can I suggest you just run a rope round your wardrobe and drag it behind you?” Then off he’d go to do his own packing, always accomplished in record time with no fuss and the case standing in the hall ready to go. Soon, I’d dispatch him on some manufactured errand and, in his absence, replace his disastrous mis-matches with nicely co-ordinating items and things I knew he’d forgotten, before restoring the case to its place.
Arriving at our destination, out of the side of my eye, I’d watch him unpack and wait for a comment that never came. One of the secrets of a happy marriage is both partners knowing when to say nothing. But that’s by-the-by.
The irony is, most of what we lugged around European and British capitals came home unworn. Still, it’s always wise to have an alternative (or three.) Were I to set off as some people do, in a single pair of jeans and two tee-shirts, Sod’s Law would guarantee the screaming baby in the neighbouring seat would be sick on my shoulder, or sudden air turbulence would upset my glass of red wine in my lap.
Oh for the gracious days when people dressed up to travel and there were porters, manned ticket booths and courteous staff to reassure and inform the confused. Now a machine is making us tag our own suitcases.
Airports and railway stations are milling cattle markets with never enough seats and nobody to ask. Our eyes glued to a screen, ‘GATE OPEN’ triggers a rush like Gadarene swine to the departure lounge to queue for half an hour, (though seats are already allocated,) and another twenty minutes on concrete stairs while they re-fuel the plane. That extra tenner for ‘priority boarding’ guarantees you nothing but getting your bag into an overhead locker first – if you can get it up there. Travelling alone now, like Blanche du Bois, I rely on the kindness of strangers. I focus on the nearest nice-looking young man, preferably on the muscular side, (tattoos optional) and say, “I wonder if you’d be so good…?” Ditto at the baggage carousel where my bigger case revolves forlornly. It works every time.
I, and others of my ilk may be spotted at any airport or station, trundling a laden trolley. Like Mother Courage and her cart crossing the Russian steppes – heat, cold, rain or shine, I am fully accoutred.
