Muddle

I have managed to work myself up into a complete state of confused worry about going on holiday.

There is no longer a surface in the house which is not completely littered with Things I Must Not Forget To Pack.

I have got so many lists in so many places I have lost half of them and am considering making a list of lists.

I have packed and re packed our passports so many times that I can’t now remember exactly what I decided to do with them in the end, in other words, I have lost them.

I have got a pile of things to go in the camper van, and some overnight bags for the boats, and some things which have got to be kept tidy for our trip to Disneyland, and some smart clothes for if we go somewhere where we have got to change for dinner, and some smart shoes for ditto, and some ordinary shoes for walking about in, and some spare shoes in case it rains and we get wet, and some flip flops for if the sun shines, and our smart swimming costumes and towels for if we go for a swim in a swimming pool, and our scruffy swimming costumes and towels in case we go in the sea, and some emergency clothes in case we get mud on our clothes, and some emergency smart clothes in case we spill wine on our smart clothes, and our raincoats for in case it rains and our ordinary coats for in case it doesn’t, and our body warmers for in case it is too nice for coats but not nice enough for nothing, and my head is going round and round and round and round and now I am in an advanced stage of muddled cluelessness and also can’t get past the massive teetering stack of things by the back door.

I was in such a state by the middle of the afternoon that it was an actual relief when the man phoned from the insurance company to talk about policy renewal, and I could sit down and talk about something easy to remember, like engine size and no claims bonus.

Lucy’s grandparents came and whisked her away with them, and I remembered when they went that I needed to go to the library in order that I would have holiday reading, so I had a pleasant half an hour ambling up and down the shelves and reading the local newspaper and chatting to the librarian, and when I got back I put my library books somewhere to be packed and then couldn’t find them again when I wanted a book to take to work.

I can hardly bear to talk to Mark either. This is because I know perfectly well that he is not at all putting craftsmanlike polishing finishing touches to the camper van ready to go, and that actually it is still in an awful lot of bits.

This is why everything is piled up around the living room, because until the camper van has got all of its walls and a door it is probably not a good idea to fill it with quilts and clean towels.

Mark is completely untroubled by this and is nodding and making absent minded reassuring noises every time I ask him how long it will take until he has finished.

Actually I don’t need to ask this, and know that I am only upsetting myself when I do. I know with absolute assurance that the answer is: ‘until about ten minutes before we go’ – which incidentally is going to have to be Wednesday night not Thursday because of getting Oliver from school at lunchtime and we can’t get there fast enough unless we set off around the middle of the night – because that is the way he always times his camper van repair projects.

I am trying very hard to be sweet natured and patient and gentle and accepting of the will of the fates, but I am making a hopeless pig’s ear of this and actually cross and twitchy and obsessive would be a better description of my spiritual self at the moment.

It will all be all right once we have actually set off. In another couple of days we will be packed and sorted out and everything will be fine.

Probably.