At the End of the Canal

Apart from my compulsion to clean and wash everything in sight before a holiday, I also feel the need to start packing a few days before the departure date.

I pack and repack; it is the process that counts, it's almost like creating a work of art.

I pack and then repack when I discover that the bag or case won't shut.
I pack enough for summer weather, for winter weather and for in-between weather; I pack for sporty pursuits; I pack for dressy does even though I know in my soul there is no way we'll be gracing any; I pack for rain; I pack everything indiscriminately, while knowing that it isn't a desert island we're off to and there are shops where things forgotten can be bought.

I pack computers, cameras, chargers, knitting, books and maps. However carefully I pack and repack, there will probably be something vital that I've overlooked.

His Lordship on the other hand prefers to leave it, as he thinks sensibly, to the day before, and while he also packs too much, he packs only once, and there will be without a shadow of a doubt something vital he's forgotten, because he's not practised in the process and art of packing and repacking over several days.

I was happy to interrupt my packing process this morning to have a leisurely coffee with a cycling friend in the erstwhile rest home of the dead at the end of the canal.

This colourful house boat moored nearby is, I am reliably informed, the home of a very alive artist.

I'm off now for my holiday hair shearing. I'm reminded of my mother's phrase that if the worst happens, I will look like a pudding coming out of a cloth.
She wasn't one for mincing her words.