Packing

Two hundred and twenty-four party dresses. Six million pairs of stilletos and three pairs of flip flops. An over-sized hat and two small bikinis made of string and brightly-coloured triangles.

Lots of suncream.

Passport.

We are going on holiday tomorrow morning. Holiday! Tomorrow! Morning! Our flight leaves at just before six tomorrow morning, and tonight we're having celebration drinks to make the getting-up-in-the-grim-dark experience even more joyful.

Last night was filled with pink Champagne for no reason and lots of ironing. All my clothes are laid out carefully, ready to be rolled and squashed into a suitcase until they are dusted off again at the other end and re-ironed.

We are going here.

(Now would be a really bad time to develop a Portuguese stalker.)

Ten days stretch luxuriously out in front of me. Ten glorious days of sun and surfing, of getting up late and hanging out with friends all day. Of no temping, of no Luton. Of gin and tonics and barbeques and no grey drizzle misting up the gloomy early morning train. No filing, and therefore considerably fewer papercuts. Just sunstreaming, sticky suncream and sand in between the pages of my book.

Just holiday.

When I get back I am going to see this lady at Shepherds Bush Empire, and then on to this festival the following day, so the fun will maintain momentum for a while.

Have fun while I'm away. My freckles and I will see you when I get back.

Tomorrow!