Reach for the duvet

[Yes, this is two days old.]
I am writing this as I sit on the 747 to Buenos Aires. This is what it can be like rocking on a cocktail of anxiety and euphoria, forty-eight hours before making a dream come true. An endless loop of reaching for the sky and reaching for the duvet. I booked the ticket a month ago, so I've had plenty of time to prepare my head and to paper pack my non-existent bags. I imagined the real packing wouldn't need to be done until the eve of travel, so left buying them till a few days ago, when I spotted a set of matching luggage for just £40 at Poundstretcher, (the Harvey Nicks of the incorrigibly thrifty.) I didn't notice the cunningly-worded small print on the seductive three year guarantee till I got home, but hell, at times you've just got to suffer what there is to suffer. I invited my sister over to help me pack as she is not terminally whimsical. Naturally she stood there tutting and all vainly sighing as I protested, “Yes, I do need to pack the hole-punch – I couldn't possibly live without one, nor without double-sided sticky tape, nor Columbian coffee.” I managed not only to use up the extraordinarily generous 46 Kg allowance for checked-in baggage, but also to go over by one Kg on each bag.

Later that evening, I had an instinct to double-check the baggage allowance. What if I had misread the information and the 46 Kg applied only to Business Class and I hadn't noticed? If I arrived on the day at the Alitalia check-in desk to find the allowance was in fact 20 Kg, I'd have rather a generous portion of egg on my face. We checked the Alitalia website and guess what? The allowance was 20 Kg for all economy flights other than flights to the US and Canada. But what about my sister's packing? It's an art form! Mortified, I phoned the Alitalia contact number to raise my concerns with a rep, who answered soothingly, “Don't-a worry. Is not a problem-a. For Buenos Aires, two bags-a 23 kilos is fine-a.” I could have kissed her. Still, the fact remained that I was still overweight and stubbornly refusing to jettison a single item. I think I hoped the check-in staff would turn a blind eye to the extra weight or accept a sob story about dodgy weighing scales and false readings. There was also the worry that the stitching on my budget luggage might not be able to cope with all my crucially important belongings straining to get out. I could always have the bags swathed in polythene. John Burningham's “Would you rather...?” came to mind. If they did turn a blind eye, there was the prospect risking a Tracy Emin - over the apron of Ezeiza airport. If, on the other hand, I got them wrapped, I would have no choice but to pay for excess baggage because it would then be too late to shovel the sh** into a backpack, which my girls could then take home. Such are the preoccupations of my vacant mind. It was all right in the end. The bags went through and nothing burst. But we did have to turn back on the way to board the Piccadilly line at King's Cross, when I suddenly realised I'd left my mobile at home, on the chest of drawers. Then at Heathrow, as I headed for Gate 28, a phone went off in my hand bag, a phone with an unfamiliar ring tone. Isn't life eventful? Clearly one of my daughters had put it there and forgotten to retrieve it. Anyway, I managed to sprint back to Security, return the phone and catch my plane.

Later: I'm back. We're just flying over Casablanca, having eaten a very acceptable dinner. “Pasta o carne?” I chose carne. Although it was more well-done than I'd have chosen, it was beautifully tender. I think it's a miracle how they manage to feed the five hundred all at the same time to the standard they do and have no time for sybaritic snobs who pooh-pooh airline nosh.

With so much trivia to occupy me, I didn't really get to use the last few days to reflect on my life to date or to set any goals. I feel an existential crisis looming, so I think I'll just reach for the duvet, or rather, the Alitalia stripey, blue rug, even if the colour doesn't really suit me. Goodnight!
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