For the first time in my life, at the age of 44 and 360/365ths, I'm going on holiday on my own.
It feels weird and a bit scary. Unusual. Nobody wrote a song called 'I'm all going on a summer holiday.' (In fact, has anybody written a song about going on holiday alone?) My Paramour asked me how I was feeling about it, a couple of days ago, and I said that doing some parts of the preparation on my own made me feel really lonely. 'Still, it's good practice for when you're dead,' I told him. The look on his face was priceless.
It also feels exciting. Isn't it odd how excitement and apprehension are such similar feelings? I was lying in the bath this morning reading Jonny Bealby's Running Down The Moon (fabulous book, no idea why I haven't come across it before) and feeling silly for feeling scared. He travelled the length of Africa on a motorbike by himself. I'm only going to Devon, for heaven's sake - if I don't like it, I can be home in a few hours.
But in fact, I think I'll have a good time. I've packed the shorts of optimism as well as the mackintosh of prudence (she said I could borrow it) and the underwear of necessity, and about 10 pairs of shoes and boots, my laptop, a carrier bag full of books, my camera, I could go on and on, the car boot is full, the only thing I left out was the kitchen sink. And the cats, boo hoo snivel, I'm going to miss the cats. And my Paramour...
I don't know whether I'll be able to blog. There's no Internet access in the flat where I'm staying, I may be able to hop on a public computer somewhere but there are no guarantees. I'll be home in a couple of weeks so normal service, or at least what passes for normal around here, will be resumed around then. Have fun, y'all!