Pitching up: Chelsia in her tent at homeTent pitched on Persian rug, decamped, pitched, decamped - got it down to 7 minutes flat now and the sitting room doesn't seem too much the worse for wear. No holes, all zips locking well. Rucksack sorted out. New boots walked in (or should I take the old ones for good luck?). Armful of tetanus, hepatitis, diphtheria, typhoid, polio; antimalarials packed; currency sorted (5 types), driver's licence stored (2 types) and passport, valid (only 1 type?)
Lists everywhere: at bedtime: legs - 2, in working order; arms - 2, still attached to shoulders (just); head - 1, bulging precariously on top of neck. Sleep? Now where was that mislaid?
If it wasn't for all these lastminute ends to tie up, I'd be ready, but why is there always just one more thing to do?
Never mind, Monday will soon be here, and when I'm safely cocooned in that tin box, cruising at 30,000 feet through the clouds, there won't be a thing I can do about the "I should'ves ..." Roll on Monday, and strange places, and new people, and peace.
And after a scenic trip up the Norwegian coast, civilisation will thin and the wild slowly creep in, and there it will be - my wilderness!
