Excess Baggage

“Can I play badminton Thursday night?” asked Accountant.
“We’ve got to pack for holiday”
“We can do that Friday morning”
“We’re leaving at 9.30am”
“That’s loads of time!”

And there you have it. The brief exchange that highlights, simply yet brilliantly, the vast preparatory chasm that separates the male holidaymaker from the female.

The calendar declares in bright, red capitals, that Thursday is, “PACKING DAY”. 16 hours dedicated to hand selecting, re-selecting, whittling, re-whittling, painstakingly folding then layering meticulously in order of thread count, the perfect holiday wardrobe.

Consideration is shared equally amongst four core categories:

Weather:

For sunny days, madam will require the ½ length, cobbled thigh concealing, black linen trouser. For brisker days, the ¾ length and for anything cooler, full length is essential to avoid one’s leg hair bristling in the breeze. Bottom size is, of course, a major factor and all trousers selected must comply with my ‘Wide Load Code’ for 2007.

Leakages

As I spend my days attached to a wee beastie, prone to blowing his nose on my trousers and spitting fruit particles deemed an unsatisfactory texture into my hair for that ‘just slept in a skip’ look, a wipeable pvc catsuit with tummy control panel would be the most practical of uniforms. That said, it’s an unforgiving fabric more suited to glue making than mummywear, and likely to make the woman who turns up to playgroup vacpacked into one the subject of much malted milk biscuit flavoured speculation, washed down with a beaker of squash.

Body Mass Index

Short sleeved shirts for hot, flump shaped days. Jumpers for chilly, bloated days. Lycra and Imodium for those uncomfortable, yet slimming, irritable exploding bottom days.

Once all fifteen pairs of black linen trousers of assorted length are folded and organised according to the five day weather forecast, they can be placed in their pre-allocated positions as per the ‘master suitcase diagram’.

Chickie

A heading unto itself and the reason we considered hiring a lorry for the trip. Chickie was barely visible by the time the car was packed. A small, yet vocal, passenger wedged between three suitcases, a mattress, a cot top changer, a fire truck and three bottles of lactulose.