It's going to be a long two hours down to Portsmouth for the driver. As we calmly and elegantly slid into the excellently packed Contrary Clio, I announced that I had tummy ache. Rather concerned, she enquired if I was ok. Concern then turned into hysterics when I clarified the nature of my tummy turbulence. Yes. We are setting off on our 2000 mile trip with a burst of old fashioned windy-pops.
Still. I'm sure by the time we've been buffeted by mild cross Channel gales later this evening, a force 2 in the car will seem harmless by comparison.
To dive right in and immediately start talking nonsense about the road trip seems a little bit previous. Maybe even a little frivolous. I can't even begin to describe the enslaught of emotion that I've experienced this past few weeks. The stationary journey to reach this well organised juncture has been relentless, and has left me wordless in the face of such changes.
Unsurprising, being sat in this passanger seat and watching the miles flash by is the first time I've had the leisure to meditate and jot. To be honest, being too busy to think has been a blessing because whenever I've started to process the enormity of this step, I've only ever managed to get my head around the small things.
Like where heck I was going to get Croatian wine for the leaving party. Or Boots having an offer on sun cream. Or how beautiful Tower Bridge looks in the early morning sunlight. Enjoying drinks and lunches with friends and work colleagues. Giving some of my reference books to the lovely neighbours opposite And finally how helpful the bank lady was when dealing with my rather hit and miss finances.
Each small thing has been dealt with obsessively. Anything to avoid the rather large matter of being jobless, linguistically challenged, and anticipating and embracing a completely different lifestyle. Ultimately there must be a lesson here; look after and appreciate the small things, and the big things will take care of themselves. I hope.
Speaking of small things. For as long as there is giggling about Dido going down on this ship; place names such as Burpham; speeding past the queue of cars at Cobham services; calculating the number of murray mints to the mile; and flatmates with unfortunate tummy timing, our resultant cackling will make the next 1900 miles go by as fast as the first UK stretch of the trip.