So - it's finally come. The Big Pack. The Motherclutter. Through vision only slightly blurred by the occasional weeping session (and unless the sight of Colin Farrell's retractable face in Fright Night was more traumatic than I gave it credit for, I don't think I can blame these little outbursts on anything other than being a massive pansy), cardigans, flowery chinos and Marmite have been dutifully piled into a suitcase really better designed for a two-week beach crawl than a plunge into the dusty unknown. They have all been promptly sat on. And rolled up. And sat on again. There's no way around it, I simply can not fit the cat in there.
What am I going to miss the most? Bacon sandwiches. This in itself is pretty standard. But specifically - and importantly - M&S unsmoked streaky bacon, pressed between two slices of Hovis Best of Both slathered with Flora, sat at a kitchen table listening to the hum of the dishwasher and the morning rain. Surrounded by the comfortable middle-class clutter of weekend supplements and fridge magnets and safe in the knowledge that Wife Swap USA is a mere button's press away, just as it should be. In short I will miss the cosy, pointless existence carefully cultivated over the last few months which I have a nasty feeling is about to be snatched away in favour of more immediate concerns such as, say, not being trampled in a riot.
Speaking of which. The latest from Egypt, according to the Guardian website (what was I saying before?): Mubarak's trial resumed on monday, no longer covered on live television, and this time attempting to establish the measures actually approved by the president in dealing with for the earlier protests. The allegations that shoot-to-kill orders, amongst others, were issued have been denied by a senior police officer but this has done little to appease the families of more than 850 people who died in the clashes this year. Images from the courtroom in Cairo show Mubarak stretcher-bound, craning forward like a turtle, caged and contemptuous and reportedly picking his nose while outside crowds gathered, tear gas and water cannons eventually employed to keep pro- and anti- Mubarak protestors apart. Many no longer trust the courtroom proceedings. For many more the outcome will simply not be enough.
In the midst of 'last' goodbyes, frantic Google searches regarding the weather and luggage restrictions and excited cooing at Egyptian currency, there has been little time to dwell on what we'll actually find on arrival. Travel excitement comes in stages, and this is no exception - it's hard to concentrate on policial upheaval until you've worked out how much duty free you can heave up into the plane. Ongoing concerns regarding hair removal and whether we still have time to secure a flat with animal-print furniture*, while undoubtedly trivialities, play a crucial role in holding off most of the probable reality for the time being.
Below: a few friends' notes and cheerful annotations** in what will become a journal for this year.
Thirteen and a half hours until we fly, and counting.
*We found one such apartment, promptly snapped up either by wealthy Libyan emigrants or possibly American students under our noses - the Institute handled it pretty delicately. I'm not sure which I'd rather face. Either way, a benchmark has been set and I will flay my own camel if need be now, with a Body Shop nail file. BRING IT AWWWNNN.
**Only three of the Seven Plagues of Egypt were included because the image of my crops failing was just too traumatic
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