Not that I’m counting, but in 144 hours, I’m off to Italy. It’s my first summer break in eighteen years without The Lad, who’s heading to Zante with his mates. So, as he’s drunkenly stumbling home from a night on the strip, I’ll be meditating on a terrace overlooking Lake Como, breathing in the sunrise and the earned wisdom of middle age.
I’m looking forward to long ramblechats with a dear friend, morning swims in the lake, and long, lazy afternoons with a book. Most of all, I’m excited about having only one responsibility: deep, unapologetic relaxation. After years of planning itineraries to keep a small boy entertained, I’m enthralled by the possibility of doing as little as I like for ten juicy days. Inject it into my veins already! But before I board that aeroplane to Milan, there’s one small hillock to conquer: the big pack.
You can tell a lot about a person by how they approach holiday packing. Are you a roller or a folder? A list maker or a last-minuter? A “Just in caser” or a classic “Underpacker with delusions of minimalism”?
In our house, there’s a special kind of chaos that descends the night before a trip. In my case, it’s about sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor at 11.47 pm, head in hands, paralysed by decision overwhelm. To pack one book or five? Are linen trousers optimistic or essential? And how many shoe options equal one too many?
I would love to be one of those serene capsule wardrobe types. We all know one of these smug irritants, with their navy and ecru separates and effortless efficiency. You know, the “I brought seven items for a month in a tropical destination” kind of traveller? YCH. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?
Instead, I pack like someone preparing for exile, or a very niche apocalypse. My suitcase tells a better story than I do: here flies a woman who thought she might go trail running, attend a formal state dinner or suddenly join a Parisian jazz troupe.
I now realise that an ADHD brain and packing make for a wild ride. I’m the type of packer who will hyperfocus on non-essentials – spending two hours decanting shampoo into cute little silicone bottles – only to forget the sunscreen. Sensible advice says: “Make a list!”. So, I have. I’ve spent hours building a master packing list on my phone, broken into precise categories: clothes, electronics, toiletries, first aid, and footwear.
Each item gets a little tick box, for that sweet, sweet dopamine hit as I pack it. And yet, despite the list, I remain a chaotic packer. Having a list and having a useful list are not the same thing.
I’ve surrendered to grudgingly including excess luggage in my holiday budget now, because I can’t shush the internal voice urging me to throw in another cardigan and coat “just in case” even when the forecast screams heatwave.
It could be a trauma hangover from the famously temperamental Welsh weather. Or a childhood in the Valleys, where not wearing a coat was borderline Nan-treason. Logically, I know I could buy one on location if needed. I could also just…get wet. But logic has no place in my process.
The same madness applies to shoes. Ever since the time I attempted to scramble over Worm’s Head in a pair of ballet pumps, the idea of not having the proper footwear for every possible scenario unravels me. So I always take hiking boots, sandals, waterproof sliders and three “just on the off chance” fancy options. And then, of course, I live in Birkenstocks the entire time.
At the other end of the luggage insanity scale, I pack for the person I want to be, not the one I am. This explains why I’ve taken a ridiculously chi-chi paisley kaftan on my last five holidays without ever once unfolding the damn thing.
Each time I’ve told myself that this trip, I will become the sort of Californian goddess who swans around the pool in floaty green silk. I don’t know why I keep expecting a time zone change to spark a full personality transplant, but here we are.
And then there’s the bringing-home-more-than-I-took dilemma. Those irresistible Italian leather handbags or Moroccan slippers that look adorable in dappled souk light won’t fly themselves home, amiright?
On a trip to Venice, a friend solved this issue with one of the boldest moves I’ve ever seen on an EasyJet flight. She refused to pay for excess baggage after a shopping spree on our city break. Instead, she wore seven layers through security, then stuffed her purchases under an oversized jumper and pretended to be heavily pregnant. I still don’t know how she got away with it, but there is photographic evidence of her proudly cradling her “bump” on the tarmac before boarding. (Side note: She’s since joined the police, which made perfect sense to me. If you can fake a third trimester to dodge a baggage fee, you definitely have the creative problem-solving skills for frontline law enforcement.)
Much as I admired her commitment to the bit, I’m too old (and anxious) to start faking pregnancies at the departure gate. Perhaps true wisdom is recognising my weaknesses and just paying the damn fee. I think of it as an ADHD tax.
Luckily, The Lad hasn’t inherited my curse. The absolute onion thought he could head to Greece for a week with nothing but a manbag. I had to cajole him into booking a check-in holdall, purely to increase the odds of him packing suncream and more than one pair of pants.
This time next week, as he stumbles through Zante in a bucket hat clutching a neon cocktail, I’ll be trying to spot George Clooney’s house with a pair of entirely unnecessary binoculars. And quietly regretting the six pairs of shoes I brought just to sit still. Ciao Ciao!
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