"Should I bring a towel?"
I picture her whipping around her place, frazzled to a state of befustification, packing and unpacking and making things smaller than they should be, and thinking it is one of the most stupid text messages she's ever received.
She was gracious though, my girl, and just replied to say something about a turban.
She refrained from, "I'm fairly certain a fully equipped apartment comes fully equipped with towels to dry oneself."
In ten months, it seems, I've earned the right to be an idiot and to have it overlooked.
I fucking hate packing so I got it out of the way early. I secreted away too many black t-shirts, checking and double checking that the hard drugs I've never even come across in real life hadn't made their way into the zips. Not a sign, just some old receipts and an empty Extra chewing gum wrapper.
I gave up at one point, distracted by something on the telly, and now it's officially the day where I have to come face to face with my biggest enemy - the dreaded sky clown* - in the name of some time in a bubble. I see clothes hanging about the place and can't summon the will to fold. Time enough, I blog instead and it's soon to the cot.
I don't imagine I'll be in touch and I'm not one of those smiletalking fuckers who'd promise anyone a postcard, but I do ask that you keep away from yourselves until my gloriously broken return.
*Air hostesses. My greatest phobia. Nobody ought to be that poised.