I finished my packing yesterday. I am a quick packer. I throw out everything from the cupboard into the suitcase and then sit on it and zip it up. Only to discover, when I land, that I have forgotten my undergarments or some equally vital thing du jour and need to run down to the nearest store to buy some. This time I made a list. A long drawn out list, listing two columns per page. One for self. One for child. One column of existing items in the wardrobe which were absolute essentials that I wouldnt be able to survive without at all. Including essentials like leopard print undergarments that no lucky sod will have the good fortune to see on me given this is a husband less trip. Second column was the more exciting one given it comprised items that one absolutely totally and completely had to go out and shop for in order to go for this trip. Essentials here too. Like the small handbag for everyday trips to further shopping in Bangalore. Have I ever mentioned that I have sacks. Huge bags. All of them. They can double as bags kidnappers use to take kids for ransom. Lots of new cosmetics. A perfume. Therefore yesterday did the honours and bought myself some L’Oreal and a some Versace Jeans (the perfume not the jeans) appropriate given that denim is my uniform. Having gone through the to buy list with a fine tooth and found some more things to buy while I was at it, have realised that I have one hyperactive toddler, one mother in law and self to manage with a royal trousseau worth of luggage. The bedroom is stacked end to end with bags. We are also, given the sister in law’s yearning for Mumbaiya farsaan taking packets and packets of such stuff which will undoubtedly need to be hand luggage and which we can shamelessly dip into given we are flying in on cheap tickets this time.
So there I am with one suitcase full of clothes that I never will get a chance to wear. Casual clothes, formal clothes, semi formal clothes, Indian ethnic casual, Indian ethnic formal, home wear, park wear, shopping and dining out wear. Hats. A range of shoes, stilletoes, ballys, slippers, pumps, two extra handbags(what can I say, I agonise if my bags and my shoes dont coordinate and its more peaceful this way, given sister in law’s collection is absolutely so not what I can dip into). Jeans. Jeans. And more jeans. From Levis to Next to Diesel to D&G to M&S to Timbuktu. Make up. Two pouches full. And will end up not using any. Three pairs of spectacles (I live in horror of them breaking when one is on holiday and roaming around with a white cane) four pairs of sunglasses.
All brat’s clothes. Thankfully they’re small and fit into another suitcase. Then there’s the entire pharmacy worth of medicines I insist on carrying along. What if I dont get the exact same medicine there? yes, yes, I know it is a city and all that, but still. And there are his toys, his manifold sunglasses and jackets and matching shoes to be taken into consideration. My heart swells with pride. This is truly my son. Him of the matching matching fixation.
Do you think the cheap airline will offload us as a menace to airline safety norms?
Anyway, see you all on the other side of the 25th.