Thursday morning Mr F and I are off to Venice to attend the customary pre-pantomime bonding weekend. Only eleven weeks till curtain up. Erk. Where did that year go?
I’m a bit concerned about our luggage. Not its weight but its bizarre mix of contents that would take some explaining. There are two pairs of fairy wings, for a start. Plus twenty garlic and coriander naan breads for a Curry Night fund-raiser. And then there’s Mr F’s cardinal costume complete with ecclesiastical bling. You see what I mean?
Usually I’m a carry-on only kind of a gal. Bulky luggage makes me cross. Even other people’s. American suitcases raise my normal low-level travelling growl to Full Red Haze. Skis send me into orbit.
‘Hey! Did you forget the harmonium?’
And to add to Thursday’s joy there’s a forecast of 85cm acqua alta at the very hour we’ll be schlepping across Piazzale Roma. For the first time in my life I find myself not averse to the idea of a delayed flight. Two hours would do it. Just time for an Irish breakfast and a receding tide. But as my old Mum always used to say, better not to let the Devil know your mind.