Probably the most important point to make about my upcoming trip is that I haven't come up with a catchy title for it yet. Don't worry, I'm working on it. When I've been in transit for 24+ hours, and am just barely holding it together with a carefully-balanced cocktail of diet coke, generic plane wine, and panadeine, inspiration is sure to strike.
Stay tuned here for updates on my adventures. If the fun I've had just trying to pack is anything to go by, this trip is going to be amazing.
After putting off packing until 2 days before departure, I put all the clothes that I wanted to take with me into the washing machine, and went into another room to cook an overly-elaborate meal for myself so I didn't have to think about packing. Five minutes later, water was lapping at my feet, which it doesn't usually do when I'm standing in the kitchen, so I knew something was wrong. An hour later, every towel I owned was sodden on the floor, I had attempted and failed to unscrew the casing of my washing machine, and all the clothes I had intended to take with me on my trip were wet, soapy, and in my bathtub.
Being the efficient and unflappable person that I am, I screamed "WELL FINE THEN! I DON'T NEED CLOTHES ANYWAY!" at the soggy mess in the bathtub, pointedly ignored the empty suitcase that had been sitting on my coffee table for days, and decided this was an excellent time to dye my hair.
The next day (the day before departure), I continued to ignore the empty suitcase in the middle of my loungeroom, and strutted off to work hoping that everyone would comment on how fabulous my hair looked. But all they wanted to talk about as how my packing was going, so I walked out and dragged my soggy clothes to the laundromat.
While I waited for my clothes to wash, a guy ran in, emptied a drier into his suitcase, and jumped into a waiting cab with it. He's clearly a more skilled traveller than I, and I have a lot to learn from him.
It was about this point at which I realised the machine I'd put all my clothes in wasn't making any noise, but did have a rapidly-spreading puddle of water forming around it. It turns out that washing machines in Northcote do not like non-skinny jeans. They just straight up reject them and pour water all over anyone who dares to try to wear them. Even the fact that all my jeans are high-waisted was not enough to convince these damn hipster machines to play ball.
So, I'm 12 hours out from departure now, and I'm happy because although I have broken every washing machine I've touched, my host at my first destination has assured me that just last night she saw loads of people having quite a lot of fun even though they had no clothes so I should be just fine, and I'm eating all the food left in my fridge and drinking that open bottle of wine because it would be a waste not to. And, if nothing else, my hair does look rather fabulous.
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