As you know, I have mentioned that we are off on our holidays * quite soon. Actually the quite soon has now become imminent because we go tomorrow night. Hurrah! How so exciting!! Cairo here we come... Winter sun, beam down on me!
Anyway the title of this post is not intended to be an essay question nor am I thinking of starting a debate (although, maybe that might be an option for a rainy day. Let me know what you think.). Instead it is the rhetorical question I have been asking myself for about the past 24 hours. I worked until after 8.30pm last night, got up at 6.00am this morning and went straight back in to the office again and then worked late again tonight. I have a truly horrendous day of meetings planned for tomorrow before my evening flight to London. So, again, why am I going away for a week (yes a week - you'd think from the hysterical reaction of some people that I had joined a cult and was leaving for ever. Mind you, that is quite a tempting thought...) when I always get myself in such a stew before I go anywhere?! Oh panic stations. I haven't even packed! I suppose I still have 23 hours...
So really this post is just a "farewell". Fret not I will be back - unless, of course, my dear husband makes good his threat and sells me for some camels. Please note, if that happens, I shall try and find an internet cafe in the desert so you can start a global on-line appeal for my safe return. I'd make it worth your while (a camel perhaps?).
Later
E
* For my trans-Atlantic fan club, holidays are what we Brits call vacations (but I bet you knew that already!)
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