2. Piles and lists.....................and injections

Just been to the doctor, all excited about getting travel advice.  Filled in a risk assessment before the appointment and spent half an hour with the nurse solemnly discussing rabies, hepatitis, malaria and typhoid.  At which point even I usually have a small wobble and wonder if I am Really Doing the Right Thing.  And then, having put forward an excellent case for filling my body up with chemicals to zap these various bugs, she gently explained that they are going to cost more than it will cost to get me all the way to Morocco.  Blimey!  There’s an element of going-to-the-dentist syndrome about this (sorry Elli) – yes, I need to be here, yes I know it will hurt, yes, I will feel physically invaded, yes I know it’s the right thing to do……………but I cant believe I’m actually having to pay (a lot) for all this aggro and pain.

But I still left the surgery grinning from ear to ear with excitement!

There are little piles of things appearing around the James household.  One on top of my desk: the Lonely Planet Guide, train tickets to Paris and Madrid, printouts of hotel and hostel reservations, a luggage locking device which proved irresistible in Aldi, a library copy of the Man in Seat 61(fount of all wisdom) ………………. didn’t know it is a book as well as a website.

Envelopes with lists scribbled on the back: sort insurance, get ticket London-Ludlow, check passport still valid………………

Another pile in my bedroom is growing: money belt, tin mug, an amazing spoon-cum-fork thing, a packaway daysac, an ancient strepsils tin with basic sewing things so I can mend stuff – I must have had that for about 40 years and it’s still just the job.

I have decided to send my surgeon and my thyroid specialist a post card each from Morocco “hey, you fixed me – thank you!” or better still an open postcard to the local paper saying we are all so quick to complain about things – I want to sing the praises of the National Health Service generally and Shrewsbury Hospital in particular.

What is it about travelling?  Why does hoisting a rucksack on my back and taking off somewhere fill me with such pleasure?  I know half the time I’ll be too hot or cold, uncomfortably sitting on some horrendous bus desperate for a pee, cross with a taxi driver, desperate for a bath…………I’ll worry about finding my hostel or missing a connection or losing some vital paperwork, or finding a nice present for my nearest and dearest, or drive myself mad sorting and organising all my stuff and then losing things in my rucksack.  And I will be content.  There will be nowhere else in the world I would rather be.  I will revel in what is around me and will relate to total strangers and will feel totally at home and want to stay forever.