We're headed off to Pete's home country tomorrow for what has historically been our bi-annual trek. We got off track last year because of client obligations. This year, I have those same obligations, but have chosen to do the best I can to, one, deal with issues and reports from my laptop and, two, let my very brilliant Argentinean colleague cope with everything as best she can. The drawback to the latter? She's going to ditch me for nearly three weeks while she and her family make their annual trek to her home country. All that means is, within moments of stepping foot back on American soil, I will hate her for being gone and any warm and fuzzy vacation memories will vanish, sucked away by the chaos that is the working life.
Is it any wonder I operate at near anxiety attack level all the time? Here I am, worrying about when I get back on top of worrying about getting everything done before we leave. Worry, worry, worry. Worry. That's a word I should learn to say in several languages. I mean, it's as much a curse word as any other curse word, and I know how to say those in other languages.
[I really don't, but I thought it made me seem far more worldly than I am to feign such knowledge. Provides an air of sophistication, don't you think, Cleatus?]
But soon enough we'll be with Sir Richard Branson's fine staff in one of his fine aeroplanes, watching some of his fine in-flight entertainment and being annoyed by not-so-fine fellow travelers, including those smaller ones Pete and I are bringing along. And the worry about how I will get everything done before I leave will be over, whether things have actually gotten done or not.
Our itinerary is quite full: the caravan park that Pete's sister runs on the Jurassic Coast right next to the pirate cemetery; Manchester to see most of the remainder of Pete's family and to tour Old Trafford; his aunt's house right on the Irish Sea in Morfa Nefyn, Wales; London for a brief trip that enables some expenses to be of the business variety; and, for the first time for me and the kids, Scotland. Magnificent, all of it, made only slightly less magnificent by the bickering among the smaller of our fellow travelers. And the need to do laundry all the time to prevent all of us from being the smelly noisy Americans. With clean clothes, we can just be the noisy Americans.
Now, off I go back into panic mode to get things ready for us and the impending arrival of our house sitter. Ta-ta!