IN FOR THE LONG-HAUL

 

Tottie: I thought I better call in on Tom once more before he heads off for WA.  After this year’s non-summer I can’t blame anyone for wanting to top up on the vitamin D. I found him packing what seemed to be an impossibly small bag, but then he explained that he already has clothing over there. I couldn’t even imagine getting what I need just for an overnight stay in such a small bag. Two pairs of shoes would have filled it, and instead he’d got it stuffed full of drugs and wool. I sort of admire him for making the effort, and I suppose only he can vouch for the sanity of it all. There’s more than a little bit of me that is jealous. I looked his friend Charley up on line, and I think there must be a connection. Charley’s second name is Cranston, which also happens to be my brother David’s second name. The world is a very small place, never more than six people removed from anyone on the planet, but I think there might be a blood line link.   

Tom: I’m sure at some point in our lives we’ve all done the packing of bags, whether just for a few days holiday, or a total and definitive change of scenery, and if you’re like me it’ll take several attempts, trying to figure out what is rational. There’s always the, what if the weather, or if I get invited out. Do I really need that other pair of shoes, or even a pair of wellies? Thankfully the South Western corner of Australia at this time of year means my wardrobe can be cut down to hand luggage only. A change of underwear, a pair of shorts and a sun hat, the rest is medication, fabric and wool for my stitching. The medication takes up half the space and in order to avert suspicion I included a print out of my diagnosis along with my visa. The fabric and wools will allow me to continue my embroidery and to pacify the creative urge within me. It is hard to explain just how intense this need to create has become. I feel there remains things that I must do, work I must complete while I still have the strength and the willpower. It is this more than anything else that keeps me alive.

 The ferry to Ullapool was running half an hour late and the long drive ahead of me seemed to suddenly get a lot longer. Being one of the first vehicles on I was directed to the side where I could be sure of being one of the last off. It happens every time. The drive east to Inverness is basically a case of joining the queue and follow the leader. The A9 is notorious for bad accidents and it seemed to take ages to get down to Perth. At what time of night was I going to arrive, still a long way from the border and then the entire length of the M6 to negotiate? I sipped on the thermos of coffee, eating up the miles while munching my way through the tin of homemade flap jacks. I arrived at my destination, Atherstone at 7.30 and slept like a clubbed horse. Wednesday was a day of rest before pressing on towards Milton Keynes on Thursday. I’d made the decision to do the delivery to London on the Friday and with the aid of a satnav all went smoothly. Saturday another day of rest before heading back into London on Sunday morning by train. This was the first big test having to lug my little trundle bag up and down stairs from Euston Station. Feeling like a fish out of water I struggled and politely declined help from two young women. It is only when help is offered that I realise just how decrepit I must look. When showering that morning I was horrified by the monster I saw in the mirror. That can’t be me, and yet who else can it be. Blubber hanging from my gut, chest and legs, even my face looks puffed up, unrecognisable. Aging is not an attractive process and when accompanied with medication and increasing infirmity the changes are shocking.  I met up with Charley, Lara and the girls that evening and the following morning was picked up on the dot at 5.35 for the drive to Heathrow.

 We all arrived within minutes of each other and from that moment on I simply followed my vastly more experienced host through the maze of airport check-in. Business class is so very different and in the quiet calm of the lounge we had breakfast. Long haul flights are punishing on the body, but having that extra room and being able to lie down made a huge difference. I also had my stitching to distract me, and it was much admired by the air hostesses with no mention of my lethal sized embroidery needle.  

 There was a six hour stopover in Dubai before the final longer leg, and I was again reminded of the vast horror of such places so very different to our little Stornoway airport. I dosed between film and let my mind wander back across the decades to when the girls were little and life was about playing on the beach.

I was also reminded that I was now Tottie free. She wanted to know Charley’s address so presumably I’ll get a Christmas card.