Rain is dripping through the wattle and mist wreathes the gorgeous tree ferns outside the window, yet in just two weeks we will be leaving our new home behind and heading off into the wild technicolour yonder for our Grand Adventure.
The reality of our imminent departure is manifesting itself in strange ways. Every couple of hours Phil turns to me with a delighted smile and says "two weeks!", while I get unnaturally emotional at the sight of an aeroplane.
I can already picture us snuggled into our economy class seats, me excitedly leafing through the mag to see what trashy flicks will be played on the flight and already anticipating the excitement of meal times. Call me a freak ("You FREAK!") but I love airline food. It's like Christmas - all those little parcels tightly wrapped around the promise of gourmet treats. Of course, there's always the meal equivalent of that present that is just such a dud you're first in line at the David Jones' exchange counter on Boxing Day, but I'm usually ravenous from the travel adrenaline coursing through my body and would happily consume the nether regions of a low-flying duck (should that be on the menu).
The last of the visas have been organised, we have those magical tickets in our possession, we've had all but one of our vaccinations and so now there's nothing to do but wait .... yeah RIGHT! There's a million things to do, but I'm in denial. I'm already mentally on holiday, so the feature article, radio interviews and preparations around the house are slipping out of my mind like water off above-mentioned duck's back.
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