And so I am off tomorrow to California. As is usually the case with me, the time just before travelling abroad for any great distance is spent in tearful regret that I ever agreed to go in the first place. Yes: it’s my old friend, tropophobia, the fear of change, and although I am going to an anglophone country of which I also happen to be a citizen, I count an 11-hour flight as something that leads to, or counts as, change.
Never has bed felt so comfortable, never the staff at Majestic seemed so welcoming. I have today broken my record, by some margin, for the number of times I have used the “snooze” option on my phone’s alarm clock. Not even Frodo Baggins, trudging off to Mordor on his birthday, felt such reluctance. I only force myself out of bed when I realise that if I don’t empty the washing machine now, I will have no clean, dry shirts or undercrackers to take with me to America.
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