Listening to: Oro Se Do Bhaeatha' Bhaile (Dubliners' version)
Killing time: before a haircut
There's always something. No matter how long you spend getting stuff ready for a trip (in my case a single bag of clothes), there's always something left behind.
This time it's socks. I have a comfy pair of Hi-Tec work socks on my feet, but all others are sitting in what I fancifully refer to as my sock drawer in the caravan, in the barn, on the croft, 20 miles away on Westray. And tomorrow afternoon they'll be 600 miles away.
I'm away south for the first time in. . . err. . . six months? My lad is 18 on Monday so I don't want to miss out on the chance to let him buy me a pint or two.
I'm in Kirkwall at the minute, but it's off and away via Aberdeen and a sock shop to Birmingham, then an overnight in Wolverhampton to catch up with old chum Grantham New Town's Reg Pither (stomach pump in attendance) and off to Shrewsbury to see the offspring.
I'll be back on Westray on Wednesday, ready to lay the concrete floor in the kitchen, but just for a few days it's good to get away.
I can't remember whether I've said this before, but folk on our part of the island refer to a trip to the village as going 'north', while going 'south' could be just about anywhere beyond Kirkwall. So 'north' is Pierowall and 'south' is the equally important rest of the world.
There's something so right about that.