Guess which is mine?
Alison asked me a few days ago if I had already packed for my trip which was met with a derisive snort; one of the less attractive habits I have picked up from my horse. How our team riders pack for an overseas trip with all their gear, horse’s gear and groom’s gear is beyond me
In an attempt to confine my packing to one suitcase which can be closed, I have written a careful list. Ignoring most of the boring details about the numbers of white T-shirts (my version of the essential little black dress), some of the inclusions and exclusions on my list may give an insight to this trip.
IN
Little black dress
Actually I do need one due to a much anticipated dinner in the fancy Dining Room at The George in Stamford. This is THE hangout during Burghley Horse Trials however we’ll be there for two days during the Olympics to celebrate a certain friend’s significant birthday (just between you and me, Rosemarie Hazard-Ellis has just turned 50 but she’s trying to keep it quiet).
French Dictionary
Despite having a degree in French which enabled me to speak the equivalent of French Chaucer at the height of my prowess, my command of the French language has now deteriorated to the point of being douloureuse. As we are heading to the Eventing World Cup at Le Pin au Haras after the Olympics, I will be making a big effort to brush up on my French in preparation for the 2014 WEG in Normandy. Alternatively I could adopt Clayton Fredericks’ ‘Fraustralian’ which impresses me every time I see him interviewed in France.
Lengthy Written Directions
English people always provide reams of written directions to assist in finding their home or your country B&B. It seems quite laughable when they instruct you to “Turn left at the third sheep on the right” but, believe me, without them you can spend hours driving round in circles (especially around those damn roundabouts)
I would love to see the directions LOCOG has given the horse truck drivers to get to Greenwich; “Turn right at the big ship with masts marooned in the middle of the pavement, take care crossing the Meridian Line and you’ll soon come to Queen Anne’s Country Cottage”
Greenwich - the only place you can park a boat on the pavement without getting a ticket
OUT
Knickers and socks
First stop on arrival (after devouring a pork pie) is at Marks & Spencer’s for the annual stock up of knickers (her) and socks (him). My husband Paul has a strange English man’s fetish for brightly coloured socks, as you can see below. You’ll be relieved that I didn’t photograph my knickers
Wellies
I won’t be packing wellies despite Lord Coe’s kindly concern (and I quote The Daily Mail here)
“'At the risk of sounding a little bit like a father about to issue their kids off on an outward bound trip, let me make the obvious point that we are a northern European country.
'People do need to be wearing the right footwear, the right rain-proof clothing and sun screen.'
Those attending events at rural venues have been advised by organisers LOCOG to wear wellies and Coe says the organisers are 'making sensible and prudent judgements' to keep the Games on track.”
This is Greenwich we’re talking about, isn’t it? The place that is almost bang smack in the middle of London and surrounded by tarmac? I’m actually wondering if this was part of the script for the spoof comedy Twenty Twelve that crept onto Seb Coe’s desk by mistake. If you haven’t seen Twenty Twelve yet, I strongly recommend it
I always wait to buy my Hunter wellies on each trip home. They are much cheaper and I like to give Australian Customs a heart attack on my return. God forbid that any terrorists have been on a farm or bring back wellies as they would be spotted immediately on coming into Australia.
Resident Return Visa
No I haven’t decided to forsake Australia forever. The powers that be have decided that, as everything is online nowadays, once you have paid for your money and filled in the form on their website, the transaction is complete. No reassuring form in your passport; you will simply be cheerfully waved through immigration as a bone fide Australian resident. This lack of proof in my passport makes me rather nervous. There was an ‘incident’ a few years ago when Paul and I were departing Australia for our annual UK trip when he was politely asked to step into a small room at the side. Nervously anticipating rubber gloves Paul was relieved to be told he could, of course, leave Australia but, regretfully, he would not be allowed back in. Whoops.
Happily it turned out that a current Resident Return Visa was in his old passport at home. Our house sitter despatched the offending passport to reach us in England and Australia discovered it still had not got rid of us.
Which reminds me of the time I left my handbag with the passports, credit cards etc etc in the Indian restaurant in Notting Hill the night before flying home, but that’s another story (and where is Hugh Grant when you need him?)
I promise I’ll write something about horses eventually............................. next stop London
