Packing It All In

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Can you pack? Have you any idea what is involved? Do you dare to attempt it unsupervised? Well, no I can’t, no I haven’t the faintest idea and no not in a month of Sundays. All that clear enough? I don’t even have the courage to pack my own sandwiches for lunchtime at work. I’d rather give tablets to either of our cats and that is deserving of at least an award for bravery above and beyond the call of duty – there’s teeth at one end and four sets of knives if the fangs don’t get to you first.

It’s not just holidays I’m talking about, that’s just a couple of times each year at most. No, packing is a nightmarish situation which bedevils the unwary with alarming regularity and in a frighteningly varied set of circumstances. Think about it, there’s supermarket shopping, holidays (see above), days out (yes they do count, and they come around all the time) and worst of all, repacking when the holiday/day out is over or when you’ve put something in the wrong bag at Tesco’s.

I hate it and it has become my nemesis. I run and hide at the appropriate time, trying to pretend that I have something to do of vital importance which will not wait a second longer. By the time I have re-emerged responsible people have usually stepped in and taken over the project, completing it in half the time it would have taken me just to find the bags/cases/car. No, it’s not for the faint hearted, and my heart goes faint at the mere thought of it.

I have the perfect answer to all my packing problems – Lynn. She is packer ‘par excellence’. If there was a university degree in packing she would have a first class honours if not a doctorate. She could run courses in the subject and make vast amounts of money teaching hapless individuals like me the logistics of baggage efficiency. She could offer a sideline in counselling for those suffering from baggage inferiority complex, and run weekend courses in stress management for those of a nervous disposition. Thinking it through, this could be the start of a whole new service industry in an area with infinite demand – maybe I should take out a patent on the idea and licence it out to her, that way we would both make a fortune.

Steady man, stick to the plot and pull yourself together – this is a subject of immense importance affecting significant numbers of the male population. Let’s take it a step at a time and build up from small beginnings, that way no-one will get frightened off. Packing at the supermarket is probably the easiest of the phobias to deal with as I am never usually alone, and even if I were those nice checkout ladies would recognise a sufferer immediately and step in at a moment’s notice to take over the onerous task for me. On the other hand it’s the only section of the activity where all bags are open and available at the same time, so there’s the added possibility of misallocating the packables into the wrong receptacle. I have been instructed on many occasions in the art of not mixing frozen stuff up with anything else, but still manage to get it wrong. Mind you I have never actually lost my mobile whilst at the checkout, forcing me into the embarrassment of ringing it only to discover that it is chatting up the fish fingers at the bottom of the freezer bag (did I dear?).

Car boot packing at this stage isn’t a problem, firstly because we aren’t going far and secondly since there’s plenty of room to just throw them inside and worry about the consequences when we get home – ‘Sorry about the cream cakes dear. Didn’t spot the spare tyre lurking in the corner. I don’t suppose they’ll save now will they? Best eat them straight away then.’ However this kind of behaviour and lack of attention is likely to get you a slap and no supper, so it’s not recommended really.

Day out packing is a different matter and requires a little more concentration and a more serious approach. I’m OK at getting stuff ready to be packed and can make a fair stab at sandwich preparation, but from that point on I slip very efficiently into Totally Useless Mode. We have a variety of Tupperware containers supplemented by emptied margarine tubs cleaned especially for the purpose and they come in different shapes and sizes. I would probably be alright if we had one standard size box but that would be expecting too much, and when you have a variety of consumables in a myriad of differing shapes it can all be too much and usually is, so all that is normally left in the more than capable hands of my dear beloved.

The one time I did take responsibility for lunchtime pack-up for a day out resulted in a situation of such unmitigated humiliation that I have never tried it again. On a day trip to Blackpool (a company jaunt no less) I remember stating quite clearly to Lynn that I would assume midday meal responsibilities, and duly made up the repast. It was only when we arrived at the destination that it became apparent that I had completely forgotten to make up anything for her. To compound the already embarrassing error, we had eaten lunch so early that when my beloved decided upon fish and chips, I did no more than join her. Not quite sure what brain and mind were doing that day – perhaps they had taken their lunch off to the beach and left me to face the music alone.

Where I always fall disastrously apart is when we go away on holiday. I’m very efficient at selecting the stuff I need for the period, and being an accountant by trade I can count without having to remove my shoes and socks for additional functionality. I need this ability to work out how many pairs of socks and pants to take. I used to clear the whole drawer at one time but that tactic came unstuck when we arrived at our destination and I found several pairs of my daughter’s knickers in my bag. Lynn accepted my explanation that they had been picked up by accident along with all the others I had selected, but I got some very knowing looks from my son.

I can get all of my stuff into one overnight bag – you know, the squashy zippy ones that will fit absolutely anywhere as long as they don’t contain any breakables when you pack them into the boot. The disaster scenario really comes into its own if I am let anywhere near the car when the final loading is taking place. I’m not overstating Lynn’s ability in this area, because when we used to go away with her mum and dad the phone call would come through during the evening prior to departure that the cases were ready and would she please come round and put them in the car, as they didn’t seem to fit. Off we would go, Lynn to do it and me to stand watching and hoping to pick up some handy tips for whenever my services would be required.

My wife could get the contents of Danny La Rue’s wardrobe into the boot of an Austin Mini and still have room to spare. Within minutes she was back in their house just as the kettle was boiling, asking pointed questions like ‘So what exactly was the problem?’ or ‘Any more for the boot, then?’ So you can understand why I cheerfully leave all that kind of stuff in her capable hands. If I were to get involved we would need the kind of capacity you’d require if you were taking an orchestra on tour, and we would still need an overflow vehicle. When we took our daughter to university at Keele in Staffordshire, all her belongings went into the back of an Austin Maestro and there was still enough room for the four of us. You knew it was the season for exporting your 18 year olds because the roads were full of cars with roof racks, trailers and other essential spare packing room, and all my missus did was snigger and comment on their inability to pack.

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