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In seven days we are flying to the UK. 

The list of “Shit to get sorted” is never ending. I mean that figuratively, of course, it has an end, and that end is when I either lose my mind, or run out of time and have to get on a plane, whichever comes first.

This is payback good and proper for the fact that I was so chilled about the flight last year while Keith was a basket case. In those 11 months, the newborn haze has cleared to be replaced by the relentless midday sun of toddlerhood and there is nowhere to hide. 

Fellow passengers of Qantas Flight 001, I'm so, so, sorry for the crazy that is about to be unleashed into your life.

I can only suggest you follow my lead and accept every complimentary drink that comes your way.


I am all about the friendly conversation so I would love you to leave me your thoughts. I will look after them, promise, and I will always reply because nobody wants a lonely comment.

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