As with my move from Canada, I started my packing this time with the best of intentions: there was the carry-on with extra socks, undies, and my laptop, phone, chargers, etc – that was for the night before flying and the night after. Then, for my first 10 days staying at my sister’s in Georgetown, I would fill the smallest wheelie-case. For the next few weeks in London before moving into my house, would be the large green hard-sided case, with parka, winter boots, etc. Then in the massive case I refer to as ‘the Dead-Body Bag’ — (honestly, I could fit a small to medium-sized corpse in that one), was everything else: summer clothes, souvenirs, more shoes, my spring coats, and so on. That was the plan.
But exactly as it worked out in Canada two years earlier, all organizational bets were off once I got right into the packing. By the last day I was shoving pairs of socks in corners and mittens in side pockets; knickers were mingling with hairbrushes, and souvenirs were cavorting with dog dishes. But in the end we got there.
Unfortunately, not all of it got here. Two of my three checked suitcases arrived, but the biggest, the 31kg dead-body bag is nowhere to be found. It has my North American power cables for my PC with accompanying international adapters, my wool scarves and mitts, and my very favourite, relatively new, fancy-schmancy trench coat. Aer Lingus assures me they are on the hunt for it, but why oh why didn’t I buy the airtags when I researched them this past summer? Idiot.
Fingers crossed that Hermes (Greek god of travellers) and St Anthony of Padua (patron saint of lost items) are smiling down on my poor, forlorn suitcase and will guide the baggage hunters straight to it. So we wait.