For a year now, I’ve been planning my next trip to Japan. The time has come! I finally leave this week.
On Friday the 13th.
Mum’s not happy. It was cheaper than the Thursday or Saturday, for reasons obvious to everyone else on the planet, so it’ll have to do.
I have spent AGES working out where to go, what to see, what to eat, and how much to pack. All liquids have been carefully measured into 100ml pots. My luggage is firmly within the weight limit, and covers almost every weather eventuality except for the apocalypse and lightning strikes.
Considering how long the plans for this trip have been in the works, it’s only natural that things would start looking dodgy now. And not just because Dad insists on calling my departure terminal ‘The Terminal Of Death’.
In January, the airline I’m flying with called a temporary union peace deal to avoid strike action until June. They still went ahead and carried out some strikes last month. There’s no telling whether they’ll do it again.
It cost too much to reserve a seat, so I’ve left it. You’d think £40 would be worth it, but I’m holding out for an upgrade by dressing smartly and flirting with whoever’s at the check-in desk. Every remaining unreserved seat is in the middle of a row. Climbing over sleeping people to use the loo is going to be fun.
The car we were planning to go to the airport in has broken down. The car we’re using as a backup to go to the airport in needs a little more work.
The printer is low on black ink, and I haven’t printed my boarding passes out yet.
Why does this always happen to me?
Please don’t say this is some higher power’s way of telling me I shouldn’t go. Mum will leap on that and cling to it like it’s a pair of shoes in her size.
I am going on this trip if it kills me – which is fine, because I did remember to buy comprehensive travel and health insurance. See you all on the other side. Follow me on Twitter for all the sickening photos of my adventures.
