still packing

yes i've got up and thrown everything onto my bed. it's the only way men know how to pack. We get out all our clothes (well we only have enough to fill one wardrobe anyway since our wives/ girlfriends fill every other storage space in the house with clothes, shoes, handbags, shoes, handbags, lacy little numbers that wouldn't cover up even a barbie doll, handbags, did i mention shoes?), throw them onto the bed, and stuff them unceramoniously into our suitcases.

at this point it doesn't matter if there's any extra space in said suitcase or not, because the wife/girlfriend will always have a few little extras (hairdryer, straighteners, shoes) that couldn't possibly fit into her suitcase (full of shoes and handbags - exactly how many pairs of shoes, sandles, flip-flops does a girl need on a one-week break to bennidorm?)

and then there's the final packing ritual. the sitting on the suitcase for ten minutes trying to close it, only to find that you've one vital item out. Then there's the dilemma. do you stuff it and go without, or do you bite the bullet and open up the siutcase knowing full well you have to go through the ordeal of closing it up again. It's like the sock that goes missing from the washing machine-the sacrificial sock. it always happens, nobody knows why - is it a sacrifice to the god of laundry, what he must do with all those odd socks i shudder to think, but i would love to know. this is like a perverted ritual, a shimmy we must all dance to the tune of the god of holidaying.

i'm not really sure where i was going with this line of thinking, but i think it's come to it's own natural anticlimax, got to go and sit on my suitcase now.