Packing: The Dilemma.

Tomorrow I go on holiday to Malta.

Most people would be extremely pleased about going on holiday with eleven of their best friends - and don't get me wrong, I am. But what I truly cannot stand is all the stuff you have to deal with before, and all the hassle in preparing to actually go away. By the time it's all sorted, you feel like you need a holiday.

For the past week (okay, the past two days) I've been asking myself important questions such as:

What do I need to buy?
Who am I sharing a room with?
Do I have a full inhaler to take?
Do I have a spare inhaler to take?
Do I still fit into last year's summer clothes?
Which addresses do I need to send postcards to?
Where is my passport?
Why did I not diet?

But the thing which I hate the most about getting ready to go away is the dreaded 'P' word.

This evening has been spent standing over my bed (covered in clothes) with a list about the length of my arm of stuff which I really really, really, really have to take and could not survive a week without. It really is such a mission trying to work out what you'll wear each day, and each evening, and on the beach, and what shoes you need, and what you'll wear on the plane.

You search your wardrobe and your drawers and your washing basket for the dress you bought last summer, only to find it won't do up. You realise that your friends are currently online choosing their seats on the plane, but you're still busy trying to find flip flops. You spot your Dad coming out of the bathroom wearing your beach towel, even though he hasn't been compelled to use it all year. You panic and you cram and you sit on top of your suitcase just hoping that it won't need a "heavy" sticker, and that the zip won't ping off at the airport, displaying your underwear for the whole of baggage control to see.

And then, you realise that somewhere within the depths of your case, you packed your toothbrush, and it's still 22 hours until you leave. Oops.