Fear of Flying

I've booked my first batch of flights.

I wish I had some sort of feeling of satisfaction about this, but I don't. It's the first really serious thing that I've had to do with the impending move, something of a milestone, I suppose. And that's the moment of truth, isn't it? The "no going back" moment. Eight flights in a month, all at crazy hours of the morning. I should be excited.

So what am I thinking about? I'm thinking about the workshop that I'm running on Wednesday that I've not done any preparation for. I'm thinking about the party our upstairs neighbours had, and the lovely vomit that they left on the pavement outside. I'm thinking about the horrendous situation at work where half of the office is at each other's throats, so much so that I don't expect to be the only resignation before too long. I'm going to miss Mr Twinky, and I'm going to worry about him and I want to smuggle him out of the country in my luggage.

I've got all these flights booked, I hate my job, and I should be looking forward to the change and to something new. And yes, there are good things about the future. But I'm nervous, and I think I'm happy about that.