Today I travelled to the Royal Mail sorting office in Chippernam to collect a parcel that the postman had been unable to deliver the other day because he was too much of a fat lazy arse to walk five yards round to the side of my house and shove it through the cat flap like postmen usually do. Well that’s what it said on the card that he left.
The parcel turned out to be my beautiful, green, waterproof, Exodus Travels kitbag which they have provided me with free of charge for my journey to the High Inca Trail. I love it. I have spent the whole evening stroking and caressing and licking and sniffing it. Tonight I am going to sleep in it and tomorrow I think I will pack.
My epic journey commences one month today. But woah . . . bad news! I’ve got a full on horrible cold, I’ve eaten utter crap to cheer me up all week since the first manifestations of my malaise materialised, the most strenuous exercise I've had in the last four days has been blowing my nose and I don’t feel the slightest bit fit.
But at least I know that if I don’t survive the Andes they will be able to send my body home in my lovely new kitbag. So what's the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile.