Bringing it home

Jack and I were struggling onto the train. We travelled back to the North-west of England this morning, to stay at his parents for Christmas. We had roused ourselves at ridiculous o’clock, and my office party was last night, which added to the strain. I had a suitcase (a natty little dark green number with wheels and  a handle, since you ask. It’s new) and also my handbag, plus a small paper bag containing tea and a pain au chocolat, plus a Tesco’s ‘Bag for life’ stuffed with presents, with my smart pair of heeled shoes hanging alarmingly out of the top. He had a suitcase (much larger. Old, and with no wheels, or trolley-style retractable handle, I might add) plus a large shoulder bag, plus a copy of the Observer.

I trust that the source of our struggles is pretty clear. As we wrestled with our bags, all of which seemed suddenly to contain a large number of live puppies, all striving to go in different directions, I turned to him in a moment of wonderful insight and said,

“Still – at least we don’t have to travel on a donkey to get back to the land of your birth.”

I have to say that my moment of inspiration (I was about to say my ‘epiphany’, but it’s the wrong time of year for that!) was not remarked upon by anyone around me. But I noticed it. And I thought I’d share it.