Once upon a time, I’d pack days ahead of any journey. I’d start thinking about what to take a week before setting off, and be mentally piling things and considering outfits and options.

Those days have gone.

These days, I’m more likely to have a vague idea what I’ll be taking, and then throw it all together the night before I go, because there is such a thing as leaving it too late.

Once, in Bolivia, I was living in La Paz and had planned to spend a week in a city in the south of the country. The trouble was, the plane was due to leave at 7am, it was an hour to the airport from my house (though only a mile if you could somehow go directly up the cliff at the edge of the canyon, and over the lip across El Alto) and I had to be at check-in at six.

The other small issue was that it was a friend’s birthday the day before, and as a result, we went out to celebrate.

Alcohol consumed at 4,000m above sea level does funny things to the body. It creeps up on you and smashes you in the back of the head when you’re not looking, and then lingers for ages. It conspires with the thin air to leave you feeling simultaneously wrecked and euphoric, and as usual, it messes up your sense of judgement.

And so it was that at 3am before the flight, my friend and I reeled back to the apartment in Sopocachi, solemnly promising to wake each other up ninety minutes later so we could pack and get on the plane.

Naturally, when the eight alarm clocks went off at 4:30, and again at 4:45, 5:00 and 5:15, we didn’t manage to rise. The thumping of the irate neighbour on the wall at 5:30 got our attention though, and so, half drunk and half hungover and horrified by the lateness of the hour, we set about packing in a panic for the days ahead.

Things shoved in bags, water splashed on faces, feet shoved in shoes and a quick sprint out to the street to cajole a sleeping cab driver into wakefulness and speedy delivery with the promise of a waved 20Bs note.

Cut to: several hours later, a city in the south of Bolivia, on the edge of the jungle. Two girls, cradling bottles of water and squinting into the hot sun, feeling like they’ve licked the road. They are waiting to check into the hotel.

When we got into our room, we discovered that L had managed to pack:
– three pairs of shoes
– a jumper
– six pairs of trousers and
– three books

While I’d somehow ended up with:
– eighteen pairs of knickers (straight from the dirty laundry basket)
– a copy of Jagged Little Pill
– two coca teabags
– a shortwave radio and
– a miniature screwdriver set.

With the memory of that long, strange week in mind, and still slightly unsure about what I’d been intending to do with the contents of my suitcase, I think it’s wiser if these days I make an attempt to pack a little in advance. So since I’m off for a week on a small island in an hour or so, I’d better get packing.

Now, where did I leave that alum key?