Transatlantic Dashing

In case there are any burglars reading: my flat will be vacant and welcoming for the next fortnight, do feel free to make yourself a nice cup of tea while you're at it and the key is under the mat.

(It's not.)

It's that time again, you see: time for a transatlantic booty call, to the arms of my darling boyfriend; it's been far too long since I was close enough for snuggly affection. He was in London in May, but since then the distance has been back between us. It's hard, yes, but by God those kisses are worth it.

So, in the interests of making it back into his arms, I shall be boarding a 13-hour flight tomorrow and inflicting myself upon him - and his whole family - in Wyoming.

My hair is trimmed and shiny, my teeth are cleaned and also shiny, I am waxed and smooth (but not shiny). I have completed the Refusal To Be Bored On A Plane Campaign and therefore have hand luggage filled with laptop, DVD player, PSP, iPhone and an entire Arthur C. Clarke trilogy. None of which, of course, I will be in the mood to do should I have chosen one of those planes that just plays soap re-runs on TV screens that are in the aisle, several metres ahead and to the side.

And I have finally finished the packing - although my process was a little questionable and culminated in so many things strewn around my flat I might equally have called it "unpacking" - and am now doing all the odds and sods that need doing before one exits the premises for two weeks. Someone please remind me I haven't watered the plants.

One more sleep and it's airport kisses time!