After spending the last two hours hunting for an envelop I was about ready to slit my wrists. Said envelop had a number of 10L sterling notes in it. Money that I planned on using in the morning to pay the cab driver. With three of us needing to get to the airport at the height of train commuter traffic, it seemed more sensible to get a nice comfortable ride to Heathrow.
Of course, as part of my attempt to be frugal we have a bit of an interesting route. Taking KLM, we change planes at Schipol en route to Montréal. Which takes me right back to packing, insanity and needing to find my money to avoid the otherwise inevitable trip to a cash point.
There was at least something positive to come out of my panic. The clothes cupboard is now meticulously sorted and organized. I have pulled out a variety of garments to pack and have only handknit socks to chose. It made me feel good, but didn’t do anything for the economics of the situation.
Giving up, I slumped onto the corner of my bed.
Lifting up a corner of the large comforter than has been draped across the bed since DH left, I noted the edge of some paper. Envelop as a matter of fact. Money, UK money as a matter of fact. I have no memory of dropping it on the bed the last time I need to get some cash. In fact, I have the distinct memory of holding it in my right hand, pushing some shirts out of the way with my left and burying it under the winter sweaters. The memory is almost tactile in its clearness.
Losing my mind or getting confused? Probably no matter, the girls think I am ancient anyway.