Summer Inertia

A curious dull sort of time, the approach to one's annual vacation. I am filled with listlessness: that is, I know that I must make out some lists detailing the articles still required for making the holiday as smooth and as hassle-free as possible (e.g. Do you really want to find yourself without wet-wipes just after you have eaten a three-scoop gelato in the blazing sun? Or paying way over the odds for some antihistamines when the mozzy bite turns nasty? I think not!) This task is seen as mandatory by the bossy, schoolmarmish side of my brain, the one that barks up the stairs 'Have you done your teeth yet?' every morning. And yet....and yet....there is a part of me (presumably the opposite side) that just wants to roll up at the airport with a backpack containing the bare essentials plus some holiday reading, arrive at my destination cool and unconcerned, organise my accomodation on spec (Oooh! Look at that lovely Etruscan well-cover in the courtyard. There! Under the walnut tree!), drift through the weeks unrestricted by schedules and timings, enjoying long lunches and late dinners.
But it'll never happen. At least not in the forseeable future of family holidays where I seem to be chief motivator and organiser. I don't know if it's a question of pride or guilt (See what a fabulous facilitator I am! I have brought TWO sorts of moisturiser!/Oh my God the children will get sunstroke just because I, their incompetent mother, forgot to bring their sunhats!), But I despise myself for being unable to cede control. Moisturiser and sunhats CAN be bought, at shops, by their father if necessary.....
Even knowing this, I fully intend to make a foray into town tomorrow to buy the necessary outstanding items. The languorous woman at the airport is not, and probably never will be, me.