Don't pack drunk

Summer is done and I'm traveling again: Madrid, Edinburgh, Manila, Seoul and Zurich to begin with. No complaints: if I'm not on planes I'm not getting paid.

Travel means packing and packing always makes me feel stupid. Specifically, packing is an exercise in imagining my future self and experience has taught me that that guy is an idiot. Indeed most travel planning could be described as 'negating your inner idiot'.

These oh-so-unimpressive alternative selves exist inside each of us. Stress brings them out. As does fatigue, distraction brought on by overwork and alcohol.

I've learnt to mitigate these minor demons with low-level paranoia. Printing out and filing the limo pick-up instructions for Ninoy Aquino airport now means one less thing for the idiot-me to forget to do later.

In pre-travel mode I become a parent to myself. Lists are made and checked off. I run semi-conscious wargaming exercises like, 'If the programme was pulled forward to tomorrow would you be ready?' I update the weather app on my iPhone to flag destination cities (Manila, 30C, thunderstorms, if you're wondering).

And don't pack drunk. Turning up in Toronto in January equipped for summertime Sydney taught me that. Not unless you want fur-hatted Canadians pointing you out in the street.