It's the day to get my Easter rituals organised. In particular, I have to find a religious supplies shop to get some stocks of altar beer. This is no trivial task in the United States. The liquor store has more choices in beer than it does in french wine. Actually, the beer aisle is not unlike the breakfast cereal aisle in a supermarket. I feel like a small child in a candy store: there is exquisite agony in making the choice. In fact, it takes me all of an hour.
When I finally choose, and get to the check-out, it finally occcurs to me that other people might like something as well. So, as they say in the Ozzie beer adverts, I throw in a bottle of sherry "for the sheilas".
With alles now in ordnung, I can turn my attention, finally, da-dada-da-dada-da - to the packing. After a week of background thinking, it falls into place smooth, as they say here, as a Clinton apology. I have my road bag, my "just in case" bag, and the big case divided into "wanted on voyage" and "not wanted on voyage".
And I've made a hatbox for my precious Stetsons.