Fired up by fear, adrenaline bull-runs and sub-zero temperatures, we are sliding, slightly uncontrollably, towards our much-anticipated D-Day. In 2 weeks we will jump the bungee to Cuba, South America, Oz and, hopefully, a bloody good time on a few other continents too.
In the meanwhile, the organisational baggage of a combined 72 years is traumatically testing our patience (losing), relationship (winning) and sleeping (failing). As we move out of our shoe box under the eaves, we move into each other, inexplicably perturbed by the loss of a home.
Packing until the early hours of a Sunday morning, I wake up broken and faithless on seeing the collection of boxes, suitcases, bulging supermarket bags, camel packs - and one saxophone - and slink moodily into a corner, sipping on a cup of rooibos tea.
Because the storeroom that's costing us the GDP of an African country is smaller than most room cupboards and shit, shit what are we going to do with all the excess baggage and I've been remonstrating with Amanda right from the start that we have too many possessions.
Three hours later and I'm making promises of unfettered naughtinesses to two chunky Afrikaner boys (and their white van) because not only does the whole patootie fit into the storeroom - there's space for more.
And so we burn one once-white bra after the other (while uncovering new ones in unexpected places), and lurch from drinky session to dentist to Council Tax office to Cuban car hire website (still dithering whether to book it from the UK or locally).
But overlaying all the turbulence, histrionics and unspoken concerns over uprooting, is a thick blanket of excitement for all the unknown sights, experiences and people we will be lucky enough to encounter over the next year or so.
We are going to Cape Town via Tierra del Fuego and we are very excited.
