Sometimes when I am leafing through a magazine or the gossip columns I see a photograph of someone like Joan Collins. She will be walking through an airport with a poor lackey trailing behind whilst he shoves a trolley piled high with cases. Like half a dozen huge pieces of luggage.
There are those who simply cannot travel light. When I go away for a fortnight in the summer I can shove everything into one cabin-sized case.
Mind you, I’m not heading off to St Tropez, or some other glitzy resort, to go clubbing and quaffing alongside the A-list with the paparazzi lurking in the shadows watching my every move. I am more likely to be lying by a pool stuffing my face and hydrating with some of the local plonk.
The only person interested in taking embarrassing photos of me is my daughter so she can put it on SnapChat. And that will only last for about ten seconds (or so she tells me).
However, last weekend I went away with some friends including the fabulously glamorous Gaynor (FGG to her mates). Gaynor is quite simply not a cabin bag girl. She has so many clothes to take not to mention hairdryer and straighteners. There was even a huge amount of false eyelashes which she applied to her less stylish, stubby lashed friends.
Anyway, FGG had pressed the button for two check-in cases by mistake and insisted that she would give the extra allowance to yours truly.
The night before we left I sat in front of the large case that I had borrowed from my daughter. I literally took armfuls of T-shirts and chucked them in, then huge tubs of creams and even a very large hardbacked book. Heck, I could have packed a machete and it would have found its way to Spain.
At the airport, the cabin-baggers shoved their toiletries into the case and there was still room for all the purchases I made on holiday to come home.
One thing remained the same. Each evening I just couldn’t find anything to wear.