Change of continent

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Things have changed. Friends are pressing heatfelt cards into my hands and I am thumbing gold stars on to an envelope with your name on it. Flatmates, friends, family. It was my birthday and neither parent managed more than a text message. Nevermind. Twenty three isn't worth writing home about and my lack of birthday greetings make the ones I did get much nicer. The messages: It's been so good to know you, to work with you, to live with you, to be with you. I am feeling quite smug. But this really isnt the point. The point is that things have changed. That plans have changed. We are going away; we are all going away. To the Middle East, yes, and to the United States and to the Netherlands and home to Kent. Wherever. Last week I thought I was flying to Beirut. Now the sun is shining in Vauxhall and my flight is booked to Cairo. I won't explain - let's hold on to the romance - but suffice to say that this u-turn lead to the discovery that our airline can spell neither Beirut nor Sofia so we are likely better off without them. Full refund later and Egypt here we come.

Lizzie tells me that she has always had an interest in the ancient civilisations of East Africa. She is overcome at the prospect of the pyramids. I am hoping she will bombard me with interesting anthropological facts that I will enjoy briefly and forget. She is good with facts; good with trivia. I am good with trivia but not so with facts. We make great travelling freinds. And shopping freinds. And eating friends. Everything friends. Oh we will have such fun! Until either one of us decends into a petulant sulk or black mood, answering questions in sarcastic monosyllables and raising prim eyebrows at eachothers obvious mistakes. I am mean and sarcastic when annoyed, Lizzie is tight-lipped and irritable. We know what beasts we are dealing with.

So much to do and so little time to do it. Phonecalls, letters, essays, shopping, parties, dinnerdates. Like I have let this creep up on me. Like I haven't known for months. And there is a slight knot in my stomach. That little 'what if?' creature slopping around in there with the Birthday cake. What if I don't get it all sorted? What if I come back to mayhem? Call the bank, doctors on Monday, final of The Apprentice. What have I forgotton? Will I see you before I go?

On Friday we shopped for the things we need. Plain white shirts and linin trousers (I know... Dear God). You'll think it's ridiculous that the content of my wardrobe matters so much. Perhaps you'd just take an old T-shirt and some capris pants. Maybe I should. I asked my housemate what I should wear this evening. He said: "That blue dress." Good answer. That blue dress I wore a year and a half ago when we mistakenly went to The Works in Kingston, just after we'd met. That blue dress I wore to some club in Brixton with you and Sophie, when we saw that girl dancing like she was in a musical and copied her, drank rum and remembered for months what fun we'd had; how we should do it again. I'll wear it with hoops and flip-flops and I'll remember tonight too.

Everything takes on a certain significance when you know it'll all be over soon. Isn't it nice that we're all together, wasn't it special that she said that? And this isn't me at all, I'm not like this. But this year I feel a little sad to be leaving. Lots of people parting ways. And me flying to Egypt with a suitcase of hand-picked highstreet practical wear.

My housemate is telling me that the Canadian Governer General just butchered a seal and ate a slice of it's warm heart. I will miss these kitchen table discussions, but, on this note, I am ready to leave.

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