Carol’s Column

Packing with a spouse not a bonding experience ...

Couples should never travel together. For any relationship to succeed it is better that each person travel independently under his or her own steam.

I speak from bitter experience. It's not that I'm scared if we travel on the same plane it may crash and we'll both be wiped out, which means nobody will feed the dogs. I am.

It's not that my husband and I do not have the same interests. We don't. It's not that we don't enjoy visiting the same places. We do. It's just that our requirements are different.

Take the last time we travelled to London for a week. “What is that?” said my husband, pointing to the pile of suitcases in the corner of the bedroom.

“My luggage.”

“You're going to London for a week and you're taking two suitcases, a carry-on bag and that square thing with the broken handle?” he queried.

“That square thing with the broken handle is my face,” I replied.

“Then what's that on your head?” he chortled.

It's at times like this that I know I should have married Marvin Alkin, who lived in the flat above when I was a little girl. He became a smiling gynaecologist without an attitude.

“In that square thing with the broken handle I have creams. One for cleansing, one for moisturising, one for invigorating dead skin-cells and one for sun protection. Then there's lip-wrinkle cream, gel for puffy eyes and a dandelion and sturgeon egg cream which smoothes necks, knees and navels. Then ...”

“Okay, okay, I get the message,” he said.

“I haven't even got to my cosmetics,” I continued. “Day and night lipstick. Dark and light, blue, green and brown eye shadow, cheek-contouring tinted foundation, mascara ...”

“Fine, fine,” he shuddered, and disappeared.

In his corner I noticed one small suitcase with two pairs of pants, some shirts, one jersey and a few pairs of underpants and socks. That was it.

I stormed downstairs. “How can you pack only four pairs of underpants for eight days? That's unhygienic.”

He gazed at me in amazement. “We'll wash them,” he said.

“Who's we?” I snarled.

“Why don't you use packing as a bonding experience?” suggested my good friend Betty when I related the story to her. “Pack together as a team.”

Right.

I discussed the issue with my husband and we decided to pack and bond.

“So why are you taking a full medical kit to London?” said my husband.

“Because when you travel you have to be prepared,” I replied.

“Anti-malarial tablets? A sterilised syringe kit? Splints? Plaster of Paris? Snakebite kit, anti-spider venom for London?” He rolled his eyes heavenwards.

“And you, you're taking a sewing kit? What for? You've never sewed anything in your life. If you have a hole in your socks or your shirt needs a button you throw them away!” I snapped.

“Are you going to wear double-soled, mountain-grip waterproof hiking boots to the theatre? And a snorkel? Why do you need a snorkel?” he sniggered.

“In case it rains,” I muttered slamming my second suitcase.

The truth is we were not bonding.

But we did compromise. When we finally departed, I flew with two suitcases, one carry-on bag, my square cosmetic case and a handbag while my husband carried one small suitcase and a rucksack we'd jointly filled with chutney, vacuum-packed biltong, dried mango and buttermilk rusks for the kids.

When we landed in London everything arrived. Other than my husband's suitcase which was lost.

Who says there is not a higher power?

■