Only hours remain before I get going; only days before I should set foot in Scotland again.

I won’t talk about how it’s a much belated visit et cetera. I’ve already mentioned it often enough; more importantly, I somehow don’t much feel like writing. To tell the truth, I’m mostly writing this because of a vague feeling that somehow I should.

I spent the day packing my rucksack and doing various other final preparations, a good deal of the time while listening to some of my favourite albums. (Not because I won’t hear them for twelve days, nothing untypical about that; because I won’t be able to listen to them for twelve days.) By now, just about everything is done and I feel once more that mixture of anxiety and impatience. I can’t wait to go and at the same time I’m jittery about going. Mostly I’m afraid of what might yet go wrong. Currently the biggest anxiety is oversleeping and not getting to the gathering point in time. Once through that others will follow: fear of a social phobia fit preventing me from setting off at all, of the train getting delayed, of the bus having a road accident… I guess that just like the previous two times I’ll only belive I’ll get there if and when I’m already there.

Ah well, calm down, boy. Don’t forget what we said in the army: the worst kind of death is dying of twitchiness.



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