More later, but the anticipation, the anxiety, the packing, the unpacking, the nerves, the headless-chicken routine, and the overwhelming need to drink copious amounts of alcohol, are incredible.

I believe I am flying to Tanzania tomorrow to tackle some mountain or other. Is that really me? Sure? I am not at this moment in time sure of what reality is anymore. It all feels like a dream, and I am not sure yet whether it feels like a good one or a bad one.

Things run through my mind and back with relentless furosity: How am I getting from the airport to the hotel? What sort of travel adaptor do you require in Tanzania? Do I have the right suntan lotion? Will my Camelback freeze? Should I pack more clothes? Less clothes? Do I have enough money? What if my camera battery doesn’t work, or the memory card is defunct? What if my anti-malarials make me sick? What if I fricking DIE when I am there?

The phrase “headless chicken” has been used to describe me before. Now I am an absolute basket case. I am a parrot called Tim, a box of frogs of varying colours, and a bicycle pump, all rolled into one. Help!!!!!!!