This last few days Katie and I have been busier than, well, two very busy people. Preparation, lists, all sorts of unfamiliar concepts have been raising their heads in chez Fatboyfat.
Do concepts have heads? Never mind.
On Tuesday morning we'll be loading up the car again. We're driving down to Portsmouth and in the early evening will drive onto a boat. Quite a big boat, actually. Ten hours later we'll be disgorged in St Malo. And after several hours of driving (remembering the whole 'anti-clockwise round the roundabouts' thing) we'll fetch up at our home for the next two weeks. Officially in the middle of nowhere.
There will be none of these internets. In fact, electricity will be a bit touch-and-go at times. Great. At night, the sky will be black. Not that off-grey we get in cities. Crypt black, with a smattering of silver stars. And silent. No underhum of distant traffic. Real pindrop quiet.
For the next two weeks, this is what I'll be using instead of a laptop:
No power cable, no overheating lap, no bashing my head against the wall at the idiocy that is Mr Gates' finest.
It's somewhat ironic that the preparations for a holiday are such that you actually need a holiday to get over them. The last couple of weeks has been a whirl of officialdom. Passports, travel insurance, ferry bookings, stopover hotels.
The act of driving over there is complicated, and not just the left-hand kerb-hugging aspect. I've needed to get various bits of paper that prove I'm allowed to drive the car over there (it's a company car so not registered in my name), insurance certificate, breakdown cover, registration documents. Then such items as a warning triangle, GB plates, headlight converters, first aid kit, fire extinguisher, spare bulb kit and hi-vis jacket. Apparently the Gendarmerie like to pull over British motorists just to check they've got all this stuff. Maybe they've got shares in Halfords.
Add in a heady mix of packing, together with attempting to clear stuff at work so nothing serious blows up in the meantime. And I have a screenplay to write, too. And a second blog. And another website, related to the screenplay thingy. No wonder I'm seriously knackered.
Still, Katie thinks I need new trainers. "Save them for your holidays," she says.
We're going to be in the middle of rural Brittany, surrounded my horny-handed sons of the soil called Yves and Henri. Quite frankly, box-fresh trainers aren't going to impress.
Anyway. As a result you're going to have to look after yourselves for a fortnight or so. Don't forget to come back, won't you?