Right. So I’m going to the UK for 2 months for work. Yes. For 2 months. That’s 9 weeks. I leave next Friday.
Admittedly it was my suggestion. Remote managing a project from Africa when the majority of the delivery team is in the UK does not make sense. Neither does communicating with a global network of 22 locations from a continent with no real broadband to speak of.
So I put up my hand and suggested I run the first 2 months of project from our London office. They agreed. Well, actually, they got all gung ho and suggested I stay for 3 to 4 months, but fortunately it wasn’t possible for various reasons. Thank god.
But now I’m nervous. I’m feeling that niggling doubt that I’m not up to this. That I’ll get there and they’ll laugh and send me home to mummy.
And I’ve just realised that if I can barely go 3 days without pouncing on the delicious Mr Noord, then how the hell am I going to manage 63? Then again, with shops like this and this to visit, Mr Noord might need the 63 days to prepare for my return*.
And I can gorge on galleries and Britains Got Talent and mushroom crossaints.
Either way, Totsiens Okies** and Hello Old Chum!
*Innuendo aside. I don’t wanna. And he refuses to squash into my roll on case.
** Afrikaans for Goodbye Dudes.