"OK then, Bastia it is" smiled the Travel Agent, outstretching her hand to take my husband's credit card. I couldn't quite remember agreeing to it, but I suppose we must have.
I watched in stunned silence, my mouth opening to form the words "hold on a minute, I'm not actually sure......" but husband just beamed at me and said "I've always wanted to go to Corsica, it'll be great" and punched in his PIN.
The words "I don't really think I fancy it" withered and died in my mouth. I felt the noose of commitment tightening around my neck. I was trapped into a decision I wasn't sure about. I gave my husband a panicky look, willing him to telepathically get my drift and get the transaction voided. Or maybe get me voided. I tried to say something but it was too late, my protests fell on deaf ears, largely because it was only the voice in my head which was shouting "I've changed my mind".
I am a total holiday nightmare. I can never decide where to go. And if, by some weird twist of fate I do actually make a decision, the very second the decision is made I want to get out of it. Make up some silly reasons not to go. It might rain (it did), we might not like it (we didn't), it seems an awful lot of money (it was).
The only thing I fear more than going to new places and seeing new things is not going to new places and not seeing new things. I have to really push myself to take that first fearful step and our ultimate destination has to be worth all the effort. I'm not a natural born traveller, nor an adventurer, but merely a home bird with occasional migratory tendencies, eager to fly the cage that I have constructed for myself but rarely brave enough to spread my wings.
Usually my fears prove to be groundless and once we arrive everything is fine, but this time I was really worried that we'd made a big mistake.
And when we got there, saw the lie of the land, that voice in my head was saying "I told you so."