I was trying to avoid digging-out anything packed, but I'm going to have to find a novel to read, I'm nearly finished No Mean City.
I have a copy of JG Ballard's Super Cannes in the suitcase, and I'll need to get it tonight. Which is piling weird on weird, because I'm living a Ballard novel here.
Almost everything is packed: books, clothes, cameras. All that's left out is shoe polish and brushes, bathroom things. The clothes I intend to travel in are hanging up, ready to be put on once I get the call. My good suit is next to them, waiting to be the final item packed because I don't want it too creased when I go straight to the new job. This laptop will be hand luggage.
And I have a shirt, a teeshirt, two pairs of underwear, two pairs of socks, a pair of tracksuit bottoms and an Arab nightshirt, which I cycle through, washing and drying the set that I'm not wearing.
The best indicator of the passage of time is the need to go out and buy more shisha tobacco and carbon. The shisha pipe is one left behind by someone else, mine is packed.