I must admit that now, with about 36 hours until I stagger with my backpack through the big glass doors of International Departures at Tullamarine for my big trip overseas, the excitement of travel is starting to mix with the trepidation of missing (and being missed by) my family while I’m gone for the month.

The idea of going off backpacking around Europe as part of a catch-up on the things I didn’t quite get around to in my early twenties seemed like such a good idea a few months ago. I still think it’ll be fun, and who knows, it may turn out to be an advance scouting mission for a later holiday or even long term go-over-and-live-for-a-while operation involving everyone later. I’ll just have to shoot plenty of video so they get to see what happens.

I have to admit that the packing, as such, hasn’t actually begun yet. Oh sure, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’m taking, and most of the supplies, such as power adaptors and so on, are ready. Most of what I didn’t already have, I got for my birthday (which was last Thursday).

John spent some time this afternoon pulling, prodding, stretching, testing and adjusting some of the seemingly endless number of straps on the backpack I’ve borrowed, so it now approximately fits me - rather than my sister, who used it last. So now I can carry my body weight in luggage in it, and I won’t break my back doing it. I might stagger around a fair bit, but I won’t break my back.

So in the next few hours, I’ll start loading it up, ready to go off and see the world.

Oh yeah, and today’s news of a Federal election on October 3rd is great for me. This means I get to exercise my voice in deciding the leadership of my country. But since I’ll be away for September, I won’t have to sit through any of the political crap!

Well, take-off day is only 8 days away now. I’m getting less nervous about getting everything organised, and more excited at the prospect of stepping down on foreign soil for a bit of a wander round.

I’m not really nervous of flying - the two airlines I’m using, Qantas and British Airways, seem to have pretty good safety records (particularly Qantas). Given the proximity of the flight path to the Middle East, and Clinton’s recent messing around with his missile, I’m pretty pleased I’m not flying on an American airline…

We’ll know there’s something sneaky going on if a year or two down the track, some US military scientists name the next missile they develop the Missile Online Nuclear Intercontinental Combat Armament or something.

Got an aerogramme from my Grandad today, the first from him for probably a decade and a half that’s actually been anything approaching legible. He’s given all the details of how to get from Heathrow to his place in West Sussex. So provided I don’t get lost at Victoria Station I should find it okay.

I’ve been looking through my passport, at the small number of visas, stamps and other memorabilia that appears within. There’s thirty-two pages in the passport, not counting those used for my photo and details. Thirty-two pages, all numbered, yet all the immigration officials seem to have different ideas about where to leave their marks. One’s at the start, one’s at the end, and the rest are scattered around on random pages in the middle.

Why? Is it so the guys and gals at Immigration Control can have a good nose through to see where you’ve been while they look for the bit that pertains to them? Couldn’t they just do it conventionally, down each page, and onto the next page when that page is full? Is it too much to ask to have a neat passport?

I’m finding shoes to be a real pain in the arse right now. I mean figuratively, not literally. What a shame that the standards of western society demand that people have footwear. Maybe it’s just me, but I seem to have pretty bad luck with shoes.

The shoes I usually wear to work decided last week to start disintegrating. Well, okay, so maybe disintegrating is exaggerating a little - but only a little. They are, naturally, just out of the warranty period. Thankfully getting them fixed over the weekend only set me back ten bucks, but the inconvenience of not having them to wear to work bugs me. I have to resort to my walking shoes.

I’ll call them my walking shoes because I can’t think of any better way of describing them. They’re a pair of brownish-reddish shoes, very comfortable though a little too large for my feet - and no I don’t recall how or why I managed to buy a pair a little too large. That’s not so much of a problem though, ‘cos I just wear thick socks with them.

What bugs me about these shoes is that they’re different colours. Not radically different colours, but different enough that it’s noticeable. At least, I perceive that people probably notice them and think what a strange person I am for wearing odd shoes, though probably nobody has actually noticed them and it’s just a little paranoia on my part.

They’re different due to a tragic shoe-polishing accident last year, when I started polishing one of them with medium brown instead of tan. This proved to be a bad mistake, but not as fatal (again, figuratively) as stopping, trying to wipe the brown off, and using tan for the other shoe. The result after that, almost no matter what you do, is odd shoes.

It’s taken many, many months to be brave enough to experiment again with the shoe polish and try and fix it, but I finally got around to it this morning before dashing out the door with them on my feet. I had a go at the lighter of the two shoes with the darker of the two polishes. They’re not perfect, but I’ll keep at them because I think these’ll be the shoes I’ll take to Europe. They’re sturdy and comfortable and should be good for strolling down cobblestone streets and waiting on station platforms and in airport lounges and that kind of thing.

Besides which, I’ve been reading in the guidebooks about how people who wear runners in Europe are spotted straight off as tourists. I figure that my video camera and backpack should be giveaway enough, I don’t need my shoes to underline it.

The past few weeks I’ve been rushing around like a headless chook, and haven’t had much time to update my diary. So here’s the latest, including tying up some loose ends from last month:

• Isaac’s hair was eventually cut by a friendly neighbourhood barber - while Isaac was asleep
• The beard got shaved off a couple of weeks ago, and was webcast. If you missed it, it’s still available
• I got flu a couple of weeks ago, and although most of it’s gone, the hideous-sounding cough is still present. Makes me sound like sixty year old chain smoker.

Over the weekend I got the air tickets and the BritRail pass for my trip next month. Still have yet to book the accommodation, which I’ll probably do next week. Even though most of it’s YHA Hostels, it’s apparently best to pre-book for the summer months, so once I’ve worked out my itinerary, I’ll do so.

I’ve got to admit, I’m starting to panic a little bit. Will the family survive without me? Worse yet, will they unaccountably thrive? Will I get to the airport and discover that I’ve forgotten some vital ingredient in the overseas holiday recipe? Like my passport, air tickets, or perhaps even my whole backpack?

When I get to France, what do I do? I don’t speak any French. Okay, so I’m going to practice how to say "I don’t speak French" in French (which sounds pretty silly, now I think of it), but will this be enough? Will the Parisians be friendly and try to communicate exactly where that toilet I need so badly is, or will they somehow work out that I bought an anti-French nuclear test postcard a couple of years ago and take pleasure in watching me sweat (or worse)?

How do the ticket machines work on the Paris Metro? Will I get lost somewhere in the Scottish highlands? What happens if on the tube in London I miss Willesden Green and end up at Stanmore? Is my grandfather really going to try and explain how the toilet works? Should I go to Amsterdam? Should I buy a new camera duty free before I go?

Strangely, what’s making it a little less stressful is the Web. Thanks to the Web, I’ve been reading up on the various cities I’ll be heading for. I can check my flight details. I can find out what time the trains are from Inverness to Plockton. Marvellous stuff.

I still want to know why every place name has its own translation in every other language - and who decides how they’re translated. But perhaps it just doesn’t matter.