Cardiff will always hold a special place in my heart. As I was telling you in a previous post, I fell in love with it as soon as I got off the London train on a cold and dark December. In my mind, the name will always conjure up a memory of frozen nose and red cheeks on evenings at the Bay. I was so cold that I could no longer feel my fingers and Mermaid Quay sparkled with fairy lights. We stopped at the (now defunct) Café Rouge. I remember the warmth of the onion soup bowl around which I wrapped my hands and afterwards, the icy wind as we walked back to our hotel. I loved that winter, as I have loved every winter there ever since (though it is of course very nice in the summer too).
I have just started to unpack ten days’ worth of luggage after a lovely summer trip to Wales (translation: I have opened my bag, spent two minutes wondering if doing the laundry really was what I wanted to do with my day and decided against it), and something struck me: I hadn’t worn a good third of the clothes I had taken with me. I had to face it: I, like many other people, pack too much stuff.