If there's a thing you must know about me, it's my outrageously impressive ability to get lost in a place I've spent almost my entire life. I'm really very good at it.
Ask me the name of the streets surrounding my childhood home. Go on, ask.
Because I have no idea.
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For this reason, and the fact my husband has to use 'Find My Friend' to pick me up when I don't know where I am, I've never travelled alone.
You see, together with my troubling sense of direction, I also get a wee bit nervous when I'm travelling. Also, I'm terribly clumsy and quite partial to losing everything I've ever owned.
All of these things boil together in a really nice big pot of CRIPPLING DEPENDENCY, and for this reason I've never really considered travelling alone.
In the 32 years of my life, I've taken one trip overseas by myself to visit my husband in the US — where I was swiftly transported to and from the airport, leaving little room for error. (I'll never forget the card my mum wrote me before I took off. It read: "Please don't get lost. And don't get burnt.")