Well, just 24 hours to go. Leave behind the sunshine, my home, my Jancie (la vrai patronne - the real boss). 24 hours to pack and fret about what I've forgotten. 24 hours to tread water and get scared. In that same 24 hours, Jack Bauer would have been shot at, beaten up, blown up, killed twenty people and saved the world from annihilation. I'm just watching the clock.

Of course, La Patronne might not be with me in person - at least, not until Houston, Texas - but she will still be with me in spirit, and more. I will be carrying her detailed instructions. My bible, my every move pre-planned, pre-ordained by she who must always be obeyed or I will miss my plane. It's a veritable telephone book, with just about as much information in it. Go here, do that, catch this plane, check in at this time, take that train to this station, meet so-and-so on Thursday at 5. I thought human beings were supposed to have been blessed with free-will.

Actually, I'm glad to have been pre-programmed by La Patronne. I can relax in her hands and listen to my French language audio on my iPod and not have to worry about anything - except if my knickers are going to last me the two weeks until La Patronne arrives in Houston with fresh supplies.

The things you really don't want to think about!

Last night, my French (and American and Dutch) friends had a dinner in my honour - an al fresco send-off finale to a long summer of wine and laughter. Gilbert pointing his laser at the stars in the ink black sky of La France Profonde; Gary with his brain-busting aperitifs of vanilla vodka with a smidgin of rasberry vinegar - settling my butterflies with two sips; Ariane feeding me her wonderful aubergine compote; poor Laurenne who'd just put her back out and was in pain all night, but still managing to smile; and Roger nuzzling the necks of all the girls, and even mine after a bottle or three of wine; and not to forget Ellen who is generously moving out of her New York apartment to accommodate us at the end of September.

Thanks guys.

Oh, well, better go check on my travel insurance, find my passport (with the short-haired pic), and start swivelling my hips to swirl the kilt.

24 hours, and the great adventure begins.