One day I am going to get on a plane holding nothing apart from a small clutch bag containing passport, ticket, wallet and lipstick, with one paperback book casually stuffed in my pocket. I'll carry my sunnies on my head.
I did once meet a man who travelled like that. We were on a flight from London to Singapore and I noticed him in the boarding lounge, where he was the only person not carrying an inflight bag.
He got on board, put his jacket in the overhead locker and read the book all the way. By the time we made Singapore he'd finished his thriller and he left it on the seat to glide hands - free and footloose through the airport and on to whatever adventures awaited.
I, on the other had, disembarked as I had arrived - Sherpa Peggy, hauling a bulging handbag plus a tote bursting with inflight essentials. By the time I reached my hotel I needed an osteopath.
To be fair to the younger me, it was 30 years ago, when you could never be sure if they would give you anything resembling a toothbrush if you were flying in arse class, so I feel retrospectively justified about the washbag I had in there. But was the large make-up bag also necessary? The change of clothes? The 1.5 litre bottle of water was clearly excessive and I have now learned to scam it from flight attendants, so I no longer make that mistake.
Where I still go wrong, though, is the two newspapers and three glossy magazines. They weigh so much and the lugging is nightmarish, yet I am unable to resist the allure of the newsstand before getting on any kind of transport.
I have tried actively to counter this neurotic tendency by leaving home without the tote, which inevitably becomes full to maximum capacity, but this just led to a grotesque incident where a plastic shopping bag split on public transport and I had to cram bananas, sandwiches and water bottle into my handbag and jacket pockets.
The only crumb of comfort I can take from the understanding that I am a spectacularly unrelaxed traveller, even on relatively short journeys, it that I am clearly not alone in it.
Every transport hub I have ever been to - railways, airports, ferry terminals and bus stations in about 20 different countries - has been a mini medina of stalls and shops catering to transit neurosis, be it via newspaper cones of sunflower seeds, or full-fat mocha lattes and a box of cinnamon rolls.
Clearly something about leaving home - even when we are thrilled at the prospect of our trip - triggers a universal insecurity that compels us to acquire everything we might possibly need until we arrive at our destination.
If only I could convince myself it's just one paperback book.
My kitchen stained glass window I made back in 1983 when blogging hadn't taken over my life.