The question of the week

Autumn in our little corner of France has decided to perform a yo-yo ballet, and my wardrobe is the unwilling understudy.

Last week, in a fit of optimism, I packed away all my shorts and hauled out the long trousers and long-sleeved t-shirts. Very sensible. Very seasonal. Very premature. The weather forecast has since announced a few days of renewed heat, which feels less like a forecast and more like a personal taunt.

Case in point: I stepped outside for a post-lunch rest, and within minutes the sun had turned my chair into a frying pan with a view. I retreated indoors, defeated, like a vampire at a beach party.

The cruel trick of autumn is that the sun doesn’t hang around. The moment the shade creeps over you, the temperature drops like a stone and you go from “I’m melting” to “Where is my cardigan?” in roughly four minutes. It’s the weather equivalent of a friend who’s lovely at lunch and unbearable at dinner.

Meanwhile, I’m eyeing the London forecast with the intensity of a chess grandmaster. Ten degrees cooler than here, they say. Which means my packing list needs to cover “tropical lounging” and “damp British drizzle” in one tidy bundle.

And here’s the real kicker: we’re flying cheap, which means one under-seat bag. One. That’s not a suitcase, that’s a handbag with ambitions. Every item must earn its place. Do I bring the jumper that might save me in London, or the sandals that might save my dignity at home?

The solution, I suspect, is layers. Lots of thin, clever layers, worn all at once on the plane, until I resemble a well-dressed onion.

If you spot me at the airport sweating profusely in three jackets, please don’t make eye contact. I’m packing strategically.

What would you pack for a week of “sunburn with a side of drizzle”? Tell me in the comments, I clearly need all the help I can get.

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