This means she lays everything out, I guess in the spare bedroom. Every little thing she plans to take with her on one of her overseas trips: undies, bras, layers for top, layers for bottom, waterproof bits and pieces, even shoes. Enough to dress up in when she wants to go somewhere special but not so much that she brings it home thinking, ''Why did I take that with me?'' Just enough creams, potions and lotions. I'm pretty sure she even takes jewellery, whereas I wouldn't trust myself not to leave my wedding ring in the bathroom of the Victoria & Albert, where it might find its way into the museum's collection. ''Ring of an unnamed Australian woman whose head was left at home and whose symbol of everlasting love was left in a strange loo.''

My understanding is that the concept of the trial pack is to ensure everything will fit neatly in the suitcase - and that there is still room in case you pick up a bargain on your travels. Everything is neatly folded into modular shapes, which all fit together perfectly and leave no holes. Smooth, snug, efficient.

I'm pretty sure this comes from years of travelling. She gave me a suitcase a couple of years ago to celebrate my first overseas trip in years. The case itself is brilliant. It has wheels, a handle and now a lurid green ribbon to distinguish itself from all the other smart cases.

Its only drawback is that it doesn't come with what might be described as ''packing memory''.

What is that? If you are familiar with the term muscle memory, it's what we mean when we return to exercise after a bit of a lay-off. It took you a bit of time - like nearly a year - to cycle like a maniac for 30 minutes when you first started doing it. Now, even after you have a month off of stuffing yourself senselessly and your only exercise is wandering around museums and shops, it doesn't take you a year to get back to your old level of fitness. At least, I think that's how it works. I pray that's how it works.

Anyhow, I kind of hoped that the suitcase would have ''packing memory'', a reminder of its past owner and general good influence. Sadly, no.

Look, I was not too bad leaving home. Of the permitted 20 kilograms, I smugly weighed in at 11 at the airport, as my sceptical daughters checked the scales twice. Three weeks later I have about four kilograms of Christmas decorations, which are impossible to even get into my hand luggage. The small bronze bell is particularly unruly and has set off airport security twice now. It must look threatening because, for the first time ever, I had one of those searches where the security staff put their hands into your jeans. I also have 15 kilograms of perfect darling coats I will never wear because who needs a portable doona in Australia? In fact, as an airport-closing blizzard swirls around me in northern Denmark, I remind myself to toughen up the next time I even think it's cold at home.

It saddens me to say that travelling brings out the acquisitive side of my nature. First, it feels as though the shops are full of clothes with style that fit a short, middle-aged woman who's lost quite a lot of weight (but not enough to fit into a size 10). I've found stuff with buttons at diagonals; and knitted widgets on the hip; and polka-dot tights that are discreet enough not to look ridiculous. Secondly, I hate internet shopping, because I like to feel the width. Here is all the stuff I could buy on the internet yet get to try on, in colours that are not just black and navy.

After this frenzy, I come face-to-face with what every Briton knows to be true. The terrifying prospect of the service staff of Ryanair (the budget airline that can get you across Europe for a few notes short of a song). As I'm trying to squeeze in the decorations, the coats and the polka-dots, I realise it is not all going to fit. The case has no packing memory and I have no idea how to pack everything flat. I now wish I'd taken Penni's offer of some training - but I was overconfident. Oh, the arrogance of old age.

The only solution is to wear four coats on the plane. It is 4am as I stand in the queue to fly to Aarhus in Denmark and I am the only person sweltering. The Ryanair service staff look me up and down. I don't even speak and she says: ''I don't trust Australians.'' I smile weakly and she plops my case on the scales.

As she whisks it away I realise it only weighs 17.2 kilograms and I could have squeezed in at least one of the doonas. I wonder if there's a course in how to pack Christmas decorations into modular shapes?

■ Follow me on Twitter @jennaprice or email jenna_p@bigpond.net.au