As I write, Miss Marple’s suitcase is lying open on my bed.

I've just sneaked another peek to check and yes, it’s all there packed exactly as you would expect for an Agatha Christie heroine.

Peering out from behind a stout pair of walking shoes and a waterproof jacket are a pair of binoculars, a knee support bandage, enough paracetamol to protect a small island from pain and a mosquito hat.

There’s also a novel – something wistful and romantic, a little green first aid bag, socks for walking (seven pairs), large pants for comfort (also seven pairs) and an assortment of hard-boiled fruit-flavoured bonbons.

However, as a sign of my fight against turning 49 in two months time, there is also a sequinned frock and a pair of modest heels nestled in a corner for evening wear.

Now compare this to what my 18-year-old daughter is planning to take away with her to Magaluf – a couple of bikinis, some flip flops, a bottle of suntan oil and a pocket book guide to the best bars.

Oh God, how easy it was back then.

I can clearly remember not even thinking what to pack when I dashed off on my first foreign trip.

I didn’t even pack the night before – I just got up, threw what looked like a bikini in a cloth bag, and my traveller’s cheques.

And that was it. That was the sum total of my luggage for a fortnight in Italy.

What do I need, I thought. It’ll be hot, I’ll be laying on a beach and sandals I can pick up for less than a quid (and that was as extensive as my forward planning ever used to be).

It’s astonishing then that for this particular trip to Finland, I’ve been exhaustively researching and planning my luggage allowance like Lewis and Clarke doubtless did before they embarked on their great American odyssey.

Four weeks in the planning, three days in the execution, I now have a suitcase stuffed full of clothing and accessories designed specifically to take on any number of dire emergencies.

Yet when my daughter peeked her head round the door and saw me squatting atop it in order to close its lid, she couldn’t help but question my sanity – out loud.

“Why have you packed a mosquito hat and gloves with elasticated cuffs?” she quite rightly enquired.

But before I could explain that the gloves – the use of which I’ll admit is less than obvious – were a clever adaptation of mine for keeping the mozzies off my arms, she had run back into her room, skyped her friends, and branded me unfit to travel.

As for all the bandages and water purifying tablets, it seemed like the best joke she’d ever heard.

“It’s Finland mum, 21st century Finland. I bet you think they still eat herring roll mops.”

Herring aside, I have to agree with her.

Age makes one cautious, even when you’re a hippy at heart like me.