It’s a strange feeling to be so close to the very thing I’ve wanted for so long; to be on the verge of doing something that used to feel virtually impossible. I can’t believe that in 15 weeks’ time we’ll be out there travelling the world after years of dreaming, saving up our money and obsessively planning our travel adventure. I should be jumping-for-joy ecstatic, singing-from-the-rooftops excited – and don’t get me wrong, I am – but why do I also feel so incredibly sad?
What brings thousands of women out on a cold, wet, dark November night in London? What would make us angry enough to march through the streets of London waving placards, singing, blowing whistles and foghorns?