So. Who the feck invented holidays or vacations as the French and our colonial cousins call them?
And to what purpose?
I mean. Pack a suitcase with your most impractical clothing, load up your kindle with romantic novels (pauses to evacuate the bit of sick in the back of throat), leave your best mate in kennels, sit in a tin can in the sky, then spend two weeks beside a pool crammed alongside half a thousand red, sweaty people.
Can somebody just tell me why?
- My house is nice, so why would I want to leave it?
- Gyp is excellent company, so why would I want to leave him?
- I can cook. I have a dishwasher and a hoover and a washing machine. Sometimes I even use them.
- I hate hot sun. I hate sangria. I hate swimming pools. And I’m not too fond of the human race.
So please why?
Maybe I can just about get it if you are a working person. Some time away from the grindstone I can understand. Though you could have that in the comfort of your own home, you know. Also, the allure of having somebody do your chores for two weeks must be enormous. But with what you spend on a holiday you could probably afford to have somebody come and do your chores every week. (Just saying.)
What I can find no justification for whatsoever is the likes of my neighbour – who we will call Mabel to protect the innocent – who regularly packs her roll-along and gets on a coach with fifty or so other crumblies and heads off to the delights of Skegness, or Blackpool, or Weymouth, or…
What the heck is that all about? Hours and hours in a tin box that smells of breath mints, mothballs and haemorrhoid cream – with the added delight of a courier in an ill-fitting blazer (with mismatched dentures and a very sketchy idea of the holiday itinerary and any places of interest en route). Hotel rooms with brushed nylon sheets. All-you-can eat lunchtime buffets. Cream teas with stale scones. Three-course ‘evening meals’ with canned soup and arctic roll. Not in this life.
Two years ago a well-meaning (but stupid) granddaughter-in-law bought yours truly a ticket for a coach trip up the Rhine valley. I have since forgiven her. Just. And, as it was Mabel’s eightieth, the ticket didn’t go to waste.
In essence then. Holidays are the province of the bored, the feckless, and those whose lives don’t suit them.
My advice? Forget the costas. Spend your money on booze, fags and good food – and sort your frigging life out.
I’m now off to the wine bar where it’s grab a granny night…