AUGUST

HOLIDAYS!

As I circle my sixtieth birthday, I think about the different kinds of holidays I’ve had at various times in my life.

HOLIDAYS WITH MUM, DAD AND BROTHER WHEN I WAS A LITTLE KID

Main memories: in an anorak, looking at old castles in Scotland.

In an anorak, working the locks on the River Trent.

In an anorak, endlessly looking in rockpools in Cornwall.

HOLIDAYS WITH FRIENDS IN MY TEENS AND TWENTIES

Main memories: staying in cheap hostels and catching fleas, pubic lice and athlete’s foot (better than pubic foot and athlete’s lice, I suppose…).

Continuously counting money to be able to get to the last day, and to the airport, only to find there’s an airport tax I can’t afford.

Disastrously misreading the signs from several travelling companion chaps and discovering that a) they don’t fancy me, so there will be no romance, or b) they’re gay, so there will be no romance, or c) for no discernible reason, save our mutual awkwardness, there will simply be no romance.

Thinking that slathering my entire body with chip fat stolen from the hostel will make great sunscreen.

Crying at Pompeii, when I saw the petrified remains of a lava-preserved child.

Wishing we could sit down and watch people, more than walk around and see things.

Eating five FAB ice lollies every day for a week on the beach at Gwithian.

Fumbly sex in sweaty tents.

HOLIDAYS WITH LOVERS AND PARTNERS

Main memories: realizing on day ONE in Greece that this particular boyfriend is so very, very unsuitable, therefore working out how to render him physically and mentally incapable by 9 p.m. each evening.

Deploying cheap industrial cooking brandy to this end.

Making the fatal mistake of attempting some patois in Jamaica in a desire to be ‘cool’. Subsequently experiencing the stinging thrum of laughter at my back. Massively uncool.

Feeling so grown up, being alone with a handsome man on a beach, on a holiday we paid for with dosh made from telling silly jokes, dressing up and showing off.

Being in charge of the passports and the tickets. Yes. There were such things.

Coming to the sobering conclusion that I will never ever wear a spaghetti strap (not real spaghetti) sleeveless dress. Ever. Not even on a warm evening.

Realizing I will never go out braless. Ever.

Noticing that other women do and being in awe. Awe that teeters dangerously on the edge of jealousy and low self-esteem … and then plonks itself back firmly on the solid ground of simple curiosity and respect. It’s OK to be different to them and it’s OK to have big bosoms. In fact, it’s great.

Wanting very much for my chap to swim with me in the warm Mediterranean Sea. He ALWAYS wanted to read instead, and only swim when everyone else was gone and in his own time. I once swam out into the bay and called for him to join me. He shook his head and I knew then, in an instant of utter surety, that I couldn’t be with him any more. The tipping point. When you just know.

More fumbly sex in sweaty tents.

HOLIDAYS WITH FAMILY AND LITTLE KIDS

Main memories: taking it in turns to deal with the night shift alongside a bolt-awake jet-lagged tot.

Trying to explain how different toilets are in other countries.

Being terrified when my three-year-old’s asthma took a turn for the worse on holiday with a friend in Minorca. She quickly deteriorated and went limp in my arms. I had to speak in Spanish to a doctor on the phone urgently to get directions to an all-night chemist and to explain what was happening. I don’t speak any Spanish, but I somehow did that night.

Getting henna tattoos from hippies on the pavement in Corfu. Letting my daughter have one of a dolphin on her arm. Watching her allergy to it angrily blister up and get infected. She still has traces of it today. Some people’s skin doesn’t like henna.

Games around the table with lots of kids. Making up new words, especially swear words, and finding out what everyone’s last meal might be, and which Spice Girl they are going to marry in twenty years’ time. Most wanted to marry Baby, because she was voted ‘the kindest’. Even the girls thought she would be the best option for them, except a few renegades who voted for Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, mainly because of his remarkable arms. Concur.

No sex. Too knackered. Too sunburnt. Kids in bed.

HOLIDAYS WITH ADULT KIDS

Main memories: the absolute need to behave like much littler kids at the airport, mainly in the lounge, mainly due to massive over-excitement.

‘Stealing’ the in-flight wash kits and feeling mighty fortunate.

Late-night fire on the beach in New Zealand.

Cooking sausages on sticks in the flames.

Ghost stories.

Catastrophizing in Mexico, imagining that when they went off into town for an evening, some cartel member would SURELY plant class A drugs on them and we’d spend the next five years fighting to get them out of Mexican jail, having to sell our house to fund the court cases. Yeah. Chilled in Mexico …

That moment on a beach where you look over and see him next to you, and beyond him, her, and her, and him. Five sausages frying in the same heat, dopey and safe. Family together, with only mojitos in mind. Bliss.

HOLIDAYS WITH JUST YOUR DARLIN’

Main memories: him with ‘binokliers’ checking for pirates/whales/birds of exceptional beauty.

Trusting that food in wayside cafes in far-off distant countries is actually for human consumption. Knowing in your heart, on this one occasion, it isn’t.

Staying up ‘til 4 a.m. binge-watching House of Cards. ‘Being’ the ruthless Francis and Clare when making late-night sandwiches or toast, just to experiment with what it feels like to prepare snacks when you have no soul.

Holding hands on tiny planes seemingly made of paper, flown by teenagers not concentrating on keeping them in the air. Wondering if this level of bum-twinking fear is part of being a well-travelled person?

Reading books in easy silence. Swapping books. Muscular debate about books. Abandoning the swapped book, reclaiming the original one, and more reading, but now in less easy silence …

Planning a new dog. Thinking of names, including ‘Satan’, ‘Nits’ and ‘Susan’ … Having a scary thought flash through my mind, might this be my last dog …? Blimey. Tick. Tock.

Sometimes it’s only when you’re on holiday and your mind is rested and open enough that these bigger thoughts can seep in. There’s a danger with deep thinking, in that if you don’t get the chance to do it much, you can mistake it for the truth, as if the truth is only plumbed in the bottomless moments. I think it’s often only the loudest thoughts that are heard in quiet minutes, not necessarily the truest.

I like to think that I am the more authentic me when I am relaxed; that I am who I most am then. Perhaps though, it’s simply that there’s time to reflect. I’m too busy most of the time, like all of us, to judge myself. Too busy and not bothered enough. I think that’s why I sometimes surprise myself on holiday, with how anxious or grumpy or plain odd I can be. I have been known to take advantage of the precious time available to treat myself to a really satisfying extensive lemon-lipped sulk, typically about a relatively minor thing. It’s partly because there is time to devote to it, and partly because it’s interesting to explore the sulky state at leisure. It’s a childish, indulgent thing to do and it’s relatively ugly in so many ways, but it’s almost as if it flushes your emotional system out.

Who hasn’t, when on holiday, decided that on reflection, EVERYTHING in their house at home is hideous and that, yes indeed, the entire dark teak, fancy woodwork, colourful throws and pom-pom mirrors of a Balinese interior is the way forward? I know I have. I have shipped home huge quantities of entirely unsuitable furniture at great expense only to find a) it doesn’t fit in or suit my house, and b) identical items are found at Habitat for a quarter of the price. I saw them there last year, thanks, and didn’t like them then … so why have I BOUGHT THEM NOW?!!?

Who hasn’t, when on holiday, decided quite categorically that you definitely want to move to this country to live, or, at the very least, buy a home here to come to on your holidays? Furthermore, when you return home, you are going to CHANGE YOUR WHOLE LIFE, and take loads more holidays … like, maybe eight a year … or something … so that you can come here at any time. Pretty much two days after your return home, all of these seismic decisions are as air … forgotten, gone.

Who hasn’t, whilst on holiday, felt like the two weeks just AREN’T ENOUGH, that it's all going to whizz past far too quickly … and then felt the day before returning home that it’s been far too long and that you’re longing to be back home? Back where you understand everything, however irritating, back where you’re more familiar with yourself.

With your flawed, flummoxed self.

Yep.

Home.

Lovely.