I feel so strongly about holidays I have used subheadings. I know.
BOOKING
I know it’s not cool, it’s not relaxed, it’s not attractive, but the truth is I like to be in control. When it comes to trips, I like to book. I want to choose where we go, how we get there and when we do it.
I nod while he says he’d like for us all to go to Sweden. I am doing a good job of ears closed listening (all women need this, it’s a skill we have to pick up from men) and I really look like I’m considering it. I even mention getting a guide book. Meatballs in punnets and walking through the city all day? What a lovely plan. Staying in an Airbnb and then a trip to the Abba museum? I’m nodding vigorously now. After 22 years together, he still hasn’t learnt that the more keen I appear, the less likely it is going to happen.
I actually whooped when he suggested going to the Secret Cinema once (dressing up and watching a film in a warehouse with other grown-ups all dressed up? Look, if you want to go to a swingers’ party just say so) and he was surprised when the tickets never showed up. He’s also convinced I seriously considered Ben Nevis in October, a pot-luck discovery car adventure with nothing booked in northern France and flying to South Africa on Christmas Day. He vaguely thinks that these things did not come to pass because something happened with expedia.com or I got some work (that I magically never went to) or there was a problem with getting rooms. (See also: anal sex, a homemade pizza oven – Dominos is up the road – and booking a sleepover for all of us in the bug house at the zoo). Super keen, yay, excellent, back of the net. Sure. Let’s definitely do that.
Look, I know. Of course I could just tell him. But I don’t want to be the naysayer, I don’t want to be the boring one when the rest of the family is up for cinnamon buns and lingonberries in the home of IKEA. Plus, I don’t really like confrontation – I actually often don’t have time for confrontation – and I’d rather not use my energy on explaining why I don’t want to do something. Smiling and nodding is simply the path of least resistance. Yes, of course baby. I would love to go to Tallinn for the weekend, I’ll have a look tomorrow.
PACKING
There are a few things I can’t stand – Ovaltine (a hot drink that smells of old socks but also develops a skin, are they nuts?), flying down a zip wire and people who tell you all about their dreams (save it). But the thing that I can’t actually stomach is packing. I can’t bear the stress, the counting of pants and the unending worry and panic about leaving stuff behind. On top of this, I am chronically, terribly, excoriatingly bad at it.
Here’s an example. I’ve just got engaged. We’ve been together a year and, to be frank, we’ve spent at least 300 of those days in bed. I’m 26 and gaga about him. I’m so in love, I’m so awed by the sex (don’t worry, my kids aren’t reading this, they think everything I do is chronic) that we really have just spent a year under the covers on a futon with the papers and old pizza. I’ve met his parents but it’s been brief. A few suppers, a Christmas Eve, a lot of smiling. I asked the right questions and we ate Danish food (gosh, herring three ways, gesundheit) and then we raced home again, tore our clothes off and got under the covers.
Now we are going to France for three days, which will be the first time I really get to know his mum. You’d have thought that packing for this would be straightforward, wouldn’t you? Please believe me when I tell you I packed seven pairs of trousers (one of them had feathers attached – I can’t talk about it), three roll-neck sweaters (it was July), absolutely no tops and two mismatched shoes. Even if I was packing in the dark, under intense time pressure, I should have done better. If I was on a game show called ‘Packing in a Hurry’ and Paddy McGuinness was standing over me yelling ‘put it in the bag’ and the crowd were going wild (whoever packs the best bag for the fishing expedition/Ice Hotel/Mongolia was going to win the holiday of a lifetime). Even THEN, I’d have done better. ‘Aren’t you warm?’ came the casual question at the first breakfast when my future mother-in-law noticed I was wearing a mohair hoodie, suit trousers with one navy ballet flat and one black. There are no words.
And then of course there was the packing for the honeymoon. The destination was a surprise (have I told you he’s very romantic? Total opposite of me) and he said he’d pack my bag for me. I checked it before we left. Only two swimsuits and a couple of kaftans and some flip flops. This bloke is having a laugh, this is surely a trick, I thought.
The problem was that I was completely sure I had ‘sensed’ where we were going (in the early days of the fringe I felt like Mystic Meg). I was certain he was taking me walking so at the last minute, I totally repacked and swapped the sun cream for walking boots and wind breakers and a flask. Yup, not very useful in Bali. I spent the full two weeks in a cagoule.
Whenever I’ve packed for the kids for a school trip there’s always the call from the teacher on the first night: ‘Good evening, I don’t want to bother you but I was just wondering (I’m in a panic by now), do you happen to know if you packed Tilda’s wellies?’
‘Wellies? I thought you guys were going on a geography trip, I gave her some marshmallows and an atlas.’
‘Well, yes, great but … it’s extremely muddy.’
It’s not like I don’t have the stuff. We have the stuff. The rain macs, the goggles (well, we don’t have these but I like to pretend I have an aquatic drawer also full of flippers) and we certainly have t-shirts and walking stuff and swimwear. So why can’t I quite get the stuff in the bag?
I’ve never once been abroad and remembered to pack a plug convertor (I have three still in their packets) or a charger (so sorry, but can we stop off at Currys?) or the right toiletries (I seem to have glitter face paint, three of the same lipstick but absolutely no toothpaste or contact lenses) and nothing matches anything.
What is the secret to packing? I’m not asking for a friend, I’m asking for me. Do I need to write stuff down? I make lists – shoes, Mini Cheddars for the plane, some books, clothes – but they never, ever make it into the suitcase. Actually, I did once take cards but there were only fifty in the pack. Bingo.
THE AIRPORT
We wake up at 5am (why do I book planes at 8? Also confusing) and by the time we’ve checked in, gone through security there is then a heated debate about eating.
One of us wants sushi (it’s early, you can’t possibly want raw fish) and two others want toasties and I always like a pub at a terminal – can’t explain why. We lose each other and the seventeen-year-old seems to inhale his boarding pass. We have to find a way to print him a new one as it transpires he’s thrown it away in Smith’s because he thought it was a receipt (yes, this is why he must never leave home) and then we either get to the gate with an hour to spare or at the last minute.
I want to be the kind of person who reserves a row of seats long before the flight leaves but this has never happened (I promise I’m organised in other ways – my books are ordered with Tetris-like precision) so we’re all in middle seats and none of us are next to each other. So sorry do you mind moving? Sorry. Sorry. He’s eight. Yes, I am that dickhead.
UNPACKING
This is an absolute disgrace. There are no drawers, there’s a fight about two lone hangars that are attached to the rail and where to sleep.
‘Why do I always get the camp bed? I’m six foot and he’s tiny.’
‘Where’s my favourite teddy?’ (Ah, I seem to remember last seeing Blue Cat in Heathrow).
Thankfully I’ve packed almost nothing or everything I’ve packed is completely unsuitable – ‘Claud, how come you’ve brought knee-high boots and a puffa to Portugal?’ Everything may as well stay in the suitcase and we go and discover the resort.
CREAMING
Can we talk about applying sun cream on small children? I don’t know why it’s more complicated than an obstacle course on the Krypton Factor but it is. First day you’re up for it, you’re ready. You’ve put some on yourself (ish) and now your sleeves are rolled up, bath mat is down and a little body is in front of you. This cannot, will not be the end of me. I can do this. It’s cream, they just have to be covered so we don’t have to stress-buy calamine lotion and put them in an ice bath. I’m really concentrating – arms, torso, back of the neck, nose, face (ah, sorry, yes some got in your eyes) and then the legs. I swear I love them and I’m focused. Always, without fail, at the end of the first day there’s a large, angry red blotch somewhere that didn’t get any. ‘Mummy, it hurts if I get in the bath, ow, don’t touch it.’ Never mind, we’ll just have to spend the next six days in the shade. Shit.
HELP, WHERE’S MY SPOT
Do we want to be by the pool? Should we try and go into town or get the bus to the beach? Where are we having lunch? How can they be hungry, it’s 10.05? Everyone else in my family is relaxed. They’re happy to throw down a towel and get a book and enjoy the day. Ah, here’s an old broken deck chair and if I just get rid of these bottles of half-drunk water it’ll be fine. This is lovely.
Uh, guys, there might be a better area, let’s find it. Shall we walk round again and check we want to be here? They’re all chilled (not my word) so I traipse around alone, battered by the sun, old sunglasses falling off my nose. I drop my book in the kids’ pool and it takes ages to find my way back to them.
Now also starving. One of the kids has found and is tormenting a crab. Husband smiling and enjoying himself ‘Hi babe, where have you been?’ (Is there anything more infuriating?)
HELLO THERE!
I like people. I like making friends. I want to sit next to someone I don’t know at dinner and find out all about them. Is it amazing being a grandpa? I see, you’ve just found out you’re allergic to gluten, what do you eat for breakfast? I can do it, I can win awards at it, I genuinely like getting to know people and discovering a slice of their life. Stick me absolutely anywhere. My husband met someone new at work and we’re going to the movies with him and his boyfriend. Fantastic. This is the way I live, that’s how I roll. But not, I repeat, not, on holiday.
‘Ah, is that book good?’
Excuse me? I’m lying on a lounger and have crisps on my chest. I have 30 minutes of golden time as the other four are walking down the beach. I’m listening to Britney Spears on my headphones, my nose is solidly in this book. Please, please tell me you’re not talking to me. Ah, you are. Jesus, you’ve sat down. Do we all want to eat together tonight? In town? Somewhere that does dinner and a show and starts at 9?
Help. Me.
THE BUFFET
Every marriage is different and is tried and tested in different ways. He doesn’t like her family/she loathes his friends/he likes drinking/she likes MDF (I’m not positive it’s actually called that)/he wants four children/she daydreams about a dalmatian puppy. We’re put through our paces and certain times will try us more than others.
I love a buffet. If it was up to me, this is how we’d always eat if we went out. A table laden with an assortment of things – some different breads, some cold hunks of cheese. Oh look! There’s a curry. Hold on to your hats, is that an omelette station? I get so over-excited I forget to chat, to enjoy each other. I’m bobbing up and down from my seat. I’ve been known to get up again for a single melon ball (how do they do it? I marvelled for about thirty minutes).
My husband cannot cope with this. He thinks dinner or lunch or breakfast out together is about chatting, sometimes flirting, finding out a bit more about each other (I mean, dude, there is nothing else). Not me. For me it’s about looking at all the delicious things and then eating them in turn.
‘That’s nice darling, I never knew that happened when you were seven. Argh! The carvery has started. Back in a bit. Shall I get anyone some more poppyseed crispbread?’ He likes a menu and a sit down, not a constant get up and sit down again. If there’s a buffet, I’ll try everything – wow, look at the lamb, it’s wearing little hats. Soup at breakfast, I’m in. They’re deep-frying risotto balls! He’s appalled and would rather have a bowl of nuts on a bench. You see, there are many ways in which a marriage can be tested.
PACKING. AGAIN.
The sunburn has settled down, we found our perfect location and settled there every morning (massive umbrella to hand plus small stand for cream, headphones, phone – I am an arse), we were friendly to the couple but didn’t have to be with them every second. The kids made friends, we established a buffet rotation so that sometimes we skipped it and chatted with crisps and fruit in our room instead. We found Monopoly at the front desk and all was good. And just as that magical unfurling happens it’s time to pack again.
This time everything is sandy and damp and inside out. We bundle everything in our bags and there is no order. ‘Sweetheart, shall we put all the dirty clothes in one bag and then the clean in the other?’ Sure we can, but then I would think you’re a psychopath. Your choice.
HOME
Our house is much smaller than we remembered. The post clogs the front door and we forgot to throw the milk away plus some old cheese is on the turn. You can now only open the fridge if you’re wearing a snorkel. The bags stay in the hall for a week as nobody can face the sand and the damp. We’re half a stone heavier than when we left, due to the buffets and the ice cream, and it’s now back to real life.
I like holidays but I really, really like staying at home.