The sun is out, the sky is blue, and the only cloud spoiling the view is the one puffing skywards from the bloke on the next sun lounger’s cigarette. No, I haven’t become a neo-nicotine fascist – just because I’ve been a smoke-free zone since New Year doesn’t mean I’m going all evangelical about the scourge of ciggies. In fact, it’s the opposite. My subconscious has obviously realised that this is my first ever non-smoking holiday and, from the moment we landed at Paphos airport, I’ve had a compelling urge to mug anyone sporting a packet of Silk Cut. Since the inside of a Cypriot clink doesn’t hold much appeal, I’ve been mentally counting up the contents of my beach bag and I’m trying to summon up the courage to ask Smoky Joe to swap me a ciggy for two bottles of suntan lotion, a broken camera, half a watermelon and a lilo.
Still, at least my new daily activities of football, volleyball, water polo and trying to remain at least fifty yards away from perfectly toned model-types in bikinis at all times is a bit of a distraction from the cravings. Although I could do without my sons’ aversion to suntan lotion that has me doing a Sally Gunnell around the pool five times a day, clutching a bottle of Ambre Solaire and shouting, ‘Stop right there or you’re grounded for ever!’
Waltons. Us. Hard to tell the difference.
I’ve learned so many other new things about my wee darlings since we got here. For example, let’s talk pants.
In mothering school they do not warn you that small boys will fight to the death over a pair of pants. When buying the holiday undies, I made the fatal mistake of splashing out on multipacks with five pairs each of the following knick-knacks: Power Rangers, Spiderman, Batman and Star Wars. What I didn’t realise is that there’s a secret action figure hierarchy, and that Spiderman, Batman and the Power Rangers have been relegated to the superhero subs bench. Apparently, no fashion-conscious toddler will venture to the kiddie disco in anything other than briefs from the Dark Side. Every night, our apartment has resounded with the thuds of wrestling, interjected by wails of ‘I want the Storm Troopers and I want them now!’
Neither did I realise that my youngest son, three-year-old Brad (now known as Pledge, for reasons that will become clear), had inherited his father’s obsession with neatness and order to such an extreme degree. He’s always been a tidy wee soul – the only three-year-old I know who makes his bed, puts his clothes in the washing and does the dishes after every meal. If you’re the mother of a little girl between two and five – especially if she’s gorgeous and has a bulging piggy bank – then feel free to send a photo and details of your child. I’m open to an arranged marriage and, trust me, he’s such a catch that your girl will thank you in twenty years’ time when she’s sitting with her feet up doing her nails and he’s hoovering around her.
However, he’s starting to worry me. Yesterday, I took him and his brother to one of those little tourist supermarkets that sells everything from fruit juice to flippers and, in a moment of sunstroke-induced weakness, let them loose with the promise that they could have ‘one little toy’. Cal came back with a snorkel, two tennis bats and a dinghy, while Brad returned sporting a big grin, a box of Daz and a packet of black bin bags. I think he’s been secretly brainwashed by Kim and Aggie.
The scariest holiday revelation, though, may scar me for life. I’ve discovered that my boys can pick up any song in five minutes and repeat it throughout every waking moment for days on end. It started when we were roused from our slumbers on day two by the joyous strains of a particularly irritating anthem that they learned from those twisted kids’ entertainers.
Dear Lord, make it stop.
Nicotine may be dangerous, Storm Troopers may be a tad sinister. Kim and Aggie’s secret lovechild may be downright terrifying. But the true root of all evil? The sick git who wrote ‘Aaaaagaaaa Do Do Do’.
Next year, I might just go for that week in the clink with a packet of Silk Cut.