Are We Nearly There Yet
14 toilet breaks
1 roadside ice cream
1 out of the window vomit
3 packets of Haribo Tangtastic
27 counts of bribery
And here we are. This was my idea so the fuming silence of filial discontent and spousal exhaustion may be placed fairly and squarely on my shoulders. This holiday is my fault.
Eschewing the usual drizzly holiday parks and coming somewhere we could sip wine in the sunshine while the kids played contentedly in the pool or ran around the orchard sounded perfect to me.
But from the get-go, it was a logistical nightmare. Last-minute dashes to the post office with expired passports, frantic rootling through kids’ summer clothes to discover they were all too small and they both needed entire new wardrobes, grumbling over ensuing credit card bill, changing the date three times to juggle work commitments. Never have I been more in need of a holiday.
The kids were sweaty, nauseated little heaps on the ferry and lay like wounded birds across lurid plastic benches dotted on deck. I drank a lot of strong coffee while Tom read a newspaper and occasionally raised an eyebrow at our childrens’ plights, managing to convey expertly in a lightly curled lip that this never happened on route to any of the holiday parks and if I hadn’t got ridiculously ambitious and insistent on travelling somewhere I could get a high dose of vitamin D, then this whole sorry scenario would never have occurred.
The journey to the villa was even worse, a blur of increasingly unhygenic toilets and horribly winding country lanes, all to the backdrop of cursing provided by Tom as the sat nav went offline and my shaky map-reading skills were put to bad use.
But we’re here. We may have a flat tyre and no idea how to access a mechanic. But we’re here. Happy holidays.