Am I the only person who finds it impossible to enjoy going on holiday?

Even in the ‘old normal’ times, when you could jet anywhere in the world without having a PCR test, the annual decision of where to go for the time of our lives was something I dreaded, writes Jenny Eclair

Give me a break: there’s too much pressure to have ‘the time of your life’ (Getty)

I am not even looking at the travelling abroad regulations – they seem to change daily, flickering like a dodgy set of traffic lights between red, amber and green. Just when you think, “Ooh I could go to X”, you realise that –actually – X won’t let you in.

Of course I’d like to get away! The recent weather has been biblical in London, demanding electric lighting during the day and a fire every night; and considering I’ve recently been pumped with a second dose of AstraZeneca, you’d think I’d be desperately seeking my paradise break, wouldn’t you?

Yet sadly, with a new tour (fingers crossed) on the horizon, my summer is destined to be spent doing try-out spots in venues across London; where – along with thousands of other performers – I will be frantically trying to locate my comedy muscles under the layers of lockdown-induced non-performing flab.

In some respects, this is a relief, because I find booking holidays traumatic. Even in the “old normal” times, when you could jet anywhere in the world without having to pre-book a PCR test and sign a “sworn infection-free” statement, the annual decision of where we should go for “the time of our lives” (no pressure) was something I dreaded.

Basically, I find the responsibility of choosing both destination and accommodation nerve-racking; because if it all goes wrong, the consequences will be dire and it will be my fault.

Obviously, I could let my partner choose, but then if it all goes wrong it will be his fault and I’m not sure which scenario is worse – me, beating myself up for a week; or him trying to make out his choice is brilliant, even though brown water is coming out of the taps and the pillows smell of other people’s unhappiness and disappointment.

Of course, I blame my parents; they were not big holidaymakers and we certainly never stayed in hotels. Our summer trips were strictly self-catering, most memorably in a Sprite 400 caravan, which must surely be the smallest caravan in the world – and inevitably meant that all meals were eaten within a six-inch radius of a chemical toilet. There’s nothing like the whiff of a Sanilav to put you off your breakfast.

Even worse was the year we attempted a tent on a campsite in the south of France. I was twelve and loathed it. In my opinion, anything that requires carrying a wash bag to a toilet block cannot possibly constitute “having a lovely time”.

The truth about holidays, of course, is that some people are just loads better at them than others – these are the people who can pluck a Frisbee from thin air on the beach, walk in espadrilles without “going over” on their ankles and sport a battered straw hat that has been “everywhere” with them and doesn’t make them look like an idiot.

On the other hand, there are folk like me – who have zero holiday confidence, the skin tone of a jellyfish and the total inability to relax until the night before we fly home.

Like most older women, I find that wherever I am, I’m in a permanent state of anxiety: why does that air hostess look like she’s about to cry; what time did they say they stopped serving breakfast – and what if we can’t get a taxi back from that pizza place and have to walk? To be honest, I have spent entire weeks abroad pretending to be fine, but secretly thinking I might have left the iron on.

There is also that constant critical voice in my head that I can only really silence with three glasses of wine: is this really what the website promised, what about this bone in my fish, why have those clouds started gathering?

When I was younger, the one thing that really freaked me out as a freelancer on vacation was the possibility that I might miss out on that career-changing job, just because I was stuck to a plastic sun lounger, reading a Jackie Collins and waiting for yet another microwaved cheese toastie.

I’m not saying I don’t enjoy myself – I’ve had some lovely holidays, but deep down I know I’m not doing them as well as other people might. I’m not the type that finds the bargain at the market, or accidentally stumbles across that secret waterfall – and I never, ever manage to nab a table at that famous little back-alley tapas place that everyone raves about.

To be honest, I can never get a table anywhere; like bagsying the best holiday, this is yet another skill that alludes me. This week, with lockdown restrictions lifted across the country, I booked a table for two in a West End restaurant only to be ushered on arrival to a couple of hastily set places at the bar – at which point the old menu masochism set in and I found myself ordering something I didn’t really want or particularly like.

Meanwhile, the old man ordered exactly what he fancied and enjoyed every delicious mouthful. Seriously, now that we can, I need to work harder at enjoying myself.