The frank truth about summer holidays
The Home Counties couples are knocking back the wine and learning how to make gnocchi. The (feral) children are pretending to dry-drown in the paddling pool. It's all perfect. So why do I want to be at home with the au pair and the depressed cat?
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Your support makes all the difference.It's August. It's 30 degrees, I'm in Umbria and I'm on holiday with my two (feral) children, The Husband and a motley assortment of parents who all seem to have come from the Home Counties and whose children all seem to be called Finn.
From my bedroom window, the Umbrian hills roll gently beneath a cloudless sky. The Finns are all running around laughing and eating ice-cream. The Husband is wearing his only pair of shorts and reading his annual book. The Home Counties are knocking back the wine and learning how to make gnocchi. The (feral) children are pretending to dry-drown in the paddling pool. It's all perfect. So why do I want to be at home with the au pair and the depressed cat?
Here are the new rules I have learnt about summer holidays:
1. Have sex immediately on arrival. This gets it out the way and you only need to do it one more time to avoid any guilt. Ideally choose your husband for this activity.
2. The Brazilian thong was not a good idea. You are not on Love Island.
3. Do not go for an early morning run with a marathon runner. Impossible to sprint while vaping.
4. If someone calls “Mum”, ignore and hope that someone else will answer. Even if it's your own child.
5. Do not believe that the clothes that were too small back home will fit on holiday. Pack several One Size sarongs and position yourself as closely as possible to the steps leading into the pool. Do not enter the pool when anyone else is looking. Ideally choose to swim before anyone else wakes up or when it's dark. Never exit the pool by hoisting yourself up over the edge. You will look like Godzilla emerging from the deep.
6. Do not believe that you burn more calories in hot weather and then eat a whole lasagne. Do not tell yourself it's ok because you're on holiday. You will soon be home and you do not want to buy your autumn wardrobe from Evans.
7. Carry out a covert breast analysis of all the other women's boobs on arrival. Note the fakes, those that have succumbed to gravity and the still pert. Sunbathe topless next to the gravity-affected. Do not be beguiled by the trend for crochet bikinis. Your nipples will stick through the holes while you're eating your lunch and shock the Finns.
8. Do not believe that your life would be improved by moving to a rural Italian farmhouse, growing olives and living the simple life. There is no joy to be found in an Umbrian hill town and ASOS will not deliver there. Or Evans.
9. Do not sit near to anyone at dinner who is in possession of a baby monitor. They will spend the whole meal staring at it, shaking it to check it works and muttering “he's not breathing, he's not breathing” under their breath.
10. Under no circumstances adopt a “no electronic devices on holiday” policy for your children. Four hours of iPad usage a day means four hours where they won't drown and you can read your book.
11. Do not ask questions of other couples that will reveal deep-seated resentments. For example, “Does your husband ever help you put the kids to bed?”, “Does he always drink this much?” and “Why was he staring at that girl in the crochet bikini at lunch?”
In the hotel where we are staying there are posters of Ruben-esque women on the walls which I do not appreciate, as every time I walk past them I mistake them for a mirror. None of them are in a Brazilian thong and none of them look happy. They too must have believed that lasagne doesn't count in hot weather.
Every night all the hotel guests eat together at one long table in the courtyard. The crowd is already divided. At one end of the table sit the sensible parents. Their clothes all appear to be made out of hessian sacking, they do not have pedicures, put their Finns to bed at 6pm and enthusiastically plan the next morning's 20k cycle ride. They frown upon my vaping, my alcohol consumption, my new trashy white stilettos and my overly personal questions about their sex lives, waxing and intimate bleaching habits.
At the fun end of the table are the rugby men and their rugby wives. The rugby men are generally called Dave, they start drinking at lunchtime and by dinnertime are chanting rude songs, telling me I look like Danni Behr and answer my intimate bleaching questions candidly. The rugby wives wear bodycon dresses, smoke throughout dinner, scream at their husbands for drinking too much and try to seduce the hotel caretaker.
Tonight I shall put on a comfortable smock and move to the boring end of the table. I will casually prop a bicycle pump under one arm, not judge anyone's boobs and claim that I know how to cook gnocchi. Then I shall lead The Husband to the bedroom and have sex for the second time. At least it will burn off some of the lasagne.
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