We are on holiday. The definition of which is something along the lines of to have time off, to take a break from business or to have an extended period of recreation and leisure. So it actually turns out I am not on holiday and it is factually utterly inaccurate to claim that we are. So in effect, we are in a different place, with the same old shit.
And thinking about it, it is bloody obvious that I am not on holiday. Because if I was on holiday as I so rashly just claimed, then these are just some of the things that I would not choose to fill my time with:
– getting up at 3am
– lugging around a change bag that I can barely lift as it is filled to bursting point with items to cover every baby- and toddler-related predicament, from pants filled with shit to bogey smears on sleeves
– not going in any shops as they are deemed ‘booooriiiing’
– not reading any books. And not only not reading any books, not reading any newspapers either
– sitting down for a maximum of half an hour a day due to the incessant plaintive cry of ‘can you play with me pleeeeeaseeeee’
I know that I am being slightly disingenuous. It is my middle name (christ, did I get ribbed for that one). It is lovely to be away from the house, tooling around on the beach. But after I have thrown the ninetieth stone into the sea and played fifteen iterations of pirates and monsters, I have to admit that my mind may inadvertently start to conjure up an image of me on a lounger, cocktail in one hand, book in the other. In utter silence. And definitely no requests to be a chaperone to the toilet as a poo is urgently required, and absolutely no chants of ‘mummy is a sausage face’ whatsoever.
So there you have it. We are on a not-a-holiday. The same old same old, but nearer to the sea. A samecation, as it will henceforth be known.