We’ve just booked our summer holiday for next year.
Nothing unusual in that, you might say. But this time we’ve done it with an ulterior motive.
For the past five years we’ve scrimped, saved and had a few PPI windfalls and paid a small fortune to sit in a metal tube and be fired over southern Europe to lounge around a swimming pool for two weeks, eat our way to Type 2 diabetes and have this-ends-here arguments with each other.
But before all that we’ve had to contend with the Gestapo-like jobsworths at airport security who behave like humourless Nazis but without the Hugo Boss uniforms.
I am not a criminal.
Stop treating me like one.
My airfare pays your wages.
When you’re rooting through my possessions and looking at my bits and bobs in your full body scanner, the least you can do is smile.
We figured it’s a lot of money to pay and an awful long way to travel to be treated like s*** at the airport, herded like cattle by a surly Spanish coach driver, get stuck in a family room together and irritate the living daylights out of each other all for two weeks of glorious, unbroken sunshine.
So instead we’ve booked a week away in Cornwall.
Our daughters said that if we’re only away for a week then there’s less time for us all to argue.
For a start, the place we’ve booked has more than one room.
Ideal breathing space for a cooling-off period after those apocalyptic rows that you only ever get on a family holiday, the ones that start with: “We’ve paid a lot to come here so change your face.” Oh, you’ve had that one, too? Not just us then.
Our holiday home has got more than one bedroom, free WiFi (our kids literally punched the air when they found out) and overlooks one of the most beautiful beaches in the world - all for about one fifth of what we paid to go away in August.
So let’s hope come next summer the weather is kind and we’re not cowering in our flat while storms blow sun loungers, parasols and small children the length of Porthminster beach.