Holiday
I swap jobs on September 5, and I've just been informed I'm going to have to take a week of my accrued holiday before then.
Now, I'm a fan of not working, me. Not a massive fan of holidays though. I hate getting up early and spending half the cost of the flight on a danger cab to the airport, only to be delayed for hours. I hate the inevitable coach ride of doom past the increasingly ghastly hotels, and the four-mile schlep away from the beach up a rocky cliff face to a handful of poxy apartments next to a sewage outlet pipe. I hate the wistful painting of the little boy in straw hat and dungarees on the bedroom wall. I hate the squeaky sheets. I hate the depressing sight of two single beds. I hate pushing the single beds together, only to wake up wedged between the two, tangled in and suspended above sandy tiles by the squeaky sheets, covered in fat mosquito bites. I hate mosquitoes. I hate, hate, hate waking up hot, showering, and having to cover myself in sun block. I hate washing it off at the end of the day, and having to cover myself in insect repellent.
I love reading. But I hate doing it whilst self-consciously wearing a bikini over my reflectively white skin and perching on a ridgy plastic sunbed next to a couple from Burnley called Marion and Steve. I love the fact that Marion and Steve are there to talk to. I hate the fact that I have to talk to them all day.
I hate being too skint to get away from the apartments for day trips. I hate being woken up at the time I would usually get up for work by someone who has a key to my room and is determined to empty the pathetic plastic bin.
I hate the fridge that clicks on and off all night long. I hate sand everywhere. I hate not being able to find fresh seafood even though the sea is JUST OVER THERE. I hate that Marion and Steve won't come and take their kids away. I hate the holiday rep, the smelly, glowering apartment owner, the seven mile trek for bread. And oh, I hate the bread. And I really, really hate that just when I find the decent restaurant with the fresh fish, the genius chef, the laughing restaurateurs and the friendly kittens, it's time to get on some death trap tin aeroplane and go home.
So.
I have decided never to go on holiday again.
I would like to see a volcano. I'd quite like to go on a walking holiday. I definitely like a bit of Balearic. I am desperate to travel, see the world, taste different food, meet people, get a fabulous tan. I just don't want to stay in the ticky tacky little apartments 17 miles outside the airport.
But that's OK, because I haven't been able to afford a holiday for three years. Year before last - three days in Iceland. Last year - three days in Ibiza. So far this year - 24 hours in Brighton.
And instead of hurling myslef onto the backlogged pile of travellers at Heathrow, next week, I'm going to Bournemouth for three days with my mum and my sister. It should certainly be an opportunity to meet new cultures (the elderly) and taste exotic foods (scampi and chips). Plus, they have an awesome beach, and I fully intend to take all of my buckets and spades. I even have my eye on a new set, with a pump action, um, pump, and three mini buckets. Bring it on.
And on my birthday, it looks like I will be at a beach party in Ibiza watching a solar eclipse. Now that's what I call a holiday!
Now, I'm a fan of not working, me. Not a massive fan of holidays though. I hate getting up early and spending half the cost of the flight on a danger cab to the airport, only to be delayed for hours. I hate the inevitable coach ride of doom past the increasingly ghastly hotels, and the four-mile schlep away from the beach up a rocky cliff face to a handful of poxy apartments next to a sewage outlet pipe. I hate the wistful painting of the little boy in straw hat and dungarees on the bedroom wall. I hate the squeaky sheets. I hate the depressing sight of two single beds. I hate pushing the single beds together, only to wake up wedged between the two, tangled in and suspended above sandy tiles by the squeaky sheets, covered in fat mosquito bites. I hate mosquitoes. I hate, hate, hate waking up hot, showering, and having to cover myself in sun block. I hate washing it off at the end of the day, and having to cover myself in insect repellent.
I love reading. But I hate doing it whilst self-consciously wearing a bikini over my reflectively white skin and perching on a ridgy plastic sunbed next to a couple from Burnley called Marion and Steve. I love the fact that Marion and Steve are there to talk to. I hate the fact that I have to talk to them all day.
I hate being too skint to get away from the apartments for day trips. I hate being woken up at the time I would usually get up for work by someone who has a key to my room and is determined to empty the pathetic plastic bin.
I hate the fridge that clicks on and off all night long. I hate sand everywhere. I hate not being able to find fresh seafood even though the sea is JUST OVER THERE. I hate that Marion and Steve won't come and take their kids away. I hate the holiday rep, the smelly, glowering apartment owner, the seven mile trek for bread. And oh, I hate the bread. And I really, really hate that just when I find the decent restaurant with the fresh fish, the genius chef, the laughing restaurateurs and the friendly kittens, it's time to get on some death trap tin aeroplane and go home.
So.
I have decided never to go on holiday again.
I would like to see a volcano. I'd quite like to go on a walking holiday. I definitely like a bit of Balearic. I am desperate to travel, see the world, taste different food, meet people, get a fabulous tan. I just don't want to stay in the ticky tacky little apartments 17 miles outside the airport.
But that's OK, because I haven't been able to afford a holiday for three years. Year before last - three days in Iceland. Last year - three days in Ibiza. So far this year - 24 hours in Brighton.
And instead of hurling myslef onto the backlogged pile of travellers at Heathrow, next week, I'm going to Bournemouth for three days with my mum and my sister. It should certainly be an opportunity to meet new cultures (the elderly) and taste exotic foods (scampi and chips). Plus, they have an awesome beach, and I fully intend to take all of my buckets and spades. I even have my eye on a new set, with a pump action, um, pump, and three mini buckets. Bring it on.
And on my birthday, it looks like I will be at a beach party in Ibiza watching a solar eclipse. Now that's what I call a holiday!
posted by Elizabeth at 6:07 PM
2 Comments:
LOL. I too have a secret loathing of holidays.
Bournemouth is great fun...for a couple of days. Once you've sniffed the air a few hundred times and made drunken proclaimations of love for seaside life, you quickly discover there isn't much to do a-part from consume more booze and complain about the sand that mysteriously made its way into your pcockets despite those pockets having been nowhere near the beach.
Saying that, I am jealous as anything.
Post a Comment
<< Home