Why I hate going away in the summer, from Hacked Off

Don’t ask me about my holiday. Oh alright then, if you insist, I will tell you all about it.

It was hell. It cost me a fortune, the kids got sick and I was eaten alive by insects. I spent far too much time in airports and in a car with terrible suspension and feeble air conditioning. Where did I go? Not far, just to the south of France, but the air fare was exorbitant, almost as much as the price of a cup of coffee in one of those “charming” French bistros. So I have decided that I hate holidays. Here are a few reasons why:

Children. Mine cost me a fortune on holiday, they manage to find shops in the most deserted parts of the planet. As for other people’s children, who is it that said that other people’s kids are like farts in that you can only stand your own?

Weather. You need perfect weather to enjoy a beach, and this is different from the weather you want when you are going around a city. I find that I only get perfect beach weather when I am indoors and perfect sightseeing weather (ie, cool and damp) when I am on a beach.

Travel. What is nice about travelling? Nothing.

Books. You have to take a good book on holiday, and there are plenty of brilliant books to choose from. How come, then, I always manage to pick something I get sick of after three chapters?

Other people. Is there anything worse than other Brits abroad? Makes me feel embarrassed about my nationality. I sometimes worry I drink a bit too much, but when I see other Brits caning it on holiday I realise I am abstemious.

Going back to work. Having a break from the office doesn’t refresh me, I don’t rush back into the office full of renewed vigour and enthusiasm. And neither does anyone else. As I look up from my computer all I can see is a sea of other miserable faces. Albeit tanned, miserable faces.