News on the latest media grapevines is that the credit crunch, if not over, is certainly getting less crunchy – things are smoothing over as it were. In chocolate terms, less Cadburys Crunchie and a touch more Galaxy. So it would appear then that the lid has been lifted for the reinstatement of the overseas summer holiday. Goodbye to stay-at-home chic. Who were we ever kidding anyway – Cornwall versus Caribbean? I know which one I’d rather make a beeline for.
The age old issue with packing up and jetting off at this time of the year is that, annoyingly, it coincides with precisely the time of year that every other family and their dog is embarking on the same game plan. Once the school holidays start, the flood gates are officially open. Gatwick airport becomes a purgatory on earth of package holiday makers: pasty white at departures; lobster red and blistering at arrivals.
So quite understandably, given we are yet to be bound by the constrains of national curriculums, we made it a point to time our trip to return just before the madding crowd was unleashed. And not a moment too soon; the day of our departure saw the pool area deluged with a slew of teenagers, keen to shake off the presence of terminally embarrassing parents.
All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable time was had by all parties of the household. Mr A and I even managed to pretend to be members of the civilised childless sect for a few hours a day, indulging in uninterrupted sunbathing and reading, while our one year old took her daily afternoon nap. The biggest downside of a good holiday though is the bump of reality wrought by the return.
Suddenly I have resumed sole ownership of nappy change again – a chore too readily shared if not shunted. Though not without relinquishing the task one last time on the return flight (which surely still counts as part of the holiday) – a shrewd move in light of Mr A’s struggle in the restricted confines of the inflight toilet-cum-baby change. It turns out our less-than-ladylike toddler firstly kicked her soiled nappy to the floor, spilling and scattering its contents to the floor. Then while her repulsed and red-faced father was trying to retrieve the offending matter from the toilet floor, she found a new challenge in trying to kick him in the head while still lying on the changing table. Needless to say, the holiday was officially over at this point for all of us.