More revelations from holiday-world…

Time works differently on hols. The week has bombed along like an unregulated Spanish water-park ride where a broken neck and a lengthy compensation claim are only ever one terrifying corner on a rubber dinghy away. (Clarification: we have not visited any such attraction. I mean, we are MIDDLE CLASS )…

No sooner have I piled on ten pounds and come out in repulsive hives and it’s Friday already. I always forget I’m allergic to the sun. I’ve spent most of the week whacked-out on anti-histamines and wine (which prob accounts for the sudden lovability of the sprogs)… 

At home, the weeks can inch along like when you’re trying to quit something you love, e.g fags. SURELY you think, it MUST be Friday. I MUST have done nearly a week already.  But it’s only Tuesday and you’re heading to bed at 7pm again and dreading spending tomorrow trying not to punch your boss or your partner or your kids or your cat, all the while telling yourself IT’S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD until you wake up to the glorious realisation that you must IMMEDIATELY get back to being the brilliant late-night talking/deadline-hitting smoker/bread-eater/sugar-addict you were before you had such a ludicrously Gwynethy idea…

Faraway time has also played tricks this week. Each day rollocks by, but all the time the past is hovering along beside me. Decades-long memories of childhood holidays playing out in lengthy detail as I collect stones with the boy and plait the girl’s hair. How can the past loll along so slowly and constantly while right now moves so damn fast I wake up every morning catching my breath?

My mum hated the sun and the heat. I thought I did too, but over the years Gwyneth has cured me of that hang-over by taking me to hot places and showing me how to be sunny. It seems grossly unfair that my mind now says YAY HOT HOLIDAYS but my body says GET OUT OF THE SUN NOW YOU MOTHERFUCKER OR I WILL RASH YOU UP GIRL…

The only thing that makes the hives settle and time slow down is gawping at the stars. Gwyneth gets very animated about stars and has made me download an app where you point your phone vaguely at the sky and it tells you what’s actually up there. It’s good, but also really hurts your neck and makes Gwyneth go a bit mental about life and the universe which is brill only when you’re off-it on Loratadine and Rioja.

There are few visible stars where we live in the city. But when I get home I’m going to sit in my back garden, under a brolley in the freezing drizzle and point that phone at the sky and force time to SLOW IT’S SHIZZLE DOWN.

NB: I will actually only do this once. It will be like bringing home the local liqueur and realising that under clouds it tastes like cheap fortified wine…and even I can’t drink that shit…

See you Monday Amigoes