As every Grumpy Old Man and Woman knows, holidays are another way of keeping you all house-trained. They are civilised society’s reminder to you that the tedium of everyday life is actually preferable to a fortnight spent in the company of nagging partners, other people’s brats, bombastic in-laws; and – worse still – people who can’t speak English. As soon as you check in at the airport you are marooned in a sea of screaming babies, dull-faced reps and bland airport food.
Count yourself lucky if your optimistic expectation of a good holiday is even remotely fulfilled. Don’t be fooled by the glamorous air-brushed photos of American models with tippexed teeth sitting by laguna pools, cocktail in hand. There may be beautiful sunsets by the beach in the brochure, but you’ll inevitably find that a) you should have booked the neighbouring hotel (and if you’re lucky she’ll tell you so, ‘ad nauseam’) b) you picked the rainy/religious holiday/mosquito/plague infestation season – and wonder why it was so cheap and c) you’ll have had too much sex or food by the third or fourth day and be bored of each other, but there’s no-one else to talk to, apart from monosyllabic waiting staff and the ubiquitous Russians.
A holiday is supposed to be a lovely break, isn’t it? This book proves that it is the stay-at-homes who have all the fun.