Back from the wilds, all rested and spaced out. But never one to pass up the chance to moan, here is my
Five Reasons to Hate Holidays
1 You become the prey of a multitude of carniverous beasts. OK, that's a bit melodramatic, especially when the worst of them is only a few milimetres long, but it's no fun finding a sheep tick attached to you, not to mention the million and a half I plucked from Theo's fur during the course of a week. Then there's the midges. Don't get me started on them.
How people do African safaris is beyond me.
2 The food isn't home cooked. It's a personal sacrifice but I draw the line at carting my apron and recipe book along with me, so the only alternative is take-aways and supermarket ready meals. There's eating out of course, and I continue to buy lottery tickets in anticipation of that happy day, but Dame Fortune so far has proved an elusive mistress. Yes, I know I could go all Zen and detox at the same time, but it's hardly fun, is it? And besides the males in my party would have several coronaries if I even suggested it. After a week of eating rubbish my colon is now fit for nothing and my system so sluggish it's all I can do to get out of a chair.
3 The beds are never as comfortable. In days long past I may have been content to put my back out on a rubberised hammock with all the softness of a medieval rack, but these days I like my home comforts. The mattress is never as soft/hard/wide/narrow and the duvet is never as soft/warm/cool/long as I like it. To overcome this I am forced to down several quarts of alcohol per night to guarantee a decent night's rest.
4 The accommodation is different from home. Well, of course it is, I hear you cry. But the downside of this is getting to know my way around. By the time I've figured out where the cutlery, tv remote control and loo paper are kept it's just about time to pack up and come home. I only realised the windows opened on the morning we left!
5 It takes so long to get there and back. Forget all those endearing travelogues with Michael Palin and Stephen Fry, driving anywhere for five hours in a car full of bags, dogs and significant others is a serious Pain In The Arse. There are no rosy sunsets, no colourful natives, only road works, motorways and - joy of joys - service stations. I'm convinced if there is a hell it is a service station where you never have enough change for the cappacino machine and there's a queue at the toilet. The trip home is always the worst. At least at the beginning of a holiday you have the excitement and novelty of going somewhere different. By the end you are so tired and fed up you just want to be beamed down a la Star Trek and have little patience for the helpful little notices on the motorway messageboards.
Still, moaning aside, I did manage to have a nice relaxing time - the quarts of alcohol certainly helped - and here's some photos to prove it.