I haven’t been on holiday in years. Arguably, I live in Devon, so I’m already on holiday.
And I’ve not been completely deprived. I went to London a couple of weeks ago. Still slightly giddy from that. With my writing, I’m always somewhere else inside my head. And I read a lot, too. So, whether I’m physically here or not, I’m somewhere.
However, in terms of going away and staying somewhere – in a different area, a different bed, with a continental breakfast – no. Not since my electrical courses in Southampton. And then, I was working, and the continental breakfast was a banana and a bottle of orange juice, in an overpriced paper bag, which sat outside my hotel bedroom door, often until I got back from work at 5pm.
Actually away for a break – we’re going back quite a long way.
When I first met Aimée, she used to bring Tara, the Labrador, to the Clubhouse and, as much as Aimée was happy to see me, it paled into insignificance with how delighted Tara was.
Aimée was probably joking when she suggested I go on holiday with Tara, leaving the rest of them at home.
We’re going.
Probably not far. We’ll go somewhere quiet and safe, with a pub and a fondness for dogs, a few local legends and a famous casserole. That sort of place. We’ll send the others a postcard, I expect. They’ll be having the exact same thing, but with council tax.