Holiday of a Lifetime
by Chris Cottom
In June, my mate Mike will be seventeen, so we’ll buy a van, fit it with mattresses, and go continental. It’ll be the five of us from last summer at Sandbanks, except it’ll be St Tropez and no mums mithering us about missing the sunshine when we sleep until tea-time. Mike had better pass his test, that’s all.
When Georgia suggests a beach wedding on Skiathos, her dad says it’s either that or some help with the deposit on a flat. So we settle for St Saviour’s in Skegness, with an out-of-town hotel for the reception. We don’t want my cousins nipping down to the prom for a go on the dodgems.
We’re waiting before starting a family so we can hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. We’ll be off as soon as Georgia finishes her nurse training, which should be handy if we get Bolivian Belly or bitten by a guinea pig. Only, she’s waving something from the loo doorway with a smile as wide as a condor’s wingspan.
Now our youngest is four, we’re going camping in Corsica, although we’ll have to cancel if Georgia’s right about expecting again. If so, I’ll borrow a bell tent from the scouts and pitch it at my mum’s outside Uttoxeter. With luck, she might lend us a few grand towards a bigger motor. Let’s hope it isn’t twins, or it’ll have to be a minibus.
We’ve been planning what we’re calling our second honeymoon in Goa. Except now Georgia’s going on some yoga immersion week on Islay. It doesn’t float my Lilo. Anyway, it’s women only. We can’t afford both, but it means I can get on with redecorating upstairs. I’ll start with the twins’ room.
We’ve booked a five-night cruise around the Norwegian Fjords for my fiftieth. But Georgia’s dad has just had a stroke, and she’ll spend the whole time worrying. We can put the money towards converting the garage so he can come and live with us.
With the inheritance, we’ve earmarked our ruby wedding anniversary for our first trip overseas. Georgia’s been angling for Australia, while I’m keen on Canada. But she’s hurt her back and can’t do long hauls without stopovers in Saudi or somewhere.
From our bungalow in Burnham-on-Sea, we watch the families with their sandcastles and inflatable alligators. Georgia and I never miss the travel programmes. We can’t imagine why people go abroad when you can see everywhere on the telly. And you don’t have to worry about dodgy buffets, or mistaking fried squid for onion rings, or taking enough Yorkshire tea for a full fortnight.
WENSUM 