We are off on our holidays. The dog has gone to the Ardennes for the week with a lovely whippet owning neighbour (they share the same "sensitive digestion" kibble, it was meant to be), I do hope he behaves. I do hope his stomach behaves. The rats are getting an occasional drop in visit from another neighbour. I hope the anti-social grey one doesn't die.
It is a proper package holiday to a hot place, which is obviously frightening for an anxious Celt who hates aeroplanes and gets heat rash in anything over 23°C. And is physically repulsed by sand. I have attempted to prepare by removing the 8 month old nail varnish remnants from my big toes (I wish that was a joke) and putting on a new layer of "Dragon". I have applied fake tan of a dubious vintage and efficacy late at night assisted by a hysterical nine year old: I can't wait to see how that looks in the morning. I have tried, really tried until I couldn't see straight, to get all my work done and got most of it out of the way and my last act before putting on my out of office has been to harry the people who are still holding my money hostage after the Belgian postal service's non-boot delivery (god, this tedious business has taken months off my life but I will not let it go). My second last act was to upload a stock photo with the immortal title "disgusting looking woman with a glass of Pilsner" (I assume it was supposed to be 'disgusted', she looks perfectly pleasant). My priorities are totally right. I feel I am ready for this break.
I am not taking a computer and I'm turning off my phone (though I am bringing a paper notebook and will try and write stuff down for my return). I'm going to eat Groaning International Buffet for all my meals and read The Goldfinch and fret about getting freckles whilst getting burnt shoulders for a week. On current reckoning the children will mainly practise that stupid Cup Song and be sarcastic at each other and bitch about the absence of origami tutorials. It's going to be great. I will see you in a week.