Soooooo… the holiday came… and went… and as I write I am trying to block most of it from my memory (just like childbirth) (and pregnancy) (and parenthood).
It would be fair to say it was an experience of highs and lows.
Let me break it down for you…
Day 1: Baby slept on the plane – bonus – but then so did husband – bugger – so was left with giant snoring, dribbling man on one shoulder and surprisingly heavy comatose baby on my opposite wrist. Luckily I was still able to reach the joint account card with my free hand and order myself ‘one of everything in YSL’ by way of punishment to husband. (small victory but worth it)
Day 2: Hotel room was great upon first inspection, until when adorned across my sunbed on the terrace of my private suite at 9am that morning (having just breastfed my child into a coma) the kids club – which I very quickly realised was located OPPOSITE my private pool – kicked into action. Why do people presume that because you have a baby you like small children? Can’t stand the smelly optimistic little bastards.
Day 3 and 4: After a luke warm starter of E-coli followed by a salmonella smoothie I unsurprisingly spend the next 48 hours operating on a one-in-one-out policy for all bodily openings. Clearly not a holiday highlight, however by day five I started to look pretty good in my bikini and have re-found parts of my anatomy previously only inspect-able with a mirror…
Day 5: In keenness to gain some kind of tan, I purchased some tanning oil from a backstreet Greek supermarket (it had a picture of a carrot on the front and was the colour of marmite so that was me sold) which meant I burnt myself to a tropical scented crisp, threw up and went to bed at 5.30pm. Too embarrassed to admit the real cause of my self-made sunstroke hell I told my husband I had my period (he’ll work it out later.)
Day 6: Sat on a bee.
Day 7: Came home and found one of my cats had taken a shit on my bed.
All in all, I rather have spent £1,500 on enough gin to pickle a dolphin and got stuck in with a straw.