Open Writing

It has finally arrived, my favourite week of the year! The one week I drift around in blissful euphoria, smiling at the children, answering my husband, walking around the dog’s tail. Why?

Because in exactly three weeks we are off on holiday and this is the exciting part, the looking forward week. Next week I shall be up to my headache in buttonless shirts and fallen hems, probably asking myself ‘Is it worth it?’

The week after, piles of clothes and cases are a clutter, and I find myself constantly surveying tongues and tonsils, on the look-out for that fearful holiday-spoiling epidemic.

But at the moment I am walking on air. As I whistle my rousing brass band repertoire – no crisis can defeat me! Even the blood-curdling cry from our third daughter, ‘Mum, my hair’s started going greasy,’ when we have just steered her sister through a bad bout of adolescence, has little effect. Her brother’s consoling reply ‘had your head in the chip pan again’ fails to penetrate my congeniality.

All I can think of is the bright yellow sand stretching out forever under the coffee-stained sky (I must stop reading this brochure at breakfast). This charming resort has been built just for us.

The shops are eagerly awaiting our custom, restaurants are living only for that magical day when we dine at their overstocked tables and children are especially adored and catered for - it says here.

I keep trying to inject the others with a dose of my enthusiasm, but everyone seems suddenly preoccupied with money-boxes and the falling rate of spending money. Our youngest is hard at work on her latest profitable enterprise, loosening her front teeth. The dog is the only one that looks excited, but unfortunately (whisper, whisper), he won’t be coming.

One year after countless expensive experiments we reluctantly decided to join the self-catering ranks. We enjoyed it so much it has now become our regular habit. The joys of full board were proving too much for dad.

At breakfast he had to eat through a nest of unwanted eggs passed on surreptitiously by our faddy brood. Lunch saw his plate piled high with cast offs. By afternoon he was so full of ‘board’ we had to wait ages for him to sleep it off!

A week spent under canvas drove us all wild with pleasure, until a thousand wasps became addicted to our culinary delights.

Over the years we have become a trifle wary of the glowing descriptions which disguise the small print. We answered one advert for a ‘modern bungalow – one owner has caravan in garden.’

We arrived to discover it was actually on the back doorstep and they had forgotten to mention the communal toilet and ‘grandad.’ He had a gammy leg and could only walk with the aid of an upturned broom tucked under his arm. Because of his weak bladder ‘Long John Silver’ was a frequent visitor for the next seven days. The brochure ought to have read ‘lonely owner not happy in caravan on doorstep.’

Self-catering cottages are ideally relaxing for all the family. Chores are shared and there are all sorts of missed treats to threaten them with. I spend as little time as possible in the kitchen depending heavily on dehydrateds.

Anything accompanied with a bottle of Riesling goes.

When our brood were very young, I used to pop a casserole in the oven while we were babysitting. No need to dress for dinner and we never dressed for breakfast. We enjoyed an enormous three-course breakfast, packed a picnic for lunch then cooked an evening meal when we returned.

One year when we were deliriously situated a pebble’s throw from the beach I left a chicken cooking slowly, while we sunned it up on the sands. Then we took chips back to accompany chicken and what was left of it went with a salad into the beach bag for tea. Remember picnicking cuts washing-up down to the minimum.

Part of our holiday entertainment is reading the exclusive menus pinned outside the delicious smelly entrances to restaurants. This appetising activity leads up to the highlight of the week – our Friday treat. Providing there is enough money left in the ‘kitty’ we ‘eat out.’ Children embarrass us all week, scanning the menus and shouting up the crowded pavements, ‘Come and look at this – and it’s cheap.’

Friday is also the day when we indulge in the strawberry cream flans we have been making eyes at all week.

If you want something hot, but don’t feel like cooking, lots of bakers sell freshly made Cornish pasties, eaten from a deck-chair, liberally sprinkled with sand, followed by an ice-cream cornet, it’s the height of self-catering luxury.

If you find you have inadvertently chosen the monsoon season, it is no problem. Out come the dominoes or Scrabble for adults, crayons and books for the tots. Liquid refreshments in varying strengths all round and the terrors of rain swiftly evaporate.

Unfortunately our holiday does contain a sad note this year. I share this moment of grief, if I may. It will cause relief in certain areas of my family when I confess two articles of clothing will be missing from my pile this year. Until we buy a new camera I refuse to pack my swimsuit and shorts. It seems to have developed an aggravating effect that makes me look wider and everyone else narrower.

It is surprising though what vast energy the thought of a holiday can generate. I find myself cleaning out cupboards, brushing out corners and who will see the results, I ask myself ? It’s as if the only way to enjoy a holiday is by wearing yourself out first!

To cut down on expenses I usually bake two ‘sticky loaves.’ These are easy to pack and delicious eaten with or without butter. Like most of my recipes they need little effort to prepare and are cheap and economical.

Just boil together in a pan for five minutes two cups of sugar, two cups of water, 8oz margarine, and about 1lb of dried fruit. When cool mix with four cups of self-raising flour, bake for about one and a half hours in a square tin or two loaf tins and enjoy.

Yes I can’t wait to don my holiday gear once more. Anyone can be anything they desire on holiday providing the kids don’t give you away!

Everyone needs a break in my opinion, a time off from the daily grind, to relax and enjoy whatever activity brings the most pleasure, or perhaps just to sit and ‘consider the lilies.’ When our children grow up and leave us (sob), hubby and me plan to indulge ourselves in one of the five star hotels we try and not to notice at the moment.

We intend to enjoy our freedom for a while anyway – until grandchildren arrive on the scene – that is!