I just looked at an album of 'Underwhelming British Holiday Photos'.
Unhappy dads in rainmacs hugged their soaking children on the beach. The camera lens blobbed with raindrops in front of a grey campsite and an even greyer sky. A young girl with wellingtons and an umbrella stood behind a chalkboard advertising a 'sunny beer garden'.
I was overcome with a wave of nostalgia.
Oh you can keep your sun-soaked costa-del-soleros. This is proper holidaying: traipsing through the drizzly hills with a soggy sandwich, dripping into the dinosaur museum and standing there shaking your umbrella while your glasses steam up.
Hmm. Nostalgia eh? Nostalgia for a few weeks ago perhaps, when I was sheltering under a tree in Dorset with the Emergency Biscuit Tin, thinking about my friends having a lovely time in Morocco.
I'm not ruling out the costa-del-solero completely.
In fact, I am trying to think about what kind of holiday I would like next and where and when. Italy and the lakes? The sparkling Mediterranean and the South of France? Scotland? Dublin? Rolling round Cornwall?
I suppose the graph of how-much-you-think-you-need-a-holiday peaks just before you take one, and quite probably for a few weeks after. I'm exhausted.
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