I want temples, The Bloke wants tavernas… it’s no surprise to me why holidays end so many marriages
“LOOK at this,” I said, enthusiastically waving a leaflet. “The ruined city of Delos, birthplace of Apollo, is just a 20-minute ferry ride away.”
The Bloke glanced up from his sun lounger and declared: “Seen one old building, seen ’em all.”
And so it came to pass that, last week, me and the kids set sail from Mykonos for a day of culture and the man I married “for better or worse,” er, didn’t.
But hey ho, it’s a familiar scenario to me. Mexico’s wondrous Chichen Itza? “Forget it.” Zip-wiring through the jungle? “Are you having a laugh?” Crocodiles in the Everglades? “I can watch it on the Discovery channel.” If ever I have the fortune to be in the vicinity of the Taj Mahal, it goes without saying that I’ll be doing a Princess Diana and posing alone.
However, many has been the time when he has set off on an intrepid adventure that I have resolutely refused to accompany him on, so he’d argue that we’re equal.
Except that his quest involves setting off in search of a local hostelry showing the latest Chelsea match after discovering that our “poxy hotel TV” only has BBC World airing a fascinating report about basket-weaving in Nigeria.
Dear reader, I married him. Yet it seems that we’re not alone in our holiday incompatibility.
A survey of 2,000 adults has revealed their top holiday regrets, and numero uno is “letting others dictate how you spend your holiday rather than doing what you wanted”.
On holiday you’re trapped together in the same room, watching what they’re watching whether you like it or not, grumbling that they’ve used up all the hangers, and having a cold shower because they’ve used up all the hot water
Others include falling out with those you went on holiday with, going away with someone irritating (in-laws etc), drinking too much and, cough cough, failing to leave the resort and sightsee.
On the face of it, a holiday together should be a time of unparalleled bliss for relationships, away from the tiresome and irritating mundanities of daily life.
But in reality they can merely serve to accentuate people’s differences.
That’s certainly the case with us — and that’s before we have even left the flaming airport.
I understand the security rules and obey them, placing any liquids in a clear bag and choosing an outfit free of any metallic accessories.
He gets pulled out every single time, huffing and puffing with indignation as his bumper bottle of aftershave or sun cream is lobbed into the nearest bin and his coins, keys, belt and metal toe-caps (OK, I made up that last one) predictably set off the alarms.
I like those hotels that advocate peace and tranquility away from mod cons (I’m a sucker for an outdoor rain shower), he flatly refuses to stay anywhere without wifi, room service, plumply cushioned sun loungers, “fluffy towels”, bedroom air-con and a vast satellite television, preferably with Sky Sports.
I like to eat adventurously and sample the local, freshly sourced cuisine, he’s a club sandwich kind of guy. Once, as we sat in a charming beach restaurant with the sea lapping at our feet, he announced: “I’m not eating fish here.”
Little wonder that solicitors now cite the post-holiday period as a hotspot for divorce inquiries.
At home, we muddle along nicely because we have our own space, two televisions, separate wardrobes and bathroom sinks, friends nearby but not having breakfast with us every day and a spare bedroom to harrumph off to after an argument.
On holiday you’re trapped together in the same room, watching what they’re watching whether you like it or not, grumbling that they’ve used up all the hangers and, all too often, having a cold shower because they’ve used up all the hot water.
As the comedian Tim Vine once said: “I’ve just been on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday. I’ll tell you what, never again.”
Mum's tragic loss so cruel
JOY WRIGHT probably felt that her parenting worries were behind her.
Her son Oliver Dearlove, 30, had a good job with a London-based bank, a steady girlfriend and a set of close friends from university.
Then she got a phone call to say that her “perfect” son was dead, floored by an unprovoked single punch from a passing stranger who reportedly said: “What are you looking at?”
All those years of love – of wiping his nose, tending his grazed knees, advocating a healthy diet, nagging about homework, etc. – obliterated by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time as the wrong sort of person was walking by.
My thoughts are with Oliver’s family and friends.
Danczuk should get real
DISGRACED Labour MP Simon Danczuk appears to be labouring under the misapprehension that kicking down a glass door which then fell on and injured his ex-wife to the tune of her having 40 stitches is somehow not a domestic violence issue because he didn’t know she was standing nearby.
This is like driving at 125 miles an hour along a country road and claiming it’s not your fault someone got killed because you didn’t know they were going to be crossing the road in front of you.
He knew Karen was locked inside their holiday home in Alicante and wilfully attempted to intimidate her with his angry and violent outburst.
Even more shameful, he knew their children were with her and could witness the whole, frightening episode.
He's not running scared
USAIN BOLT has supposedly been “caught out” cheating on his girlfriend.
Hmmmm. No close inspection is needed to reveal that this was not a man sneaking around in a bid to disguise his London-based liaisons with interchangeable young women.
He was brazenly behaving as he pleased with seemingly no fear of any consequences.
Probably because he knows full well that if anyone currently claiming to be his “girlfriend” were to dump him, there would be plenty of others who’d be more than happy to take up the, er, position while turning a blind eye to his Olympian sexploits.
Meanwhile, Kasi Bennett, who has reportedly been dating him for two years, “liked” a meme on Instagram that showed one of his fleeting amours above the caption: “When your girlfriend is Selfridges and you cheat on her with Primark.”
Ah yes, the old tactic of attacking the woman involved when, actually, it’s Bolt himself she should be criticising before proverbially whirling him shot-put style out of her life.
But something tells me there’s more chance of my mother beating him in the 100 metres.
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PJs and bunkum
GMB presenter Kate Garraway was mercilessly ribbed this week for appearing to wear pyjamas on air.
Join the club, dear.
“It’s the latest fashion,” mitigated the wardrobe department at Loose Women earlier this month when I balked at this Germolene-pink creation they were wafting in front of me.
One hour later, I was being hosed down with ridicule on Twitter.
As the old saying goes: “Fashion is what you buy, style is what you do with it.”
So from now on my PJs are solely for at home and the school run.
MAKING UP TIME
FELLOW commuters think that women doing their make-up on the bus or train is the height of rudeness.
In which case, they need to get out even more.
After all, who has the time to do it before they leave the house?
Many’s the occasion when, after a bumpy commute, I have turned up to a morning meeting resembling the love-child of Marilyn Manson and The Cure’s Robert Smith.
Even a spokesman for etiquette guide Debrett’s reckons it’s OK to apply a bit of mascara and lippy on the Number 58, but adds ominously that it’s “best to refrain from more extensive grooming in public”.
What, like a full bikini wax?
Now that really would be rude.
Monarch of the Jen
THE picture above shows the real Queen Victoria.
The picture below shows the actress Jenna Coleman in her current role as the monarch.
Or is it the other way round? It’s so hard to tell . . .
