Bleagh

Patricia and I went off on holidays for a bit more than a week and a bit less than two weeks. We’re back now. You may notice that I never tell you when I’m actually on holidays in case you come round and burgle my house. Nothing personal, just basic home security.

We went off to the sun. I won’t tell you where exactly in case you come and burgle my house. It was lovely for the first 90% of the time and it was considerably less so for the final 10%.

We were flying back on Sunday afternoon so, by Friday, there was a sense of things coming to an end. For lunch, I set out the usual mix of fresh rolls, cut price charcuterie, biccies and chocolate. It all looked very appetising so it was a little surprise when I sat down in front of it and immediately decided that, no, I didn’t want any of it at all. Not one bite.

By dinner time, it was clear that something I had eaten had violently disagreed with me. Less said the better except to allude gently to the fact that the traffic was all in one, gravity-assisted direction. I hung around the place and consoled myself that I had a full day to get over it before I had to fly home.

In the evening, feeling indigested, I took two Rennie and crunched them up. The unexpected result was practically immediate. Let me just say that once, in around 1993, I drank an entire bottle of red wine without any food at a little social do and that was the last time that I had ever thrown up. Until, that is, the moment I ate those two Rennie. After that, I couldn’t seem to remember how to stop.

The next day there was a feeling that the storm had passed but the ghost that remained bore little resemblance to yours truly. I ate nothing and tried to stay hydrated. On Saturday afternoon, I sat on the couch and watched Summer Holiday and Hello Dolly back-to-back without moving an inch. At least I would be shipshape to get on the plane the day after. At least we would get home.

That theory about it being something I ate? The sort of went out of the window at about nine pm of Saturday evening, fourteen hours before the plane, when Patricia came down with the exact same thing that I was grappling with. A bug then, I guess, not food. By ten pm on Saturday evening the reason why seemed largely irrelevant. Patricia was twice as bad as I had been and I had been pretty bad.

At this point a veil is drawn over the last night of our holiday. Suffice it to say it wasn’t very edifying.

Sunday morning was a complex equation. Should we cancel flights, try to get another few nights’ accommodation? What to do? Patricia rallied in a way I couldn’t have dreamed of doing on the day before. She really is something. Most of the packing had been done before the storm descended so I managed to finish it up. We hauled ourselves into the worst taxi in history, rattled to the airport, got on the plane, and got home without too much incident. The lady in the seat to my right looked over at Patricia in the seat to my left and said, “your wife doesn’t enjoy flying very much, does she?” I nodded and smiled.

Home couldn’t have been more shining and regal if it had been a sprawling palace rather than the slightly under-aired bungalow that it was. The sense of comfort and safe harbour upon getting in the door was almost overwhelming. You know what they say, great to travel, great to come home.

Which all begs the question, was it worth it? That week in the sun, rounded off by two singularly unpleasant days. Was the good part worth the bad?

As with many of these questions, they seem to become a little more profound as years advance. They seem to be a metaphor for bigger questions of life, mortality, and existentialism.

Was it worth it? 100% yes.

The early morning walks on the beach, the swims in the still-cold water. The time together, recharging, without stress or responsibility. The smiles, the companionship, the fun, the food, the drinks, the books, the music. Those initial great days were absolutely worth the less good ones at the end.

So it is with holidays.

So it is with life.