The Holiday Bore

People who go on holiday have much in common, whether they stay here in Britain or whether they go abroad. But, unfathomably, there are still many people who believe that their holiday experience is a unique one and furthermore, some poor captive will be informed, blow by blow as to that unique experience.

Some start right from the very beginning. The booking - the visits to the travel agents, the online searching, what Trip Advisor said and the comments related to Trip Advisor, and whether those comments, which they will quote at you, are trustworthy in their reviews or have a grudge against the place they stayed.

Already, the pitiful captive has had enough. An escape route will be sought. But you have been brought up to be polite to people and so you stay there and soon the next flood of details comes pouring towards you.

'You're alright when going to Spain. You can guarantee a jumper won't be needed.' Further details of the packing continue, including the tea bags they cannot live without and the tomato sauce which is vital to life. 'Mind you, the food is ok so you won't need to pack any other foods, because there is fish and chips, roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.' Well, that's all right then. You feel a rising surge of snobbery of which you are vaguely ashamed, but honestly...an escape route is essential. But, alas, for you, the captive, on The Holiday Bore goes...

The packing details continue. You hear that things that were originally in the case have been removed and then, incredibly, been placed back in the case! Oh how we laughed!

Then the journey - along the lines of it taking a longer time or a shorter than they could ever have imagined. Brace yourself because you may well now have to listen to which motorway, which diversion, the time of day (usually very early morning) and tales of the lunatics on the road. The guy who stayed in the fast lane, not even getting out of the way when people blared their horns at him. You're told that had you been there you wouldn't have believed it. You smile and nod, now desperate for the escape. But you're a way away from that sweet freedom as yet.

Next comes the airport, the price of things, how a huge Toblerone was nearly purchased. And then the plane. The crying baby, the kid kicking the back of your seat, whose parents never told her off. The fat guy who should really have booked two seats and the food, the way you swapped your bread roll for your son's cheese and on and on and on. The turbulence, the worst turbulence known to man, the way everyone clapped as the plane landed, the brilliance of the film you saw and how you got chatting to a really interesting bloke. Then the queue for the toilet, the parlous state of the toilet, your inability to sleep,  even more predictably, the getting off the plane and the wall of heat that hits you.

Now your mind is intent on escape and nothing else. Sounds as if you had a fantastic holiday but I have to go and ....'

'Just let me tell you about the breakfasts in the hotel. They were absolutely amazing.' You know it. The list is coming.

'There was everything you could possibly want. Coffee, tea, orange juice, grapefruit juice, tomato juice, sparkling water and you could just help yourselves. There was every cereal you could think of. Alpen, RiceKrispies, cornflakes..'. Oh sweet Jesus! 'There was bacon, sausage, eggs, grilled tomatoes, fried bread, toast, butter, jam, marmalade, yogurts - all flavours. Fruit - a massive display - bananas, apples, peaches, pears, pineapple, mangoes, strawberries, raspberries. You wouldn't believe it! Oh yes and there are cheeses, hams and cakes! Can you believe it?'

By now you are desperate to leave and the politeness seared into your DNA since early childhood is causing great conflict. You are fighting it, trying to repress it,  yet you're miserable, you need to leave!  You feel imprisoned, irritated bored, annoyed.

' Wow! As I said, that sounds great but I have  few things I have to get on with so...

'Before you go, just let me give you the link to the hotel  - have you got your phone? Jut give me your email address and I'll send you the link.'

You say you don't have your phone with you, escape being your only goal. As you now know, the world is against you. This is confirmed when your phone rings! A flash of hurt and confusion plays on the face of The Holiday Bore. You, apologise, mutter about your failing memory, joke about Alzheimer's (!) and you receive the link, certain now that this is the end. You begin to shuffle off away from THB but he follows. Has he told you that he's going up to Scotland in about a month's time? The route he is considering is....

'Really got to go now - have a great time in Scotland!' Thanks he says and tells you not to worry because he promises to send you the link to the best ever B&B in existence. You realise you are almost jogging now, so determined you are not to waste another second with The Holiday Bore.  You feel on the verge of hysteria. You break into a run, wave to anyone who is watching, get into your car and drive!

My Secret Stash

First of all - hypocrite warning! As David Brent would say, in his brilliant creation The Office.

In a bid to keep my children healthy, I encouraged them to eat healthily. Plenty of fruit, vegetables, not too much meat and not too much white bread. Sweets, chocolate and crisps were to be regarded as very much a treat. Well, this plan worked reasonably well - until they went to school and started going to other people's houses and trading their lunchbox food for Twix, Mars Bars and Crunchies. Well, I content myself with the thought that at least I tried.

Now, almost three decades later, I would say that they are all fantastically healthy eaters, so much more so than me. And even when I was being a good mother and refusing to allow them too many sweets, chocolate and crisps, the shocking, chilling truth is that I had a secret stash of what I was denying them. Yes - sweets, chocolate and crisps, all kept in a shoe box stuffed in my wardrobe. The contents of that shoebox were hardcore. Sherbert lemons, fruit sherbets, Bounties, Mars Bars. thick bars of Cadbury's chocolate, milk, fruit and nut, whole nut, Thornton's toffee, Thornton's fudge and, the legendary Mint Aero. What a box of sheer decadence that was!

With my children, I would lecture them, show them pictures of decayed teeth, to put them off wanting sweets. It had no effect on them. It's like showing teenage smokers lungs which have been severely damaged by cigarettes. No connection between what they were doing and the consequences of that act.

I was discovered. I am teased about it even now. I was found out one night when they were all asleep; or at least I thought they were. I fetched my box and brought it downstairs. Coronation Street was on and I was going to have some chocolate and coke - diet of course. Suddenly, my eldest appeared at the door of the living-room and yelled, 'Caught you!' He had. Red-handed.

As a way of dealing with this gross hypocrisy, I liked to assume that I was not alone in this. That said, I must once again return to David Brent. Assume - makes an ass of u and me. What a wise man he is!

The Last Cigarette

I have been to the hospital this week, just routine stuff, but during this visit in particular, I was struck by the poor health of those I saw. One woman especially drew my attention. She was asked her date of birth and I was very surprised to hear her say 1980, making her at most 35. Quite honestly I thought she was at least in her mid to late 50s. It wasn't just her appearance but her attitude that made me think she was almost twenty years older than she really was. She appeared to have had all the worries in the world land on her head. She looked slightly afraid too, as if any minute, someone would hit her. She was wearing a jumper on a hot day. Maybe she had little else to wear - I don't believe you would choose a jumper on a blisteringly hot day. Or maybe the jumper was all that fitted her as she appeared uncomfortable in her unusually tight clothes. As she came to take a seat, the strap on her bag broke and out rolled three open cigarette packets full of tab ends. She started to mutter, 'Sorry, really sorry.' She reeked of fags.

This set me thinking about my last cigarette. It was a Saturday afternoon, in 2002,  thirteen years ago, and I was upstairs ironing and watching the old TV we kept in the spare room. Fed up with the ironing, uninterested in the TV, I lit a cigarette. To enjoy it more I stopped ironing and did nothing but smoke. Inevitably my mind wandered to the coming week and all that I had to do. I was working full time and had three children to look after, so free time didn't come around often. I drew deep on the cigarette.

Suddenly, my heart started beating rapidly. I put my hand on my chest and my heartbeat was growing even faster! I was absolutely terrified and it was that terror that made me stop smoking - for good. Thirty years from the first cigarette, my love affair with tobacco drew immediately to a close. Shamefully, it wasn't courage, will power or a wish to make the environment cleaner; it was fear. Sheer, unadulterated fear. So this coward stopped smoking.