We’re off to the coast tomorrow and I am not prepared. I’m wondering where the rash vest I last saw in August 2017 now resides, cursing the fact that the shops appear to have sold out of Factor 50 sun lotion and wondering if a bottle of Fake Bake is a good idea at this late stage.
I haven’t had a proper holiday in years (one where I totally switch off from work) and this will be no exception. A three-page feature I am writing for a magazine hasn’t been done yet so the interviews will now have to take place next week. Why do I always allow this to happen?
While I was having my legs waxed last week (at least I got that done), the beautician told me that her boss had taken her first holiday in 9 years. ‘That’s ridiculous’ I declared, before realising that I haven’t downed tools properly for 12 years myself.
It’s as if deep down, I feel I don’t deserve a break. There’s also always been the fear that as a freelancer, if I take a week off, some other writer will do the work and make a better job of it.
But I am a badass now, so isn’t it high time I hung a metaphorical ‘Sorry, gone to the beach’ sign on the computer?
I hear seagulls. I am on holiday. Do not disturb.