… so proclaimed those great philosophers of our time – Boney M.
My personal crawl into post-pandemic life was pleasingly signposted by a much pined for trip to the Caribbean.
That said, as some fears begin to recede…another has surfaced – the terror of packing the holiday suitcase! It’s been ages…
The Caribbean still had many restrictions in place so I couldn’t bring myself to even think about packing until I got that all important negative lateral flow test. Acknowledging this smacks of ‘my diamond shoes are too tight’, the lead up to the holiday felt a little joyless. A huge part of travelling is the anticipation and the looking forward to it, right?
So, panic packing at 2100 hours for a 0400 hours flight was never going to work for a self-confessed control freak.
Perhaps my mind is playing tricks, but it felt easier preparing for a holiday back in the 1980s when the following facts held true:
1. I only had to consider matching scrunchies with 14 ra-ra skirts and 2 bikinis
2. Gyrating around to a couple of tracks from the ‘Shape Up & Dance with Felicity Kendal’ LP and
3. scoffing my body weight in cottage cheese on Swedish crispbreads was all it took to become beach body ready within 7 days.
These days I’m less Baywatch…more Crimewatch!
Then, there’s the panic buying of too many inappropriate holiday outfits, packing them only to bring most of them home with the labels still on… more of which later.
However, once we’re at the resort, holidayweargate is forgotten in an instant as I focus on the sheer utter joy of people-watching.
Oh holiday people-watching, how I’ve missed you!
In doing so, something else has occurred to me. I need to rethink my innate perception that I lack imagination slash creativity. Not so!
(NB: This habit is not helped by the fact that I find myself taking on the persona of the main character of whatever book I’m reading. Channelling a young DCI Jane Tennyson was not helpful this year as this, coupled with being post-menopausal, meant I just wanted to put everyone ‘back on traffic’!)
So who DID I meet around the pool this year? Let me introduce you to:
my older sister, who was part of my holiday party this year and would usually be my people watching partner in crime. However, she had trials and tribulations of her own to contend with. She couldn’t find sufficient internet connection to tend her fictitious farm on Hay Day (…no, me neither!)
the ageing Wall Street Trader with his young, beautiful Eastern European bride. You can imagine the disappointment when some slow swimming techniques (very slow…ok, treading water) enabled me to overhear that they were from East London and Abergavenny respectively. Turns out he was a trader but of the ‘market’ variety! My theory was further thwarted by the fact that they were celebrating their Silver wedding anniversary. In my defence I suspect that only bits of wifey were 50…
the desperately sad looking Adonis with a young son who was clearly a widower (well, he was in the rambling mind of this mad woman) – he looked utterly broken. Well of course he would be miserable given how much he must have been missing the uber glamorous wife who turned up the next day to join the family. I was that disappointed that I didn’t even bother with my now perfected stationary front crawl to find out where she’d been. Anyhow, I had plenty of my own theories for that little mystery and some of them even feasible!
a couple from The Real Housewives of New York. In fact I was able to distract my sister from feeding her chickens and shearing her sheep (we’re clearly a family with addictive tendencies – hers Hay Day, mine, blow-dries – although her addiction is rather more lucrative as she tells me her Bertie’s Barn farm shop has made her a global profit of £1.7 million…again, me neither!), by my convincing assertion that they were at the swim up bar. She almost missed bringing in her harvest in the excitement! However, I was unable to explain, upon her return from her investigatory dip, why they had broad northern accents. “Oh,I dunno” I chirped, trying to shrug it off. ‘The Real Housewives of York then maybe’…let’s split that hair.
Suffice it to say I was more Agatha Raisin than Jane Tennyson on this particular holiday – I can only put it down to being out of people watching practice.
So back I came with a less frantically packed suitcase but with attitude. This would be the year that I would return those clothes that came home unworn, with their labels still on.
By way of background, a pattern has developed over the years.
When I’m purchasing an item, usually from a top end high street store, the sales assistant greets me like a long lost (rich!) relative, possibly calling the travel agent to book that Mediterranean cruise my commission is bound to attract as they see me approaching.
They tend to my every need, tell me how perfect, youthful -and thin -I look in absolutely everything I try.
They are super keen for me to just make that purchase, reassuring me with a sincere smile and huge puppy dog eyes, that I can bring the item(s) back for a full refund if I change my mind. This as they steer (nay, push) me out the shop with a huge paper bag with ribboned handles (shallow, moi? you’ve met deeper puddles!), leaving me wondering how I can justify another Chanelesque shift dress.
However, their smile vanishes and the puppy dog eyes become unflatteringly wolfish the moment they clock me walking back to the cash desk a couple of weeks later with aforementioned bag in hand.
Having to do that ‘walk of shame’ to the cash desk with one of their bags and justifying in detail why I didn’t quite like my purchase is tortuous. This exacerbated if that sales assistant actually helped me to select (or 'style' in their parlance) the item(s):
Them: “well I thought it looked lovely on you”
Me: “oooh I’m soooo sorry… I do like it but I don’t love it”
Them: “do you want to look for something else?”
Me: “no, thank you for the kind offer but please could I inconvenience you for a refund - you know the one that you said would be no problem?”
Them: ”‘why don't you hold onto it a while longer to see whether you can learn to love it?”
So, usually it would be one Mediterranean cruise for them and 7 shift dresses for me...
Not this time! When I took the holiday items back that I hadn’t worn and they asked what was wrong with them I said ‘absolutely nothing’ and returned their Rupert Bear stare until the refund had been transacted.
Now get me that suitcase back down from the loft immediately and pass my credit card.
As my favourite track on the aforementioned Flick Kendall album declared:
‘I am woman – hear me roar’!
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