Bee in my Barnet

I'm considering a radical hairstyle overhaul. By radical, I mean chopping my longish bobbed locks into an elfin crop.

In the time I have considered this metamorphosis I could have read all 50 Shades of Grey books, colour coded my sons' Lego collection (again) or deleted every Crapsville request on Facebook.  Stop procrastinating.

A change can be re-invigorating. Think Sandy in Grease, Posh Spice circa 1997, Madge in the Open your Heart video. Try not to think about Charliez Theron in Monster, Lady Gaga's male alter ego, or any Hilary Swank movie.

To cut a long story short
I'm contemplating the move because I feel like Worzel Gummidge in this windswept weather. I nearly collided with a lampost because my view was so obscured. 

My wiry grey roots (more like  branches and trunk)  can no longer be tweezered and are harder to conceal. 

But mostly because I feel invisible in a sea of mothers bob-bing across the playground. I want to feel revitalised, young and funky. Mutton. Lamb?

So, as the last year of my 30s approaches, am I trying to cling on to my youth by pretending to be like Frankie from the Saturdays when I'm more like Frankie Howerd?

Or am I admitting the inevitability of middle age; that we all get Mom style feather cuts in the end, like Lulu? 

My hair is high mainteance. It is fine, and flyaway. It curls at the mere mention of moisture and you've not witnessed such frizz since aT'Pau tour. It's over dyed and straightened to within an inch of its lackustre life. It goes greasy faster than you can say: "Dry shampoo."
I try to tame the beast by scraping it back into a ponytail. But what's next? Flat shoes and fleece or - even worse - a scrunchie?

You've not got the Look
The last time I had a crop was in the 80s. Imagine a chubby Lisa Stansfield, minus the beret. I modelled a short back and sides, complete with Spok sideburns.  If that wasn't enough I asked the hairdresser to bleach my fringe to look like either Salt or Peppa.

Nobody fancied me (well maybe Tracy Chapman fans did) and I felt very unfeminine and unattractive. I'm sure Sheena Easton or the Swedish woman from Roxette never felt like that. When I later grew my hair I gained boyfriends and confidence and this shaped me. The thought of returning to the ugly duckling terrifies me.

1987: Stonewashed Shakin' Stevens Look

But am I defined by my hair? If I do go for the snip (more references to gender confusion) will I lose my identity?

The Short Straw

Long, shiny hair is such a reflection of youth and fertility. My husband likes flowing locks like Selma Hayek or Jessica Alba with their luscious manes like princesses in fairytales. Whereas my Mothers Grimm tresses would make a nice thatch for three little pigs.

Most mornings I model the electric shock look and it's not because I've been dribbling on the electric blanket again. It's ok for men, they just wash and go.

But the idea of a new, low mainteance me is appealing. My GHDs can get well earnt break (I've told my hubby the electric bills will halve).  I can do a bit of minor grooming and brave the school run without a balaclava. 


The Cons (Bascially involving looking butch or like a middle aged frump)

What if I enter the salon asking for Carey Mulligan and end up looking like Sarah Millican?

I  could look too 80s and resemble a cross between Yazz and Tyne Daly? 

What if they give me a GI Jane, shave the back of my head and ask me what grade I want (Er, I do have Grade 3 piano)? Will I see clippers? 

I could get mistaken for a man from behind. It happened to my mother when somebody shouted: "Oi, mate, do you know the way to B&Q?"


Pros

It grows back. Probably completely grey and not as fast as my old Playdough Barber Shop. Maybe in time for the next Olympics.  

Easy maintenance. I can share my husband's Brylcreem and colour my hair with Just for Men. No more shares in Frizz Ease.

I will look sophisticated and mature (not old) like a BBC News reader (not Moira Stewart).

It's all about the layering. At just five foot two, I can gain much neded height.

It could knock years off me. How many I'm not sure. Recently, during a stampede at bargain corner, a woman said: "Make way for the little boy," when torrential rain forced me to wear one of my sons' cagoules. However, short hair could leave me looking like Kathy Burke in Kevin and Perry Go Large. 

A cute pixie cut could accentuate my small features. So, with my vertical challenges I can audition for The Hobbit or Peter Pan. 

No more helmet hair when cycling.



I have selected the salon carefully. I can't chance a Groupon and a junior stylist from Curl up and Dye. It has to be a reputable (pricey) salon with copies of Tatler, not 1999's  Christmas issue of TV Quick.

But I don't want it to be so modern that Hal welcomes me to my pod like seat and a stylist dressed like a mime artist gasps in horror because no, I don't use any heat protecting, shock absorbing, ceramide R, Theramide 4, baboon bum oil product.

Obviously I will say I love it even though I will later be sobbing into my crocodile clip and ransacking the loft for my Morticia Adams wig.   

I will stick to my usual highlights. My pillar box red dream is one mid life crisis too far right now. Plus, I might get mistaken for Bea Smith from Prisoner Cell Block H.

Fantasy Haircut League

In my quest, I visited a website and played around with software to super-impose short styles on my face, only to look like a Duplo man's hair was hovering over my head.

Then I tried on wigs, but felt like Hayley Cropper.   

So I drew on a photo with a felt tip and looked like Blackadder. I cut the hair off a photo shorter and shorter, until I resembled Bod.

Continuing the psycho killer theme, my husband found me cutting out images of female celebs with short hair. I found Danni MInogue, Natalie Imbruglia, Mia Farrow.

But then I found Rhona Cameron, Kerry Katona and Winona Ryder during her shoplifting era.

At best, I hope to step out of the salon like an iconic 60s siren such as Twiggy, or  a contemporary beauty like Michelle Williams.

At worst, I will be like Britney, the Cheetos years, or, as it's the Olympics, Fatima Whitbread.

So, despite my reservations, I think it's time to make the call and say goodbye to Sandra Dee.

IT'S NOT MY PARTY AND I'LL CRY IF I WANT TO

We're on the birthday party treadmill, averaging one to two balloon filled festivities per weekend. But like this final, lingering, school term, I’m waiting for it to end, just to break the monotony. 

In my day it was easy. Your friend had a party at their house. Your Mom (Mother, for anyone outside of Spaghetti Junction) dropped you off in your party dress clutching a Fisher Price present. You played musical statues, ate pineapples on sticks (with chipolatas if the host was ambitious enough to upgrade to the hedgehog/porcupine centre piece) before skipping home with your slab of gateau.

These days, parties are supersized and sophisticated affairs, with all the lavish of a Royal Variety Performance. It's no longer the norm to invite a few neighbours over to pass the parcel ‘round to: ‘I am the Music Man’. Not when you can hire the Cirque de Soleil to perform at the O2 for little Maddie’s sweet sixth.

Groundhog (Birth) Day

Our first few visits to parties were a novelty. But once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all. The same faces, the same venues and the same Twizzlers. Making small talk with other jaded parents about which school shirts shrink at the first whiff of non bio detergent (clue: ‘These are not just any polo shirts’) for up to three and half whopping hours.

Parties are taking over our lives; unless they happen to be ours. Suddenly the faceless play centre is not a repetitive, mundane chore, but a celebration of another year’s passing in the lives of our children.

And, just like Steve Martin’s character in Parenthood, who dresses up as Cowboy Dan when the entertainment fails to show, I will also go to any lengths to ensure the day is a carnival of non-stop fun. But I draw the line at wearing chaps.

So what exactly is the etiquette when it comes to children’s parties?

Timing is Everything

How important is your child’s actual date of birth?

You may wish to consider moving your party if it clashes with any major event like the school fete, half term or Christmas.Take poor little Lucy. Surrounded by a table of unopened Fun Meal boxes after snow drifts forced guests to abandon her December 23 party.

Then there’s the time. The coveted 12-1pm play centre slot can be tricky to secure. So, aside from bribing the manager, best book a year in advance to avoid the graveyard shifts of 10am (Doesn’t sound that early, but try getting everybody out of the house on a Saturday morning after a few too many Pinots the night before) or the sleepy 7pm finish when kids are dozing off into the ketchup sachets.


Monkey Tennis

Parties come in all shapes and sizes, from church halls and leisure centres with DIY catering and discos, to themed parties and specialist venues, including football, go karting, snow boarding, climbing, swimming, cinema, bowling, pizza making, bear building. You can even hold them in pubs.

A valiant few brave a party at home, as I did for the boys’ first birthday and lived to regret the tale when I was still scrubbing Cranberry juice stains out of the carpet two months later.

Not only was it stressful (waking my husband at 5am in a blind panic because we hadn’t got any edible silver icing balls) it was expensive (cooking enough sausage rolls to feed the cats for a week) and the cleaning preparation involved a complete re-grouting of the bathroom.

Although I groan at the thought of another play centre party, at £48 for a party of eight with food, play and goody bags included, I find them the easiest and cheapest option for our family, given my limitations.

Bronze, Silver or Gold?

But play centre parties are no longer one size fits all. There are now a host of party packages; the Rola Cola bronze, the socially acceptable silver and the gold extras of face painting and cake ceremonies (what next, a Maitre De?) All designed to guilt trip parents who dare subject poor Timmy to a paltry bronze do.

They also offer exclusive hire of the venue. Recently, the party ahead of ours  banished our group outside because we had arrived five minutes early. That’s the kind of power the exclusive wields.

Random corporate mascot - see how impressed the boys are!

That's Entertainment

Amid the fire eating, sword swallowing kittens on stilts, there’s still room for the old favourites, like the magician or DJ. But not the Animal Man and his poisonous menagerie of Tarantulas and Pythons.

Take Mr Jolly the clown, who exploited my husband’s fear of audience participation by dragging him centre stage for a show of squirty flowers and never ending spotted handkerchiefs. My husband has now developed a phobia of anyone with red lipstick and orange hair. He cowers behind the settee every time my Mom visits.

Sometimes there will be a personal appearance by a random corporate mascot.

"Wow, a giant dragon,” I excitedly tell the boys as a spotted seven foot dragon/dinosaur/Mr Blobby  lurches into the Monster Stomp.

“It’s a grown man, Mommy,” they say in unison.

Then I recall the traumatic loss of innocence at a holiday park. I’ll never forget the sound of hysterical screams and laughter as the head of a non-Disney endorsed Sebastian the Crab costume rolled into the crowd of toddlers, only to expose a spotty Red Coat reject.  

One final note. If the Balloon Man does craft your child a cute latex sausage dog, please be aware that one day later this will cause great amusement by deflating into a phallic ornament that only warped adults will appreciate.


A phallic, deflated balloon keeps the family amused for hours


Party Politics

 Do you invite the whole class? the ones whose parents you are friends with, or whose Dad happen to be on the Board of Governors? Or do you ask the kids who they would like to come, only to find that your fickle child’s best friend is now their sworn enemy? It’s a political minefield.

Even sending out invites three weeks ahead of the big day runs the risk of social exclusion if it clashes with a bigger, better party. To get round this potentially devastating dilemma, one mother issues the invitations two months in advance. The boys’ birthday is in April, so maybe I should issue joint New Year’s Eve and birthday invitations.

Expect to turn into a paranoid stalker when RSVPs fail to arrive and you are left wondering whether it will be just you and Madge, the play centre cook, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to your little angel. Perhaps the invites are languishing in the bottom of your unreliable six-year-old’s pump bag. Remind yourself it is perfectly normal to hound parents for replies, purely for catering purposes.

In Sickness and in Health

Be prepared that not everybody will turn up. Some will forget or get a better offer, or illness will prevail.

Even if you enter the play centre with a full bill of health, one visit to the germ-laden cess (ball) pit could knock you out for days. At one winter party the birthday boy in question, notorious for being a carrier of Noro, emptied the entire contents of his stomach into a goody bag. As we mopped up buckets of spew a week later, I was ever so grateful for that invitation.

Food Glorious Food

When the food arrives you may notice a scrum of mothers competing for the fastest unwrapping of cling film award. Show willing and hand out a few token rolls to avoid being branded slovenly.

Parties are famine or feast. While children gorge on cup cakes, famished parents lust after half eaten reconstituted chicken nuggets. Eat before you go.

And what of the cake? At one party a mother had created a spectacular Lego Man cake. Not to be outdone, I attempted to bake a Sonic the Hedgehog sponge, which could only be described as the lovechild of Sid Vicious and Papa Smurf. 

Fingers crossed that during the cake ceremony, your child won’t: a) singe their eyebrows off or: b) sink their filthy fingers into the cake that you may later devour on your journey home, in order to avoid malnutrition.  

Do us a Favour

The thought of stuffing plastic tat and pencil toppers into goody bags at midnight is enough to strike fear into the heart of any grown woman. Why not just throw your cash straight into the bin, instead of traipsing the aisles of Tesco for yo yos and bouncy balls?

My nephew once shoved that party bag favourite – a blunt pencil - up our poodle’s bottom, claiming: “I thought it was a pencil sharpener, Mummy.”

Always have emergency party bags to allow for unwanted guests (one parent once brought five of her son’s siblings along) or just incase little Peter wants the princess bag instead of the pirate one.

No point valeting your car beforehand either, as said bag will be emptied over your back seat and smeared across your windows faster than you can say ‘choking hazard’.

 Finally.....

 I may be a party pooper, but whether you’re hosting, attending, or bribing your husband to go instead of you, one thing is guaranteed, parties are kiddy heaven.

The boys are already planning next year’s bash. They have informed me that they want two separate dos. Perhaps I need a dedicated party planner to ease the pressure. We could send out save the date cards and devise spreadsheets.

Maybe I could span the parties across an entire weekend, like an American wedding - with a birthday breakfast, toasts and speeches and a first dance to the Godfather theme - just to see who will crack first. It’s all good fun.

Just pass me a stale Dairylea sandwich and be done with it!

Double Trouble

My beautiful boys

Once upon a time my twin sons and I were in a charity shop when somewhere between the fondue sets and the Dan Browns a disapproving assistant bellowed to her colleague: “Can you imagine having twins?” Frozen, I wracked my brain for a witty retort: “I know! Soon man will be walking on the moon” or: “You can not imagine the overwhelming joy two beautiful children bring.” Instead, I laughed nervously and shrugged as the boys proceeded to empty the entire contents of Buckaroo all over the floor. Whoops!

Such comments are not new to me, but for the uninitiated it can come as a surprise that strangers say the strangest things to the parents of twins – whether they are welcomed or not. Sometimes we lap it up, sometimes we ignore it, sometimes we laugh and other times we might cry – depending on how much sleep we’ve had.

For the boys, their first official outing was an uneventful affair. At two weeks old, they slept cocooned in ignorance in their buggy, which was so un-necessarily long it could be in two postcodes at the same time. For us proud parents it was a journey into a wonderful new universe, as little old ladies, fellow parents and fascinated passers-by migrated over to us to ogle at two newborns. I revelled in the attention, regaling glamorous tales of morning sickness, C-sections and nappy counts, adding a little more drama each time.  Everywhere we went the boys drew a crowd and we never did quite make it to Boots.

Six weeks later and the novelty was wearing off. Wearied by my son’s relentless acid reflux, a dash around Sainsbury’s was like an Antarctic expedition as my attempts to avoid the masses were disastrous. It’s impossible to be incognito with a stretch limo for a pram. The comments that once seemed enchanting and quirky became repetitive and daft. I should have made cue cards reading: “No, they are not identical” “Yes we can tell them apart” “Yes it is hard work”. And while I loved hearing the: “Twins, how wonderful” and: “Aren’t you lucky?” observations, I wasn’t sure how many times I could grin through my teeth as another wannabe comedian yelled out: “Double Trouble!”

Then there were the rude, invasive and negative comments. Enquiries about whether  I’d undergone IVF, implications that one of my children was good and one was bad and (I kid you not) that I must have done something ‘wrong’ in a former life to now have twins! Perhaps it down to five months of sleep deprivation, but the low came during one particularly stressful shopping trip when the boys would not stop crying, when a mother said to her daughter: “God, imagine having twins?” What I wanted to say was: “Imagine having a girl?” to demonstrate how ludicrous such a comment is. Instead, we wheeled out of the shop in tears.

My husband took it all with a pinch of salt and humours such comments with elaborate answers: “Yes, they even projectile vomit in synchronisation!” while my mother has always relished the Brangelina level of attention. So why did it get to me so much? Exhaustion? Humour bypass? The reality is, people just speak first and think later and we are all guilty of that. Add into the mix the ‘mystique’ of multiples and you can guarantee ‘rent a quote’.

But for every well intended or misguided comment there are the truly uplifting moments when a jolly old lady coos over your babies and expresses: “How lovely.” I particularly love it when the boys visit my grandmother’s nursing home and the joy they bring to the residents who adore seeing two little boys. It never fails to cheer them (and me) up. Despite my muted moment in the charity shop the random comments rarely upset me. Now I’m the first to run over to a fellow mother of twins and announce proudly: “I’ve got twins you know.” In fact, I’m gutted if we don’t receive any comments!

But unlike my stretch marks, the attention doesn’t last forever; especially now that the boys are six and barely look related. It’s those moments that make you remember how special this is and how twins and babies can bring out the best in people.

My Top Twin Comments

(And some retorts)

                      

Are they identical? (To boy/girl twins)

Is it a ‘natural’ pregnancy? (No, aliens came down and impregnated me)

Small age gap or twins? (Well both If you wish to be pedantic…)

Do twins run in the family (they would if they met you)?

Can they read each other’s thoughts? (No, but it’s a good job you can’t read my thoughts right now)

Which one’s the good one and which one’s bad (er, the one called Cain is definitely the bad one)

Aw, it’s Bill and Ben/Pinky & Perky (That must make you Dumb and Dumber!)

You’ve got your hands full (which is more than I can say for your brain)

I’ve always wanted twins (well just pop your order in with the man upstairs)

Two for the price of one! (BOGof!)

I’d kill myself if I had twins (I’ll load up the ammo for you)

Wish you Weren't Here

Ah, the great British Summertime. Gale force winds, plummeting temperatures and the wettest June in years. No wonder we’ve returned home early to put the heating on after yet another washout holiday. Call me paranoid, but why does it always rain on me?

Since my twin sons were born six years ago we have holidayed in the UK once or twice a year and most breaks have been blighted by miserable weather. Yet like true Brits, we keep going back for more and I’m beginning to take it personally. 

Our recent week in Torquay gave a whole new meaning to the British Riviera as severe weather warnings saw the seaside town hit by floods and gusts of 70mph which forced us inside. I can’t keep a stiff upper lip any more (although it should have been easy in that cold) and pretend that this wasn’t another disappointing family holiday. I’m fed up with being a hostage to Mother Nature.

Maybe it was the months of anticipation and excitement; dreams of paddling in the sea, ice-creams and sandcastles, cricket on the beach (water polo would have been more apt) or the fact that the apartment had an inviting outdoor pool. Perhaps it was the ‘tropical’ spell before we left as I optimistically packed Maxi dresses, sandals and shorts, not knowing I would be living in the emergency waterproofs all week. Or did we tempt fate by going away during Whit week half term and a double Bank (Jubilee) Holiday?  I should know better. The weather and I have form. But who could have predicted these extreme conditions? Heck, if it rained on the Queen’s parade, what chance do we mere mortals have?

Saturday: The holiday begins with an eight hour journey (it should take three) on the gridlocked M5, prompting even me to badger my husband with: “Are we nearly there yet?” Still, it gives me chance too obsessively analyse the five-day forecast on my ‘phone and the never-before-seen red warning sign that now flash over each day. Yet this does not dampen our spirits.  We arrive late afternoon; the accommodation is pleasant and we excitedly eye up the pool and picturesque terrace.  We stroll into town feeling a little chilly, yet full of promise of what the morning will bring.

Sunday:  The morning brings a wet and windy day, but with a few breaks here and there. As the Queen smiles through a soggy Jubilee water pageant we brave the outdoor (heated) pool.  Despite our enthusiastic cheers of: “Keep moving boys, don’t stand still” M and J complain that they can’t feel their toes, so we retreat, shivering, back indoors to thaw out with hot chocolates and thermals. we spend the day looking around shops (much to the dismay of two small boys) via the amusement arcade (peace is restored) before heading back to the apartment to get creative and make a Snakes and Ladders board out of a cereal box. Just call me Valerie Singleton!

Bank Holiday Monday:  Another wintry and breezy start, but at least it’s dry, so crazy golf and a trip on Torquay’s Land train are top of the list. It’s entertaining stuff, but the boys are desperate for the beach, so we venture onto the squidgy and deserted sand for sports. J and M are enjoying the activity and I try to throw myself in (the games, not the icy sea). But coats on the beach again – really? This is déjà vu of last year’s Whit Week break in Devon when I spent every day surgically attached to my Parka. Why can’t I be slapping on the factor 30 with Jackie Collins for company?

Tuesday: Torrential rain drenches us as we battle to the leisure centre to join the queues which stretch into the car park. Thank goodness we can dry off in the pool.  Shoulder to shoulder with fellow (please don’t let them be the great unwashed) holidaygoers we pretend we are in the sea. The boys jump over the waves and finally get a chance to master the front crawl. My swimming costume makes a rare and last appearance this holiday. We hang out in the cafeteria for two hours as it is too vile to travel. Brits united by epic rain huddle round the TV screen to watch HRH’s carriage trot around a rather dry looking London. Thankfully the evening is warm and dry so we head down to the funfair on the sea front before taking in the highlight of the week – glorious Jubilee fireworks over the Bay. We are all mesmerised and the boys gasp and gawp in wonderment.

Wednesday: Bracing ourselves for thunderstorms and floods of Biblical proportions, we decide to go to the pictures (I mean, how busy can Orange Wednesday really be on the wettest day in history during a busy half term in a tiny seaside cinema?)  But after the usual drizzle and damp, something unusual happens; a yellow ball appears in the sky between the cloud and wind and temperatures reach the dizzy heights of 20 degrees. This mildly warm yet windswept day is as good as it gets. So I seize the (half) day and proceed to cram as much as I can into the remaining hours – from rock climbing to a slightly choppy boat ride. That night the weather deteriorates as the storms gather.

That evening my mother calls from her five-star all inclusive in the Costa del Sol. “It’s wonderful,” she gushes. “The boys would love it; there are shows every night and the swimming pools are beautiful, but it’s far too hot.” I gaze longingly out of the apartment window, taunted by the pool we can’t use.

Thursday: Gale force winds and downpours are battering both the town and our resolve. We refused to be beaten and were determined to enjoy the break regardless “You will have fun!” But it’s impossible to do anything other than stay inside, grateful for our cinema vouchers and the penny machines in the amusements. The sheer might of the storm makes the 15 minute walk back like treading in treacle for the boys and we are forced to grab a taxi. Every raincloud has a silver lining. The cabby happily informs us that bookings have increased since the lousy weather. “It’s a blip,” he informs us. “Blipping hell,” I mutter.

Friday: We admit defeat, pack up and ship out early to hopefully avoid traffic on the branch-lined windy streets. The concrete jungle of Birmingham seems more appealing than the depressing, beaten vision of a desolate promenade. I am jubilant to be heading home. No pangs, just six hours of jams amid the mass exodus of travellers who are also trying to escape back to the city. Meanwhile, the radio blasts out stories from other deflated holidaymakers. Misery just loves misery.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. It certainly wasn’t Club Tropicana, just a whimper of sun and no monsoons please. Thankfully we have another jaunt to Cornwall scheduled for August. But that’s the quandary. To go or not to go during this unpredictable summer. Do we chance that the weather might be half decent and show the boys that there is life after Torquay, or do we throw away more good money after bad only to get another soaking? And how could I break the news to Julian and Miles?

If we went away regularly, owned a Camper van, lived less than 100 miles away from a beach or could leave at the drop of a hat it wouldn’t matter. We could simply tailor our holidays to the weather and not vice, versa. But like most families, we are tied to term times and work and there are no guarantees in this country that the sun will come out to play, whatever the month.

Since losing my job, we plan and budget our holidays with military precision. We are luckier than most to have two annual breaks. But at a total cost of around £1500 per year, this is an expensive luxury and the cash could fund lots of sunshine timed days out.

A water logged holiday is not good value for money -unless you happen to be visiting Niagara -if you can’t use the outdoor facilities, including the greatest freebie of all, the beach. We long to see the seaside in all its sunkissed glory. It’s a novelty for us landlocked Brummies. 

I feel short changed. Not just because I feel guilty, as the gatekeeper of the family purse, but for the holiday that eluded us like the stuffed toy the boys yearned for as it dropped from the jaws of the grabber machine time and time again. 

My husband thinks I am missing the point and that a holiday is what you make it. It’s about spending quality, family time together - jumpers for goalposts and all that. After all, there are plenty of happy campers who refuse to let sodden ground sheets dampen their fun.

Of course I have precious memories of the boys scaling rocks and transfixed by Catherine Wheels. But I am fed up of smiling through and saying: “Yes, we had a great time” and pretending that playing weather roulette is just path of the course. 

I realise the boys are blissfully unaware of what they could have won and will remember it all as a great adventure. It’s me who’s disappointed. I just want to create a memorable and perfect holiday experience for my children, like my own idyllic trips to the breathtakingly beautiful South West.  As a child of the 1970s I expect, sorry, I demand sunshine 24/7. But if I can’t have that then I will live in eternal optimism at just the odd day.

We have tried the February, Easter and October half terms. Caravan breaks in Cornwall and Devon. One in snow and the other spent listening to rain ricocheting off the tin roof, and the sickness bug that swept the site and led to synchronised vomiting in the shallow end. And not forgetting the newspaper promotion to North Wales and the caravan we lovingly named Fido as we stepped onto a carpet of dog hair on arrival.

There have been exceptions. September mini breaks seem to be the safest, yet they fall in term time, and last year’s August holiday in my beloved St Ives.There was no rush on the Aftersun, but it was pleasant enough to remind me how gorgeous blightly can rival anywhere in the summer.

*Cool in Cagoule. The preferred holiday attire

I’m happy to be home, yet frustrated that I naively pinned all my hopes on one week which seemed hell bent on breaking me. Maybe I am the jinx. Just find out when I go away and avoid it. I can’t deny that the lure of the package isn’t tempting. But meteorologically speaking, surely luck will out at some point. So is it one last bite of the pasty, or do we change tactics and go away in one of the months we haven’t tried. December perhaps....  Barbeque on the beach anyone?