7 Aug 2012
It was beautiful and hot and we were all grateful to escape the endless rain. It’s a family tradition that on the way back, we each have to say what our favourite part of the holiday was, and why. Usually this is accompanied by much sighing and groaning as I’m the only one who’s really interested in the outcome, but it’s tradition so we’re damned well going to do it every time.
This got me thinking about other traditions that occur when we go away. Like the fact that, though I only ever need sun lotion, I absolutely have to spend £100 in Boots before a holiday. It is also a universal truth that the English abroad wander about in outfits they would not be caught dead in at home. It’s just the law. Day in day out I am assaulted by apparitions that make Jordan look like a lady in waiting. Pretty it ain’t.
The most vicious yearly event though is the packing; although to use that word undoubtedly attributes far too much dignity to the process. “Flinging items into a case in blind panic” would be more accurate.
My sister is a knicker-counter. You know the type: she has a neat and complete outfit for every day of the week, for every person on the trip. If you sneak up on her during the pre-holiday packing period, you will hear her muttering: “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…” as she clutches at pairs of pants. I am not so organised. I can be found, the night before, chucking clothing at an empty case, whose selection has been made solely on the basis that I cannot wear it in the U.K. without my extremities turning blue. No thought is given to whether it fits, suits me, belongs to me, or goes with anything else in the case. I soothe myself with a manically cheery internal commentary that I cannot possibly need more than a swimsuit and some shorts so it’ll all be just fine.
My children are to be found nearby, making unreasonable demands on our luggage allowance in the form of every toy they’ve ever owned and sacks full of electronic gadgetry less the get “bored”. They once tried to sneak the dog into my hand luggage, though her pitiful yelping ruined attempts at extraordinary rendition before the Spaniel/Chihuahua crossbreed reached international borders.
The simple truth is that chaos ensues every year, and indeed I have been known to arrive abroad with, on one occasion, not a single pair of pants for either of the kids. It’s one tradition I would happily ditch but however hard I try it always works out the same. Somehow we get abroad; somehow it works out fine.
This year, as always, I peered around the pool, marvelling at the sights. T-shirts barely crept past bosoms, ensuring the muffin tops a marvellous tan, hot pants caused many a bottom to impersonate two cats fighting in a bag, and budgie smugglers were back with a vengeance.
But this year, I finally understood why. At last I can let go of my bitchy assumption that the Brits abroad lose all sense of dignity and style.
These people are not lacking fashion sense. They are panic packers. They have arrived on sunny shores to find that, in their frantic disarray, all they have brought with them is their teenage daughter’s cast offs from two years ago, and they are doing their best to style it out.
