I’m sick of playing the holiday lottery. Now that Portugal has been taken off the green list, my trip to the Algarve is hanging by a thread. So I’ve booked an idyllic seafront hotel in Cornwall just in case. I had to beg the hotel to squeeze us in, but it means sharing with my 88-year-old dad and the kids in a car park-facing room that is usually used as a pram park.
But I just need a holiday. It’s as simple as that. It has been the same for too long. Everything feels in jeopardy. Lockdown is easing – summer is here – but the British weather is as volatile as the Indian and Nepalese variant; it could all change in a heartbeat.
I’m craving a sanctuary. I turn to my garden – the sun is finally out – and I gasp in horror. I realise we can’t even walk across the lawn; it’s overgrown and full of dog s**t. It’s like a bombsite. For a minute I think we have moles out there – but it’s huge craters dug up by Muggles.