Preparing for the holidays

I have a holiday coming up shortly. For reasons of family sickness the question of whether or not we were going to take this holiday, which we planned months ago and is fully paid up, has been hanging in the balance, but finally at the end of last week we decided we would take it. This decision sparked a flurry of panic stricken activity. Tim was that I used to hop on trains, planes and buses with nothing more than a backback containing one change of underwear and a toothbrush, but oh how times have changed. The acquisition of children and the relative rarity of any trip that does not involve a business justification, has left me totally unused to holiday packing. I look at magazine pages extolling the virtues of "inflight facial rescue packs" or "luxe beachwear" dazed, alienated and not a little intimidated. Should I part with fifty quid so I can have bottles of Jo Malone smelly stuff so tiny that if I overdo it I'll use the lot before I've left Duty Free? I try to make out a list of the necessary but it becomes apparent to me half way down it, that holidays aren't about the necessary. They are about the totally spurious. A list of necessaries includes suncream, mosquito repellent and adaptors. A list of the spurious includes kaftans, UV resistant eye cream, thong sandles, a Kindle, strawberry Tic Tacs, a fourth swimsuit just because it's Sea Folly and looks like a bikini unlike my other three which are functional Speedos and therefore wholly unsuitable for sand and surf; a myriad of hair decorations, most of them involving artificial flowers; ropes of beads with which to accessorise my beach dresses; oh, and beach dresses. I take both lists with me to the awful shopping centre close to my home. I despatch the first one at Boots within minutes. I wander confused around department stores waving the second, folornly. To be sure, beach dresses are in abundance in the last week of the sale, though of course they are the really ratty looking ones that have been tried on and discarded a hundred times and are looking distinctly sorry for themselves. They are packed together on one rail to make way for Autumn's collection, so it takes some effort to prise one off without bringing the whole lot down, and it is disconcerting to be trying them on surrounded by the wholly predictable and unimaginative display of burgundy and dove grey sweaters and suit jackets we apparently cannot do without in our depressing post-Olympic return to the daily commute. There are also quite a few bikinis in the sale, and these look more hopeful: but holding them up to the light and you can see immediately why sales enthusiasts have relegated them to the remainders basket. They may be billed as swimsuits but would fall foul of the Trades Description Act. Pocket handkerchief would be a generous term for the coverage these bikinis would give any self respecting woman, especially one with a figure more ample than that of a stick insect. I give up, dispiritedly, and make my way to the Krispy Kreme station, located incongruously right next to the swimwear (subliminal message: TOO FAT TO FIT INTO THESE? WHY NOT TUCK INTO A DOUGHNUT AND MAKE YOURSELF EVEN FATTER!!) Lingering over my glazed classic with sprinkles on top I come to a courageous decision. I will take my Speedos and my Nivea suncream. I will take three good paperbacks, my trusty shorts and a few block colour t shirts. I will take one dress. That's it. I'm sorted. I am free. I am back in the days of the mini-backpack. I am clearly having a reverse midlife crisis.