Well, all packed up and ready to go on my next holiday. Slightly to my embarrassment, I seem to be in a phase of work one week, holiday one week, work one week. Today I travel to Ibiza with a suitcase full of brightly coloured new stuff, which I bought yesterday. Nothing like last-minute decisions to leave you with a pile of cheaply dyed mismatches and omissions (they don’t seem to be selling many bottom halves this year).

My last jaunt, a fortnight ago, to Falmouth, Exeter and Wiltshire, was much less demanding in the wardrobe department, since my only definite social fixture was the village Footpath Club annual outing. Yes, living on the edge. We had a coach and everything!

So off we tootled down to Weymouth and onto Portland, past the signs for the Olympic sailing regatta that twitched in the apocalyptic wind. We were warned to keep the dog away from the cliffs in case she blew away. Lumme. She’s not even that fluffy, and has a considerably lower centre of gravity than I do. Anyway, we made it round sunny, blasty Portland just before the clouds rolled in, and were swallowing the last gulps of well-earned tea as the first drops began to fall. Quick, everyone! Back on the coach! It was like being back at school, minus all the teachers calling each other by their Christian names (‘Have you done a head count, Janice?’)

So, now that I am fully tooled up with floaty things, wrappy things and six gallons of anti-sun paste, I think we’re going to find that it’s not that warm there. Not at night, anyway. Bah. But since I managed to punctuate three days in Cornwall with only one cream tea and not a single pasty (my usual order is one of each, every single day), perhaps I can get through a week in the Balearics without once catching sight of my pink/white self in a shop window and thinking ‘Yuk, who’s THAT poor soul?’


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