I suppose I shouldn't really be going on holiday.
Such is the bubonic misery the credit crunch has inflicted upon mankind, it would be more appropriate to be seeking mental health counselling, contemplating suicide or - at the very least - using all those 'buy one get one free' vouchers in chain restaurants that just about everyone in the world seems to have e-mailed me over the last few months. That's how desperate things have supposedly become. Thousands and thousands of us are frantically sharing the salvation that is the offer to get a complimentary side dish with every main meal bought at Pizza Express...
In all vague seriousness, I need a break from this misery - even though I really can only barely afford it. February also seems the ideal time to go away for a while. I figured it would make January vaguely tolerable, by the time I'm back it will practically be Spring and everyone will be a little bit cheerier and talking about what festivals they plan to go to in the Summer, instead of the bizarre soul searching that seems to accompany the start of a new year.
For the sixth year in succession my sorry soul will find itself somewhere in Asia, which to my mind is pretty much the best part of the world to go on holiday. Great food, enchanting culture, terrific beaches - and as cheap as Lidl lemonade.
Holidays in Asia never normally pass without incident, either. As I have contemplated this latest jaunt, a whole host of different memories have come flooding back. Nearly crashing a scooter, falling in the sea and ruining a camera, falling in a stream and ruining a phone, having a phone stolen, having a credit card cloned, having a debit card cloned, being virtually held ransom in a slum. I could go on.
The week before my departure has seen the worst weather in the south of England for 18 years. It has dominated everything I have done at work, and nagged incessantly at my mind as I have pondered the possibility of being stranded at Heathrow for days on end. Perhaps I'll be photographed asleep and dribbling on the terminal floor, and then find myself on the front page of the Express beneath a headline that asks IS THIS WHAT BRITAIN HAS COME TO?
Such is the bubonic misery the credit crunch has inflicted upon mankind, it would be more appropriate to be seeking mental health counselling, contemplating suicide or - at the very least - using all those 'buy one get one free' vouchers in chain restaurants that just about everyone in the world seems to have e-mailed me over the last few months. That's how desperate things have supposedly become. Thousands and thousands of us are frantically sharing the salvation that is the offer to get a complimentary side dish with every main meal bought at Pizza Express...
In all vague seriousness, I need a break from this misery - even though I really can only barely afford it. February also seems the ideal time to go away for a while. I figured it would make January vaguely tolerable, by the time I'm back it will practically be Spring and everyone will be a little bit cheerier and talking about what festivals they plan to go to in the Summer, instead of the bizarre soul searching that seems to accompany the start of a new year.
For the sixth year in succession my sorry soul will find itself somewhere in Asia, which to my mind is pretty much the best part of the world to go on holiday. Great food, enchanting culture, terrific beaches - and as cheap as Lidl lemonade.
Holidays in Asia never normally pass without incident, either. As I have contemplated this latest jaunt, a whole host of different memories have come flooding back. Nearly crashing a scooter, falling in the sea and ruining a camera, falling in a stream and ruining a phone, having a phone stolen, having a credit card cloned, having a debit card cloned, being virtually held ransom in a slum. I could go on.
The week before my departure has seen the worst weather in the south of England for 18 years. It has dominated everything I have done at work, and nagged incessantly at my mind as I have pondered the possibility of being stranded at Heathrow for days on end. Perhaps I'll be photographed asleep and dribbling on the terminal floor, and then find myself on the front page of the Express beneath a headline that asks IS THIS WHAT BRITAIN HAS COME TO?
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