It’s been almost three weeks of holiday — and when you’re a writer with a 12-year-old, you get to take off school holidays too. Amsterdam was lovely as ever; the hotel, courtesy of lastminute.com, far more gorgeous and starry than I would ever normally have been able to afford; and my Dutch publisher (the wonderful Thille Dop) is now officially my child’s personal pop idol. Poor child had never seen anyone quite so glamorous attack a lobster with both hands before.
Then back home and off to Suffolk, where reality is a distant concept, and the lack of internet, telephone, television, and even radio (if we forget to buy batteries) is amazingly soothing. I love not hearing the news for a few days. Particularly in the weeks leading up to an election. I have an irresistible urge to shout SHUT UP ALL OF YOU at the radio and TV. I don’t believe any of the silly promises, and will vote as I always have, for the good guys.
But school starts tomorrow, the alarm is set for 6:15, and my diary is so jammed full of talks and conferences and dental appointments in the upcoming weeks, that I have a 12-year-old’s urge to run away. The child was teary at bedtime, and so was I. I suppose that’s what comes of refusing to grow up.