And, as we finally pull into the drive, all the holiday hopes, dreams and resolutions fade, faster than my Mediterranean tan.
Lying on the beach, soaking up the sun, listening to the gentle lap of the waves and the holiday cacophony of happy campers, I made new resolutions and hatched plans, my creativity fuelled by the carefree, getaway atmosphere.
This coming year, nothing will be like before. I shall do what I have never done before and always wanted to do. I shall …
Key in the door, and over the threshold. A step back in time, to when I left, and like Pandora’s box, all the daily worldly woes, and troubles, surge forward in the rush of musty air that escapes from the house. The air of home fills me and purges away the air of holiday hope. The plants are dying. There is a huge pile of bills on the table, there are messages on the call minder. Daily responsibility beckons with its oversize and threatening finger.
We say it’s good to be home, if only to be out the traffic, but it’s far better to be elsewhere, on this early Saturday evening of ominous grey clouds, an empty fridge and nothing entertaining on TV.
We unload the car, each bag heavier than at our light-hearted departure. Each bag as heavy as the daily responsibilty that will soon weigh us down.
Throw off holiday clothes to slip into something far less comfortable.
Grey Saturday evening gives way to a sinister Sunday. Rain and more rain, and a bad case of the unhappy homecoming blues.
It can only get better. (or worse)