Apologies for the lack of updates following last week’s beautiful moment.
Other Half and I have been busy arguing furiously about our impending holiday. I have agreed – how could I refuse? – to holiday with his family, as he hasn’t seen them for nearly two years, and they have only met Babe once since he was born. But these holidays are, frankly, hell on earth from my perspective, and over the years I have found excuses to miss out on them occasionally. Now that we’ve got a child, instead of wanting us to have lovely family holidays together, Other Half is keener than ever to visit his. Bugger! What did I expect? Perhaps once we are off the bread line we’ll be able to have more than one holiday a year and it will be less of an issue. We can’t wait to get Babe on skis!
Now, there is a lot I could tell you about visiting Other Half’s family, but there are two salient points to note:
1 There is a f**k of a lot of them – he is the penultimate of 13 kids. All married, nearly all with kids. And extended families...
2 On these visits, I am proffered the metaphorical role of Honorary Man. This means I am plied with alcohol and sweetmeats, and generally treated like royalty, which is very nice. But in return I am expected to regale the assembled company with stories and evening-upon-evening of entertainment. When I’m in the mood, I achieve this to outstanding ovation (not a small feat, as they don’t speak any English at all, apart from some random phrases: ‘Hello, baby!’; ‘I like to move it, move it’ and ‘How you like you eggs?’). But when I’m not in the mood, it pisses me off that I can’t easily get out of these numerous visits to the homes of all and sundry. And now that I am a mother and have less patience and energy than before, I am dreading spending my holiday hanging around with hundreds of people I actually have precious little in common with.
The other issue is that of transport, which gets me back to the subject of this post.
We have had some utterly shitty times in Other Half’s home town. The part of the world he comes from is beautiful. Paradise beaches; goats, grapes and polyphonic singing; healthy fresh food, and lots of sunshine. But the roads are shit, and there are no car rentals because the rental companies wouldn’t see the vehicles they hire out for dust, once they’d driven off the forecourt. For the last few years, we have stayed in a beautiful four-star hotel on a mountain top, courtesy of one of Other Half’s brother’s girlfriend’s brothers (see what I mean?). But not even taxis will drive you up there because of the incline, so we usually have to walk. Not amusing, in 40 degree heat and six months pregnant, I can tell you.
So, this year, having both sworn we would never go back without transport of our own, Other Half is determined to drive. This involves driving to a certain Italian port that shall remain nameless, and then taking a 26-hour ferry to a destination that is about an hour from his home-town. My cunning plan was to fly out there with Babe. But when Other Half got lost again driving to Dorset last weekend, I realize that despite his protestations, I probably need to go with him, to read the map. He wants to drive through the night while Babe sleeps, resting for an hour here or there in lay-bys, as we haven’t got any free cash for hotels.
I am a nervous wreck! And the thought of a night without sleep – or worse still, a journey that Babe rejects wholly and completely as I suspect he will – is making me tremble, and it's still ten days until we leave. I will attempt to update you on our packing progress before we leave, and hope there will be Internet access on the ferry. I am taking my laptop, and have just bought two CBeebies DVDs for Babe, as I don’t think he can live without a daily TV fix in a language he understands.
In the meantime, I have a lot of lists to write. How many torches and blankets will I need in the car? Should I take a tent and plastic sheet for emergency situations? Will I need a whistle? Arm bands in case the ferry sinks? Biros and chocolates for bribing the police on the border, so that they let us through without insisting on playing 20 questions first? Can I manage without a buggy? Our hatchback is quite small.
So many questions and so many arseholes in the world. Oops, sorry, distracted by the news. Excuse my French. Bonsoir!
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