Today I should have woken up on the Wirral. We had a long weekend away planned, but for obvious reasons, it was cancelled. Work however is – rightly – asking that we all take whatever time off booked otherwise there’ll be a rush to cram holidays in at the end of the year which would be unmanageable from a business perspective.
We were going to take the campervan for a couple of nights away in the ‘luxury’ of a campsite. Oh, how glamourous the lifestyle of the depressive writer, huh?
Okay, it wasn’t a hut in the Bahamas with a private beach, so it’s not a longed for dream holiday. Though I have to say if we’re talking dream holidays, Bahamas doesn’t do it for me. I’d go Scandi to look for the Aurora, seeing the Northern Lights is on my bucket list, one of the few things that I am really keen to see before I die.
So, I don’t have the most expensive tastes in, well, anything. I love amethysts, but don’t like diamonds. I love white wine, but you can keep the Champaign. I do insist on solid gold jewellery, but that’s because silver against my skin looks really odd.
My point in this is that my husband and I are missing out on a holiday we’ve been looking forward to. So, I understand why people are upset by not being able to go on holiday. But hearing people wailing because they want to go to Ibiza or wherever they’re supposed to go, when that could mean spreading or contracting a deadly virus, annoys the hell out of me. Yes, it’s horrible missing out, but surely it’s better not to invite death to your door?
My word count’s running out, so my rant ends here.
The Write Route 