What is it about holiday time that turns me into Clarke W Griswold, and my wife and kids into Ellen, Audrey and Rusty? For those not familiar with the Griswolds, they are the family from the National Lampoon’s Vacation series of movies, whose endeavours to enjoy family holidays are continually plagued by minor disasters and unfortunate predicaments. Whilst our recent holiday didn’t cause the destruction of any prehistoric monuments, there’s something about being on holiday that seems to bring out the Griswold in us.

It’s only recently that I’ve even wanted to go on holidays again since having kids. Even just going Down South has just seemed too hard. The whinging car journey, all the extra luggage, having to basically pack the pantry, the disruption to sleep patterns…and they’re just my issues. The thought of a holiday has seemed daunting, and not at all relaxing. Like taking what was already a tiring life and making it even more tiring by cramming it in a station wagon and moving it a few hundred kilometres down the road. Probably to a house with a skanky shower curtain and a floral-patterned bedspread with a very well-camouflaged history.


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