Holiday blues…

Before our daughter was born, we’d go out of season, put our tent in the car and drive away not knowing exactly where we were going. ‘North’ seemed to be enough information back then.

Now, I start looking in about March (when smarter, more organised people have taken all the good flights and accommodation) and book around April or May when everything except that high rise hotel described as ‘lively’ has gone. Right, noise all night, vomit in the streets and rows of café offering English breakfasts. More vomit in the streets…)

No, I didn’t book it anyway. We journeyed abroad. We were well-behaved holidaymakers but here are some of the things that make me glad to be home.

One of the hardest situations to deal with was the people playing beach bat and ball. See, I’m sure there’s a proper name for the game but I’m so bad I don’t know it. (I’m calling it FTBM. I’ll explain later.)

As I lay on the beach, I could hear the regular ‘bic-bac’ of twosomes playing. As regular as a clock, the ball went from one to the other. It was quite soothing as background noise to my dozing mind wanderings. (Wonder whether I could swim to that boat and I’d look good playing that: arms lunging elegantly to hit the ball, polo shirt draped casually over bikini, daughter quietly proud of her surprisingly sporty mother…)

There was a superb father and son duo on the beach. ‘Bic-bac’ it went on for minutes at a time. Yes, looks fun. We bought a set plus four spare, luminous balls. Wasn’t sure if they’d float and one of us might hit it stupendously far away. Let’s start with the pink one, we agreed.

‘Bic’. I served a lovely shot, nice and straight. It went in the water. My daughter reached over to get it. She served. ‘Bic’. Lovely curved line over to my side. It went in the water.

OK let’s get used to the new games equipment. A few practice shots. Bic. Bic. Bic. We both served beautifully.

I served, she served. We only ever got the ‘bic’ sounds. After about eight minutes of this embarrassing scene with a background of rhythmic ‘bic-bac’, she asked to swap me for Daddy.

Let’s see him. He’s got better hand-eye co-ordination. I didn’t mind that he’s better; I just wanted my daughter to have a good game.

Nothing improved. They each only got to serve and the ball ended up in the water.

How long did you have to play to get as good as everyone else? Would two weeks be enough?

We took the set out each day. It started off in a light-hearted way. ‘Oh, fancy taking the bat and ball?’

(I think I fooled my family into thinking I too was light-hearted. What I felt was, ‘Blooming hell, it can’t be that difficult. Why can’t I do it?

Days into the fiasco we were packing the bats and balls into our beach kit with grim resentment: Don’t forget the BATS AND BALLS ANYONE! COME ON, WE’RE GOING TO PRACTICE!”

Suffice to say we had about ten days of this. We had a regular rhythm too: ‘Bic-plop.’ So the game of bat and ball by the beach became FTBM: Fetch The Ball Mummy.

Back home, I’m comforted that I can now settle into autumn and winter with no pressure to look sporty or have good hand-eye coordination; any games we play in our back garden are private and I can make sounds which give the impression of a successful game going on. ‘Yay!’ ‘Whoa!’ ‘Good hit!’ (as I put on protective gloves to retrieve the ball/shuttlecock/racquet from the nettles. Again.

I bet those families are at home nursing their strained backs and knees from over exertion at beach bat and ball game.

While I, on the other hand, have no injuries whatsoever. Unless you count a sense of clumsy clownishness... I’m used to that and I know it’ll mend.