In sunnier climes for summer holibags (I know, non-stop life of Riley for us Penmans) but with one crucial element missing – the Teenager.
For the first time, faced with the prospect of spending quality time in luxurious surroundings, with wall-to-wall sunshine and all expenses paid by the Bank of Mum and Dad, she politely declined, preferring instead to spend time in deepest, darkest England with her cousins and some time home alone.
Yes, I know. Everyone’s warned us the house won’t still be standing when we get back, after the non-stop partying that will have taken place in our absence.
But hey, it wouldn’t be a holiday for me if I wasn’t wracked with worry about something.
To be fair, the Teenager is not keen on the heat and I’m clinging to that fact as a palatable reason for her defection, rather than the alternative (not keen on the parents).
We’re being very grown up and encouraging of this independent stance and I’ve managed to stop myself screaming “My baby! Don’t leave me!” as I realise this sort of outburst may contribute to the general wish for independence – even though I had hoped we’d have another couple of years before the prospect of a family holiday lost its attraction.
It does leave the other members of the family panicking slightly as we contemplate spending a holiday together as a couple, rather than in our usual role of facilitating the offspring’s fun in the sun.
Mr P has not filled me with confidence so far, having asked “Will we have to talk to each other?” and “I hope you’re not going to spend the holidays mumping about missing her” – sigh.
We’ve been casting our minds back to try and remember pre-parenting holibags but all we can recall is weeks of pleasing ourselves in a constant round of guilt-free hedonism.
Surely this can’t be true? Why would anyone have babies if it were so? And then spend years taking small children on holidays, with all the stress that involves?
If it is true, I’m not sure we have the constitution for it these days, frankly. We’ll give it our best shot, though.