Of course, in the good old days, it all seemed so much easier. Well, it would do, given that by 'old days', I'm referring tonthe 1970s when my parents had to contend with all of the planning and packing. How I used to giggle at their endless checklists. Thirty-odd years later I find myself in a sea of paper and stick-it notes, attempting to manouvre myself from home to holiday. Looking at the billowing clouds and thunderous grey skies outside, I am resigned to packing everything from a pair of shorts to a Balaclaver helmet. There will be suncream, Lemsip, skinbalm and a raincoat. It's ridiculous. Did my parents ever go to such lengths? Well, yes they did.
The days were broadly organised the same wherever we stayed. A morning on the beach, a picnic meal, long walks along the coastline or a train journey to a nearby town, back for an improvised dinner or sea-front fish and chips, then "the club". The latter would always be some on-site, formica-tabled palace of entertainment, sporting a magician, a northern comic "Take my mother-in-law . . . no, go on take her", followed by a Rita Fairclough-style cabaret singer belting out "This is my life". We loved every minute and if we weren't swaying along to some slushy number then, as kids, we were darting in and out of the tables, glowing like neon lights with our worrying sunburn.
Maybe that caravan in Caister is still for hire . . .