We spent years taking our kids on holidays. Usually later in January as we both worked in careers where you do not expect Christmas off. In fact, it could sometimes be very busy.
It was a nicer experience going later in January back then as most holidaymakers had returned home to work by the time we hit the camping grounds and motels. No queues, no noisy parties, no hooning teenagers. Just a few families like us, families who, for whatever reason, take their holidays later.
In later years when our “double income no kids” period arrived we could go later in the year, around late February through to early April, either in New Zealand or Australia. Again a much quieter experience usually shared with other “dinkies” or older, retired folk.
Sitting around a barbecue in some motor camp or motel somewhere with other people we had never met, sharing a wine before dinner, getting to know each other and listen to holiday stories. No kids to worry about.
Nowadays staycations are our thing. We have everything we need; we have seen all of New Zealand and a goodly share of the Big Island.
I sometimes get annoyed when having to go out anyway. It’s too much faff.
I have to find some decent clothes, put shoes on; I have heaps of shoes but stick with one pair, walking shoes, more like posh slippers.
I then have to find the car, it’s usually in the garage, back it out, wait half an hour while the bride does stuff women do, drive somewhere, find a park, hopefully a disability park close to wherever. I don’t walk far nowadays.
Attend whatever, be nice, pretend to be interested, sneak furtive glances at the watch, working out when I can respectably do the “sidedoor”, give Herself the nod and shoot the gap.
I’m not anti-social at all, especially if I’m interested, never rude. Just rather be home.
Jen is much better at mingling than me. I bore easy. I’m also really boring nowadays. I rarely drink in public or away from home any more. I have not danced on a dining table in a restaurant for some years now.
Someone is talking at me; I’m trying not to let my eyes glaze over as I’m thinking of a story for next week’s column or a torrid sex scene in that first attempt at fiction that I’m struggling with at present.
Take a breath Robert, concentrate, don’t look out the window, look deeply into the person’s eyes. Nod the head now and again, and provide connecting words when needed. Intensify the look. This tends to scare people off. Peace and quiet. Now, where are the savouries?
I look across the room to where my love is actively engaged with someone. We usually split up at social occasions as I can embarrass her with my clear lack of interest at times. I try to catch the eye but I know she knows I’m staring and is purposely ignoring me.
I find a corner, usually with another older chap or two, near the door, waiting to be picked up on the way out by my much better half. An unusual thing about older men is that we can actually be close to each other and not feel the need to talk or share. We all know why we are there, our duty to accompany our much more socially interested, interesting and able partners.
Once Jen’s had enough we’re off. Home, cuppa, bit of telly, bed.
Very different from my days of yore when going home was usually the last thing planned.
I’m sure some of you are as “sad” as me after a younger life of being more “interesting”. Time catches up. I’d never believe it 15 years ago.
