Every year is the exact same story. No, not even every year, every single holiday. The night-before-the-holiday-packing-row. The dreaded night is finally upon us and the house is filled with shouting and screeching. “Where are my favourite shorts?”, “Why couldn’t you pack earlier?”, “Why do you have to bring so many bags? – I will NOT be carrying them, understand?”. The arguments are so familiar I could basically write each person a script. Accompanying the dramatic shouting is a constant flurry of activity – rushing up and down the stairs, hunting through every room and possible hiding place and, of course, the packing, unpacking and repacking. After all of this, the last thing any of us want to do is to spend 3 weeks in each other’s company. This year it’s even worse, 24 hours of constant travelling, stuck in a tiny train compartment together. Torture!
But secretly, deep down I love it. It signals the start of the holidays, and it’s become a family ritual. Quite honestly, I’d be afraid if we didn’t start a holiday hating each other!