YOU had a fortnight in Italy booked. You’re spending a week on a campsite in Filey. Here’s how your 2020 plans and reality compare:
Planned: two weeks on Sardinia’s Costa Smerelda in a villa with a swimming pool and a sea view, spent relaxing drinking limoncello on the balcony while the kids chase geckos.
Reality: seven days in a campsite on the Yorkshire coast – not a good campsite, because they were all f**king booked – sitting under the awning in pissing rain swigging Aldi whiskey from the bottle while the kids chase litter.
Planned: touring ancient sites, checking out relics of the Roman Empire under a blazing sun, wandering cork forests in dappled shade, eating wood-fired pizza at sunset and of course swimming in the clear green waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Reality: Retreating from the beach after an hour’s torrential rain, attempting to visit the Captain Cook museum only to find out it’s closed, queuing in a hurricane to buy fish-and-chips then eating them in a steamed-up car.
Planned: The beautiful mountain town of Tempio, unspoilt by mass tourism, with breathtaking views over moutains to the endless vista of the ocean. A moment fixed in the memory by its sheer loveliness, providing spiritual sustenance for the year to come.
Reality: Winning a game of Risk against an eight-year-old, dancing around the tent shouting ‘in your face loser’, then packing up and going the f**k home.