The Staycation

I stole the word from an Alaskan I met years ago but I was already intimate with the idea. For a few months I’d felt burnt out, drained, in dire need of repose. This pressure cooker of emotions all came to a nice steamy head leaving my brain well cooked and capable of little more than vegging out. So I tore up my calendar (leaving Wednesday evening free for the all important quiz) and began to relax.

The week started well, an Indian summer beckoned and made its presence so obvious that I was compelled to find out where the term came from. Which Indians and why? According to documentary evidence it refers to the North American Indians; not the vast Asian sub-continent. These natives would start prairie fires to flush out game used for their winter stocks. The fires created a warm haze over the grasslands pushing colder air up into the stratosphere hence the term, hazy Indian summer. Thus satisfied I could properly relax. This meant a trip to the barbers. I thoroughly recommend strolling in the sunshine listening to the Electric Light Orchestra pre-haircut. Post-haircut I tried the same but it had that tinge of emptiness that happens when you try to re-create a blessed moment. Like a second cup of tea, it’s never quite the same as the original.

That night I met a friend in the pub. Someone who had heard of my affection for my local but had never seen me in my natural habitat. He seemed to enjoy it although he nursed his pint as if it would be his last. My dad joined us and what would have been an early night found me sipping single malt whisky discussing the decline in manners brought about by texting and social networking sites. All in all, a favourable beginning to my holiday.

A large lunch midweek paved the way to the quiz. As eventful as ever we failed to win, nudged out by Scottish kings and the Monopoly board. I inspected gardens with a neighbour as we sauntered home, speculating on the social standing, intelligence and even value of the person ensconced inside their manicured lawns, privet hedges, tarmac, chips or wilderness of children’s toys. I leave it to the reader to work out our more favourable horticultural responses save to say kids were deemed a worthy excuse for a less than perfect display. My neighbour has a five-and-a-half year old. What is a lawn to us is a play park to him.

The following day I took lunch with a friend in a restaurant of my choosing. A change of chef had brought a slight drop in standards and I found myself apologetic as I paid for the meal. What had once been superb was now merely really good. Really good is easy but superb takes some doing.

At the weekend, repose became an art form. Carefully selected music, a good book and a few cold beers in the afternoon. Sheer bliss. A short sojourn to the pub with the aforementioned book set the proverbial cherry atop a delicious day. In actual fact, the day was so satisfying that it was with great reluctance I ‘dressed for dinner’ and made my way out, but I was on holiday and these things must be done. I did my duty, no more, no less. No night clubs, no ill advised late night kebab.

I strolled home yawning and happy.

More tomorrow...