Despite there being a significant divide in opinion in this country in recent years, with people being socially and politically against one another, it would seem there is one subject that all people are united in. That being, the consistent and all encompassing despair at the UK weather. I’m not quite sure what the citizens of the United Kingdom expected but, the shock and dismay at rain in March! Sub zero temperatures in winter! Snow! Sleet! Seems to be by far the most consistent subject on my Facebook timeline.
Yes, I’m as sick of the drizzle as the next person, but, people, we live in England, let’s not be shocked when there aren’t palm trees growing in the back garden.
The one saving grace about shit weather is, of course, that you can cover up in layers and nobody need be exposed to the dimply white horror that is the average English body for 9 months of the year. I went skiing for the first time in my life this year, and despite finding the activity, challenging at best, positively treacherous at worst, I have to admit that the pleasure of my boyfriend seeing me naked only ever in a flattering evening light with 5 shots of jagerbomb down his neck was nothing short of fantastic.
Cold weather, 90 percent strength alcohol and dim lights make for fantastic sex … and the opportunity to eat enough carbohydrates to start a small bakery. I would highly recommend the experience.
Recently, in a bid to ban the winter blues we had a brief conversation regarding booking a break in the summer. Somewhere hot he suggested, with a nice beach and well stocked bar within easy reach, The south of France for example, Sardinia or the Algarve.
Despite being thrilled at the idea of a summer vacation, and expressing obvious delight at his suggestions I couldn’t help but become mildly aware of the impending diet that may be required should I plan to expose myself in a bikini for full view of the general public.
The problem is, when you reach your mid 30’s, have had a child and like the occasional (ahem) glass of wine, that one’s priorities change. There is much to be said for having the body of a supermodel at 40 and it being on full display to the general public for a fortnight a year, there is also much to be said for a daily glass of Sauvignon Blanc (or 3). It is a question of priorities, and sadly a consequence of living in a country that has 4 days of sun a year, is that one tends to focus less on the fortnight and more on the 250ml.
Once the reality of what he was saying had set in my initial thought was to cunningly suggest a resort that was predominantly English, thus ensuring I would unlikely be the least toned/palest/most dimply woman on the beach. Or, even better, a destination within the UK itself, meaning not only would I not be the least polished woman on the beach, but that I would inevitably not be on a beach at all but in a pub somewhere sheltering from the August rain, where no one gives a flying crap what size your arse is, so long as you get a round in.
Failing this, should the worst come to the worst, and one actually finds oneself in a luxury hotel surrounded by beautiful people (perish the thought), there are certain ways in which to save oneself from impending humiliation.
- Stop eating for 6 months before. Totally ignore daily fainting episodes and pleas from loved ones to start eating again, because you have become totally unrecognisable from your former self both physically and mentally. This is exactly what you should be aiming for. You will be lying next to rich French women, the more unaware of your surroundings and mentally unstable you are, the better.
- Start smoking. Fags make you thin, and are far more socially acceptable on glamorous beaches than size 14 bikinis. You can give up the cigs in a week, shaking the memory of sitting in a restaurant in Monaco/Marbella/St. Tropez with your English winter backside being covered with little more than a piece of dental floss? far more difficult to shift.
- Have sunbeds. Being brown will create the illusion you are at least a stone lighter than you actually are … and if you’re very lucky the UV rays will kill you off before you need suffer the trauma better known as the middle sun lounger of a pool in the south of France.
- Buy an expensive kaftan.
- Bring a bottle of Jagermeister and some shot glasses. Drunk boyfriends will always see inner beauty.
- Forget the holiday entirely and opt for a spot of camping in the English countryside, thus ensuring there will be absolutely no need to disrobe at any point of the holiday less it is to wash mud and general rural debris off your exposed calves.
I am thinking of suggesting Wales. A destination which strikes me as far more conducive to happy, wine drinking living than any of our more exotic neighbouring destinations.
The UK country may not have year round sun, bronzed bodies and cellulite free 48 year olds but boy do we know how to down a pint of Magners with a pair of wellies on in the middle of a shit filled field … try doing that in St Tropez.