The only problem with the staycation is the word ‘staycation’. Honestly, even sounding it out in my head brings the sort of rusty itch, the kind of grim discomfort that I associate with ‘phlegm’ or ‘synergy’. It’s the kind of word, in fact, that makes you want a holiday, if only from language itself.
I’ve never been brilliant at holidays. While I can easily spend a deadlined afternoon longingly browsing the luxury apartments of Airbnb online, or the many delights of an ancient spa hotel, inevitably, three days after I arrive, I will politely make it clear to my friends or family that I’m ready to go home. I think I’m hiding it, of course, but the steely set to my smile and chippiness of manner will, as the days pass (expensively and with seafood and bad plumbing), ruin everything for everyone. Which is one reason why the idea of holidaying at home has long appealed to me. Another reason is: everything else.
Everything else! Everything else that is happening in the world – the various wars, for instance, that (as well, of course, as causing trauma to millions, the immediate destruction of civilian infrastructure and enduring environmental damage) mean petrol prices make a drive to Wales cost the same as a long-haul flight. And the threat that these current geopolitics bring. Yes, the safety concerns, but also the concerns that don’t involve bloody violence. The worry that you and your kids might find yourselves stranded on what originally felt like a dream holiday, now an anxious nightmare, eking out the goodwill in an airport hotel as you wash knickers in the sink and stockpile the little packets of crackers from breakfast. Right?
Many people are postponing holiday plans or cancelling them altogether. And, without wanting to sound like a killjoy or an agoraphobe, it becomes increasingly unclear to me why anybody would ever leave the comfortable security of their own front room at all.
I’m not going to make the argument that you should treat your home just like a hotel – place a chocolate on top of your bedsheets and turn your bathroom into a wellness spa. Although, saying that, one of the most self-carish acts I ever performed was tracking down a certain goose-down pillow I slept on at a golf hotel near Harrow and purchasing it at great expense. Instead, I recommend something far more tricky and terrifying, yet ultimately useful, which is that we all attempt to pick apart the appeal of a holiday, and question if what we actually need is that fortnight at the resort, or something that might be able to be found closer to home.
Adventure? Open your marriage. You’re tired? Quit. Or, perhaps some time off work might hold a cold compress to this burning fury that gathers just before lunch; some time digging the allotment by the railway. I’d argue that the booking of holiday tickets and the travelling to the airport and the frantic buying of Pret jambon beurres ‘just in case’ counteract the relaxation of the holiday itself – you can bank that relaxation instead by having a nap on the patio.
You’re burnt out! Not only have you been working full time but, when you’re not working, you’re caring for your mother, or your children, or your beloved yet mentally challenged dog. What if, instead of a week in Turkey, you got some childcare? What if another family member came down and looked after your mum for once? There is genuine bliss to be found at home; there is ecstasy in daytime TV, once you rinse off the guilt and give yourself permission to keep adding hot water to the bath. Let’s all holiday at home this year. Just don’t call it a staycation.
