Wearing Primark’s version of Canada Goose, the kids whine they’re cold as you run late for the doctor's for another Citalopram prescription… oh, and the car is nearly out of fuel as you couldn’t face the queues to fill up the tank, let alone afford to.
And then the panic sets in: what are the latest travel restrictions to Spain? The passports are out and will need replacing, but isn’t there yet another backlog of applications? And is there a post office open where I can get the bairns to sit inert for the most soulless of photos to put before the checkpoint Stasi?
You arrive at the airport which, if it were as organised as it were secure, would be a pleasurable experience, but it is not - not by a long chalk. The queue is 16 miles long due to ‘unprecedented demand’, despite it being the peak of summer, post Covid and the industry being fully aware, having taken your money, as to the precise level of demand.
Conscious to not be rude despite their most valiant attempts to publicly rile you, they openly, and in dramatic fashion, throw your carefully packed baggage into disarray as your Dioralyte, sanitary products and hubby’s luminous budgie smugglers are held aloft as if exhibits in the High Court.