There is no bigger fallacy than that holidays are good for you.
If you need further proof please consult my waistline.
I was only away from my desk for a week but on return from seven days indulging my every whim in the Greek islands – I already have to sit farther away from it than I used to.
In theory, and according to my not terribly precise calculations, you should actually use more calories while out and about on your jollies than while chained to a desk earning your pennies.
I’m absolutely sure I burned significant number while demonstrating my lunging and scratching techniques for slapping mosquitoes into touch.
And to be honest, those glasses of Greek beer are really big and heavy – they almost constitute weight training.
Swimming in the icy pool has to be better than typing for general fitness yet I have returned to Blighty with a week’s weight gain commensurate with that of a baby hippo.
Can’t think what I did wrong.
Further evidence of the destructive nature of holidays came with the advent of Monday morning. Instead of leaping, renewed, like a young gazelle with clear eyes and a reborn appetite for life, I cowered under the covers like an escaped prisoner in the pub for the first time in a decade.
Finally, plucking the courage to throw back the duvet, I managed to roll out with a groan, bothering my mosquito bites which are so numerous, customs officials raised a red flag due to fears that smallpox is making a comeback.
Squinting in the mirror at my reddened, dry-looking, bitten, face I cracked open my exhausted eyelids before throwing myself in the shower, my peepers still only partially open.
With pouring water came clarity that not only was I returning to normal life, but one filled with approximately 7,000 unread emails, 3,000 problems and one week of news to catch up on.
All this using my brain mushed by a week’s proper sleep and an unfortunate adventure testing out the local Ouzo.
To add insult to injury, wearing pre-vacation sized clothes so tight I can barely walk.
I need a holiday.