WE are back home from our holiday in Spain.

It’s dark and dismal, and it’s raining.

If Dad wasn’t here I would light the fire, but he is and will recite the extra jumper mantra coupled with information about the cost of wood and the month of the year.

Sometimes, on the last day of a holiday, the prospect of going home isn’t so bad.

You look forward to getting back into your own bed, giving the dog a big cuddle, boring family and friends with your holiday snaps.

But I didn’t want this holiday to end. Saying goodbye to the blue, sunny skies, those consistently hot days and eating delicious food alfresco for a handful of euros has left me feeling melancholy and miserable.

Stepping out in strapless numbers on balmy evenings, boosting my tan (yes, a tan, in spite of my skin being permanently shielded by half a ton of factor 1,000) and the jaunty, native Spanish swing I adopted, are now just distant memories.

I am shivering under five layers of nylon and wool, and my joyful gait has been replaced with a head down shuffle.

And my tan faded within hours of landing at Bournemouth.

At least if it was hot and sunny here, or even warm, then we could go to the beach. It is still August after all.

But no. It’s pouring down.

And the grey clouds are so low it’s like being trapped under canvas.

I’m sorry for being so maudlin.

But we work, work, work to pay our extortionate mortgages or rents. And we can’t even take solace in a couple of drinks or dinner out without having to file for bankruptcy.

It doesn’t seem right.

But I suppose I’ll be all right in September when summer in the UK is officially over. I don’t feel so hard done by then.

I will have toughened up to the climate, got over my disgust at paying £7 for washing powder or £2 for a few potatoes.

In the meantime I suppose I can still practice my Spanish swing in front of the pets, or the window cleaner.

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