Bali and Singapore Loading …

When I was 10 years old I went on a plane for the very first time.

We were going on a family holiday to the larger than life US of A. I was beyond excited and apparently asked my mother if the inside would be like a bus, complete with a conductor. In fairness I wasn’t that far off the right track. I suppose the vastness of it surprised me. But maybe not as much as my Father turning left to his seat in Business Class and leaving my mother with me and my two older brothers back in Economy. That was quite the surprise, especially for my dear mum.

In hindsight, I think this was where my love for flying and all things associated with it began.

It’s not just flying of course, there are multiple things I like about going away in general.

No housework, no routine would be top of the list.

Deciding on your next destination a close second.

Researching what are the must do’s and must see’s.

Planning an itinerary.

Googling how to lose 7kgs in 3 weeks.

One of the most fun things ever is trying on your old swimwear and realising that cheese and childbirth has irreparably ruined you. (I am, after all, 266 months post partum.)

And so here I am, staring forlornly at 19 bikinis that I may never need again whilst online shopping for “tummy control” one pieces.

Because this time we are off on an annual “flop and drop” holiday.

You know the kind. A fancy hotel, that has not just sufficient sun loungers for all guests to avoid sunbed wars, but also has enough pools to choose from that you could try a different one every day of your stay.

But I want to talk about one of my all time favourite things about travelling. Airports.

Yes. You heard me right. I absolutely love airports. I love the anonymity of travel. Of course security and border control know who you are, especially if you’re a) famous and/or 2) a baddie and heck even the cute sniffer dogs know what you had for breakfast. I’m talking about strangers. I’m talking about cos-play. You can be anyone you want in an airport, create your own story, exude a certain mystique … There are also airport rules in my tiny world where I am Queen. One must dress for comfort, but never forego fashion. By comfort I mean an elasticated waistband and trainers. By fashion I mean black. This trip I shall be listening to my dear mother from above. Not so much about the quantity of booze I consume, no; support stockings. Or travel socks for the posh ones amongst us. The last two long haul flights saw my feet swell up like balloons and considering my ankles and my ear lobes are the only slim bits I currently have, I’d like to keep it that way.

Additionally, every trip must start with a glass of bubbles. A mimosa is an acceptable alternative, as is a Bloody Mary. The holiday commences the minute you enter the airport lounge/bar. As you step over the threshold all societal norms are discarded, the shackles of acceptability can be thrown off. From henceforth day drinking is not just accepted, it is positively encouraged. Food has no calories. Ice cream is the breakfast of champions. This my friends, this is holiday nirvana.

(It is also not compulsory to drink alcohol. I’m not going to goad you into it. I’ve had sober holidays and they’ve been brilliant too.)

The Favourite Husband does not join me in my airport merriment. It is hard for him when he’s carrying the bags and the duty free. I do, however, always pour him a glass of bubbles, for our “Holiday starts here, cheers.” He has one sip, pulls a face, and then I get his too …

So this time we are off to Bali and Singapore. Join us as Two Go On An Adventure …