It's the last afternoon of our beach holiday and the boys are lying prone on the lounge. They’re alternating between hyperactive and listless, grumpy and manic, mildly exhausted and exhausted.
Even I see the sense of making one last trip to the beach, but the boys can’t be convinced. They’re buggered.
We’ve only been here for 4 days, not 4 weeks. You’d think they’d have a bit more stamina.
I’d understand their lack of energy if it was 1966 and they were sleep deprived from 4 weeks camping in a tent, their bodies wasted from a nutrient-deficient diet of baked beans and Spam, and dehydrated from electrolyte-rich Passiona.
But it’s 2012. They’re in an air conditioned cabin. They’ve eaten like kings in restaurants. They’ve imbibed plenty of water and precious little Fanta.
The best we can do is convince them to make one last visit to the pool (or leisure centre, as it’s been quaintly re-named).
We wrestle them into their sagging and stretched rashies one more time, lather on some more sunscreen over the stubborn residue of the last batch, and trudge once more back to the pool. Well, Sherrie and the boys do – I’m back here writing my blog in air conditioned comfort, a beer at my side and a blonde on my knee.
(Actually, I'm drinking mineral water, only the ceiling fan is on - I have at least attempted to acclimatise - and the only blonde is the yeasty one I’m looking forward to with dinner at the local bowlo.)
The boys return exhausted but elated from the pool.
Yep - you can’t beat summer holidays by the beach!
Civilisation 2, Bush 3.