This is the first real break in the year since we've been here. It's a week in a cottage in Northern France. It isn't exotic, sunny or even warm. But it will be a break.
For me the prospect of a holiday is always very difficult. I can rarely be bothered to plan the details of a holiday and usually, having established where we intend to go, that's it. I want to collapse and do nothing.
In truth the reality is quite different. Firstly, to my wife's continued frustration, I cannot sit still. If I go into our sitting room and the television is on, I'll sit down, grab the remote, flick through all the channels and then get up and go. I cannot do nothing. My wife, who is a sun-worshipper, is content to sit on the beach and take the rays. Frankly I'd rather stick pins in my eyes.
Secondly, despite ensuring there is sufficient staffing, stock, change and consumables to last the week off I will sit and worry. I've planned everything. I've planned for the failures. I've left telephone numbers for the alarm company, the glazier, the electrician, the binmen, the brewery and the window cleaner. I've covered every base.
My barmaid has challenged me not to phone her every day. On principle I shall not. But the days I don't will be uncomfortable.
I know in truth that this pub will cope with anything that happens next week. But after thirty years in the trade I still wonder if this place can survive without me.
Really I need to get a life...