Sometimes, no matter how much you enjoy your job, you need a break.
I knew I’d reached this point because I’d started fantasising about business ideas again, those entrepreneurial gems I’d conjured up at about the same time as other, more
motivated souls: the cupcake bakery, the home accessories website, the invention of a nifty baby care item (which, I admit, would’ve been challenging given the absence of an actual baby).
It wasn’t just that though: the bags under my eyes, the double vision when I opened my email inbox and the fact that, without a spray tan, I looked like death warmed up, all said the same
thing: I NEEDED A HOLIDAY!
Problem was, after a difficult few months in my relationship with my credit card, there was no prospect of one, unless I wanted to sit at home watching
Jeremy Kyle
and reminding myself
how desperately my living room needs decorating when I’m back in my credit limit.
Then Anisha phoned. It was on one of those rain-drenched autumn afternoons when you’re so deflated that the only thing capable of perking you up has three thousand calories and leaves you
with an overwhelming sense of failure for the day.
I was in a meeting at the time – a ‘blue-sky thinking session’ that couldn’t have generated less creativity if someone had put three slugs in a brown bag and asked them
to conduct a brainstorm.
I subtly rejected the first call, then the second and third, but by the fourth I was so concerned something was seriously wrong, that I stood up, muttering: ‘domestic emergency,’ as
if my ceiling had just caved in.
‘GUESS. WHAT?’
‘I’m in a meeting,’ I whispered.
‘You’ll want to know this, Sophie.
I’ve only gone and got us a five-star holiday!
’
I was temporarily speechless. ‘No way.’
‘WAY!’
Three weeks later, here we are: trundling our bags through Alicante Airport for three luxurious days in Murcia, staying in what is, without question, the poshest hotel I’ve
encountered.
The trip came about because, enticed by the prospect of exotic overseas travel, Anisha jacked in her job in a bank last year to become a trainee travel agent. She’s left Manchester
precisely once since, to go to a conference in Nuneaton. This trip, however, sounds like the answer to all her dreams, not least because she was allowed to bring me along at a discounted rate.
‘I ought to mention something before we meet the rep,’ she tells me. ‘It’s a small thing really. I was going to say something earlier, but it’s such a non-issue I
didn’t bother. Perhaps with hindsight I should’ve brought this up earlier, but I’m totally confident that it’ll be fine.’
The more she keeps talking the more convinced I am that it won’t. ‘Anisha. What is it?’
‘Okay.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘As you know, I was well overdue the chance to go on a trip but as the new girl, I kept being overlooked. So I kind of . . . took matters into
my own hands. To precipitate things a little.’
‘Right . . .’
‘This could be so much worse . . .’
‘
What
could?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘We’re here on a golfing holiday.’
I digest this revelation: I’d known the hotel was on a golf resort from my near-obsessive Googling in the last three weeks. Clearly, I’d assumed we wouldn’t be going near the
course ourselves.
‘It could be worse,’ I decide. ‘I’ve never played golf, but as long as they know we’re both novices, we’ll be fine giving up an hour or so each day to have a
try. I’ve done scuba diving before – I’m willing to give anything a go.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What do you mean, “hmm”?’
‘Look, I’ll fill you in properly later, but whatever you do,
do not
tell anyone you’re a novice,’ she says.
I flash her a sideways glance as we pass through the sliding doors leading to Arrivals. ‘Why?’
‘You had to have a golf handicap to be eligible for the trip: that was one of the conditions,’ she tells me.
Among a row
I knew I’d reached this point because I’d started fantasising about business ideas again, those entrepreneurial gems I’d conjured up at about the same time as other, more
motivated souls: the cupcake bakery, the home accessories website, the invention of a nifty baby care item (which, I admit, would’ve been challenging given the absence of an actual baby).
It wasn’t just that though: the bags under my eyes, the double vision when I opened my email inbox and the fact that, without a spray tan, I looked like death warmed up, all said the same
thing: I NEEDED A HOLIDAY!
Problem was, after a difficult few months in my relationship with my credit card, there was no prospect of one, unless I wanted to sit at home watching
Jeremy Kyle
and reminding myself
how desperately my living room needs decorating when I’m back in my credit limit.
Then Anisha phoned. It was on one of those rain-drenched autumn afternoons when you’re so deflated that the only thing capable of perking you up has three thousand calories and leaves you
with an overwhelming sense of failure for the day.
I was in a meeting at the time – a ‘blue-sky thinking session’ that couldn’t have generated less creativity if someone had put three slugs in a brown bag and asked them
to conduct a brainstorm.
I subtly rejected the first call, then the second and third, but by the fourth I was so concerned something was seriously wrong, that I stood up, muttering: ‘domestic emergency,’ as
if my ceiling had just caved in.
‘GUESS. WHAT?’
‘I’m in a meeting,’ I whispered.
‘You’ll want to know this, Sophie.
I’ve only gone and got us a five-star holiday!
’
I was temporarily speechless. ‘No way.’
‘WAY!’
Three weeks later, here we are: trundling our bags through Alicante Airport for three luxurious days in Murcia, staying in what is, without question, the poshest hotel I’ve
encountered.
The trip came about because, enticed by the prospect of exotic overseas travel, Anisha jacked in her job in a bank last year to become a trainee travel agent. She’s left Manchester
precisely once since, to go to a conference in Nuneaton. This trip, however, sounds like the answer to all her dreams, not least because she was allowed to bring me along at a discounted rate.
‘I ought to mention something before we meet the rep,’ she tells me. ‘It’s a small thing really. I was going to say something earlier, but it’s such a non-issue I
didn’t bother. Perhaps with hindsight I should’ve brought this up earlier, but I’m totally confident that it’ll be fine.’
The more she keeps talking the more convinced I am that it won’t. ‘Anisha. What is it?’
‘Okay.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘As you know, I was well overdue the chance to go on a trip but as the new girl, I kept being overlooked. So I kind of . . . took matters into
my own hands. To precipitate things a little.’
‘Right . . .’
‘This could be so much worse . . .’
‘
What
could?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘We’re here on a golfing holiday.’
I digest this revelation: I’d known the hotel was on a golf resort from my near-obsessive Googling in the last three weeks. Clearly, I’d assumed we wouldn’t be going near the
course ourselves.
‘It could be worse,’ I decide. ‘I’ve never played golf, but as long as they know we’re both novices, we’ll be fine giving up an hour or so each day to have a
try. I’ve done scuba diving before – I’m willing to give anything a go.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What do you mean, “hmm”?’
‘Look, I’ll fill you in properly later, but whatever you do,
do not
tell anyone you’re a novice,’ she says.
I flash her a sideways glance as we pass through the sliding doors leading to Arrivals. ‘Why?’
‘You had to have a golf handicap to be eligible for the trip: that was one of the conditions,’ she tells me.
Among a row
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