I write this week from the glorious sands of Halkidiki. Some well-deserved September sunshine for my little family of four, now that the decision of my working future is made. It has been a heavenly few days being waited on hand and foot, sipping champagne and cocktails all day and night and swimming in our own private pool. Although I have still had to deal with at least 3 shits a day that aren’t even mine….


Obligatory beautiful beach view. This is what I can see right now.

We really splurged on this holiday, telling ourselves that the stress of the last year meant we really deserved a luxurious break. And luxurious it was! We stayed at the IKOS Olivia in Halkidiki, Greece, the top all-inclusive in Europe according to TripAdvisor. Husband says that Rio Ferdinand was here a few weeks ago….is that good or bad?! 

We stayed in the Premier Inn at Gatwick the night before, in an effort to sleep for at least 5 hours before the flight, where 4 of us would be squeezing into 3 seats. The snug hotel room was made up entirely of bed, delighting our very-nearly 3-year old Girly no1 who promptly declared “I like holiday Mummy!”. I reminded her we hadn’t been on a plane yet and asked her for the 85th time to just pick a bed, lie in it and go to sleep as we had a very early start tomorrow. As both girls took it in turns to shout and wake each other up, Husband was becoming more and more cross knowing full well we would be up in six hours time, imagining our little angels-on-the-outside-demons-on-the-inside shouting, crying and climbing all over the plane. We eventually hid in the bathroom vainly applying fake tan to pass the time, having last night caught the first ten minutes of The Secret Life of the Holiday Resort seeing Spaniards laugh their heads off when asked how to spot an English tourist – “pink! Hahaha!”. When we emerged from the tiny bathroom they were both asleep. 

We were up at 3am to board our SleazyJet flight, an airline I once hated for their tight fisted approach to something I considered to be a luxury, but since having children, I have realised they are amazing. They don’t count your bags, or rush you, or let you sit separately. They make their lives easier by letting you do what you need to for your children. I’m a convert to the orange and white plane. Although Girly no1 would like to know if you (EasyJet) could start doing pink aeroplanes? A re-brand, perhaps? Think Sheila’s Wheels but for the air. We boarded the plane late, following numerous problems with boarding passes, baggage labels and payments. Boarding the plane last, we walked down the aisle to a Mexican wave of “please-don’t-let-them-be-near-me” faces, the bushy haired gentleman in row 8 failing to hide his disappointment as we moved in behind him and he laid eyes on my very loudly moaning toddler and jiggly dribbley baby. He actually got off quite lightly with just one piece of cheese in his ear and only one hair pull. I congratulated my children for their excellent aeroplane decorum. The flight was actually not too bad (see my top tips here), we collected our luggage quickly and our ‘luxury private transfer’ was waiting. Luxury for husband in the cool leather passenger seat of the new-ish Mercedes estate. Less so for me, squeezed between two bulky car seats and two exhausted and now very sweaty children. We promptly all fell asleep. Husband and I woke up 2 minutes before pulling up outside an unassuming building with lots of security. We were ushered out of the car into the cool, air-conditioned marble luxury of the hotel foyer, handed a glass of sparkling wine and were told to sit down and relax. I left my brain right there by the sprawling leaves of whatever beautiful foliage was tickling my shoulder for the week and have been a melted pool of sleepy, happy, slightly drunk, mush ever since. 

This place is beautiful, classy and elegant. The people are polite, smiley and warm. It’s just chilled. You can lie on the beach on comfy towels and bake whilst someone delivers iced watermelon and any cocktail you can think of. It’s dreamy. Even when the girls are with us….though that’s more like one of those dreams that is great while it lasts but you know something bad is about to happen. Which it inevitably does. This is the problem with holidays with children, as we have learnt in the last three years. A holiday isn’t really a holiday. It’s the exact same routine as you follow at home, but you do it somewhere hot with sweaty and tired children from all the late nights and 5 hours of swimming a day. After a particularly gruelling two weeks in the South of France last summer (overly water-confident two-year old combined with an unfenced pool plus a heavily pregnant me), Husband was insistent on 5* resort plus, most importantly, childcare. However lots of places won’t take your two year old and your ten month old….it’s like they’ve been forewarned. We had to search high and low for somewhere where “all inclusive” and “luxurious” actually mean those things, adding childcare into the equation seemed impossible. We tried Club Med (great kids club but booked up), Tots2Travel (kids clubs booked up) and Mark Warner (too sporty for my lazy family) but none of them ticked every box. Eventually using good old TripAdvisor, we came across the IKOS hotels. 5* all inclusive luxury with childcare, Michelin star menus, branded spirits, decent cocktails and stunning grounds and rooms. The childcare was an additional £500 for 5 mornings of peace plus 4 nights of babysitting. But boy was it worth it. I have read two books – for the first time in three years. I have had two massages – the first was so good I went back for more two days later. I have talked crap with my Husband – not logistics, children or money but about stupid things like whether referencing my 2nd toe implies I only have two toes or not. I have been tipsy from all the champagne – mostly after the children are in bed of course. I’ve laid on the beach with my earphones in, gazing at the still blue waters of the Aegean Sea with an icy pina colada on the table next to me (after 11am only) doing nothing but perve on beautiful Russian women with 4 children and washboard stomachs. One was so beautiful it was all I could do not to reach out and touch her porcelain face when I passed her in the onsite shop. Sure I feel guilty dropping the girls off at the crèche leaving them with a bunch of unknown Greek women but then when no1 runs out all smiles with the Gruffalo crumble she made and saying “Kalimera Mummy” I think I can live with it. They won’t remember it anyway. Any guilt I do have is quickly dampened when I lay eyes on the sparkling blue waters of the pool and sieved (I kid you not) sands of the beach.

Those three hours of bliss each morning made our week away. Because paradise is less paradisey with our two beautiful children. Obviously I want them to have a lovely time too (even though neither of them will remember a thing) but they do make things less holiday and more just-another-day. Today, for example, I have cleaned up three turds, none of them mine. Meal times are still meal times. Any meal in public with a ten month old is inevitably embarrassing and tense, though less so with a few pre-1pm cocktails I find. Yesterday no2 squeezed watermelon in her hand with a demonic look on her face as though she was killing a small fish; she threw pasta onto the back of the angry looking KGB Dad sat behind us; and then puked all over us both when we were stood next to the beautifully arranged dish of ‘freshly caught and grilled red bream’ – splashing the feet of an old Greek woman whose fish I fear did not escape the sick shower. Earlier today, she started to strain and go red and cry. The only way to make her happy was to help pull at the hard round poo trying to break out of her. Whilst this was going on I was mid-argument with no1 about whether to wear her best (Little White Company!) dress to crèche knowing full well that the session involves eating, painting and going down dirty slides. Some days are the same no matter where you are in the world. 

That’s enough relaxing for me. It’s time to pick up the girlies. Time to change from my black bikini (fine for lying flat and still) into my new body shaper swimming costume (needed for chasing my toddler around the pool and containing MumTum). I briefly wonder as I remove the gusset sticker whether they change them each time they are returned to the shop….I hope so. What a shit job for someone, changing fanny stickers. Yuck. Anyway, worry not, dear reader. By the time you read this, I’ll be under grey skies again. You can stop hating me. 

Hope you have enjoyed this week’s musings. Please remember to like, share, comment here or over on Facebook.  I do love some interaction xx

Ever thought about whose job it is to stick these in? Or, more importantly, change them?