Winter sun is overrated

At this time of year you can't sit through an advert break without being invited on a holiday. Cheap Disneyland trips for young families. Luxurious tropical retreats for discerning adults. Boat trips only for old people. Many viewers, it seems, are seduced by this onslaught, desperate for a glimpse of some 'winter sun'. For me, these adverts are like watching horror film trailers.

Ok, not quite. But I really don't like holidays. Don't get me wrong - I love having a break. I'm not one of those people who never want to leave the office. But, tell me, what exactly is relaxing about travel, specifically foreign travel? Packing for a 2-week holiday (= 4 weeks worth of your wardrobe) and then hauling a suitcase equivalent to your own body weight across multiple tortuous modes of (delayed) transport. Enduring said transport – sometimes for days – until you reach a strange destination where you are, in effect, an alien. No one understands you, you don’t understand them - and in some painful cases, you don’t even try to. Having to knock around with strange Brits, many of whom are speaking especially loudly, only in English. Having to navigate unknown climes whilst simultaneously not looking like you’re navigating unknown climes so as not to draw attention to yourself and your belongings. It’s all very scary and stressful. And then you’ve got to do it all again to get home. And then you’re back at work – exhausted. Great.

Holidays seem to bring out anxieties in me that never seem to surface in daily life - what if I get robbed / attacked? What if my house blows up / burns down / gets burgled / acquires squatters? It’s hard work going on holiday. I’ll admit, a lot of this travel aversion stems from my total fear of flying. I’ve tried it twice. Never again – because, as Ian Fleming said, you only live twice.

I went to Florida as a child, on one of aforementioned (not-so) cheap Disneyland trips with my family. I remember the two flights in full. I remember thinking my ears were going to explode during take off, and that my stomach was going to jump out of my mouth during landing. I remember a horrendous airport which seemed to be made entirely of palms, prickly and scary. But, in comparison, I don't remember too much of the actual holiday. Then I, persuaded by a family member yet again, found myself flying to New York fifteen years later. The turbulence we experienced when (trying to) make a landing at Newark was like out of an ACTUAL DISASTER FILM. And that was my sister, easy-flyer, talking.

And that’s about as exotic as my travel experiences have extended to. I've been places since - just not by air. This does of course limit where you can go, unless you are a Russian oligarch with bounds of cash to splurge on speedboats. But I can't imagine a Russian oligarch being scared of flying. Or a Russian full stop.

Do I feel like I'm missing out? Honestly? No. Well, maybe a little bit. But we all do the same thing when we get back from holiday, don't we? We miss it for a week, then we go back to our own lives, exactly as we were before - only poorer. We've ticked a box - but that's it. 

Well, for most of us. I take my hat off to the people who really throw themselves into travel, without a map if you will. But I don't want to hear about it. If I were to find myself in a room with such a traveller I would attempt to leave it immediately.

I say, before you go gallivanting off on some foreign adventure, take time to remember what we have on our own global doorstep. Some UKers have never stepped outside of London yet they've carted themselves off to Helsinki, Haiti and Honolulu - what about our South Coast? The Lakes? We've got a good thing going on here - who needs winter sun?

Playing up

Here it is upon us again. New Year's Eve. That went fast didn't it?

Rather than feeling daunted, I find I am quite addicted to the hopefulness of setting goals - something many of you will no doubt be torturing yourselves with today. Why must we make it such an ordeal?

Last year's resolution was to 'be crafty'. I'm sat here now, one year later, guiltily glancing at the Make Your Own Pompoms set that still lies untouched in a Bloomindales bag on the floor - well, at least they have enjoyed a chic 12 months.

I don't know about you, but I don't really have the imagination to be imaginative. I need a tour guide. It was the hardy estate-agent-cum-craftswoman, Kirstie Allsopp, who guided me into the world of pompom crafts. I couldn't have done it alone.

Despite this handicap I think it important, really important, that we let our creativity run free every once in a while - even those of us aren't quite gifted enough to create without a kit. Or without copying someone else. I love copying. I did it religiously as a child and I do it still. But what's wrong with that? All I'm doing is flexing a muscle. And while that muscle gets some exercise, the others in my brain can switch off. With this in mind I think my plan for 2015 will be, simply, To Play. 

We forget to play as we become adults. It's not our fault - we don't have the time when there are so many more pressing, important and boring things to attend to. Things that absorb all of our time and head space. But this is exactly why remembering how to play is so important.

Remember the invigoration that came from childhood play? The total abandon. The thrill at discovery. This is the stuff that keeps us going. Helps to fill the hole that creeps open as we age and the fun sort of dries up, becomes very much expected.

Of course, there are those humans for whom surprise is their raison d'etre. The kind that throw themselves at challenges in far flung locations, like white water rafting in places that have... I don't know... white water? Those who do something noble like volunteering in Africa.

But for the less adventurous and admittedly more lazier and, well, timid of us - there is play. Good old-fashioned messing about. MFI springs to mind. Yes, the furniture store. I've never visited an MFI as an adult, but as a child - oh! The fun my sister and I had! Allowed to roam free around the store as my parents browsed kitchen units stressfully. We acted out mini melodramas in secluded kitchens. Hid from the adults in bedroom wardrobes. Fondled the pretend fruit. Bounced on the beds when no-one was looking. Pretended to be pretend home furniture. It was such a treat, going to MFI. It is within the walls of this store only that I have imagined being a housewife.

Whenever life gets tough, or incredibly dull, I think back to those gentle MFI adventures. Go and hide in the bedroom for a while, behind the door. Play out a little story in my head.

Play must lurk like this in my subconscious somewhere, because without me even realising what I was doing for Christmas this year I got my boyfriend stuff that will enable him to make his own watch. Luckily, he does actually want to make his own watch. Now.

There he is in the corner, soldering wires together. Having a blast. Bigger projects are already emerging - a torch. More ambitiously, a light up table. Who knows where his imagination will take him.

And that's the point isn't it - why not wake up your inner child next year? Play up - you deserve it.