By your Welsh holiday cottage
OH, you were glad enough of me in 2020. And 2021. You fell into my loving embrace and told me how important I was to you. But where are you now? F**king Zante.
I remember when I first welcomed you through my charming oaken doors. ‘My God how I need this,’ you told me, in that heady August. ‘This is incredible. I feel so blessed.’ And I? I believed every word.
The time we had together seemed so precious. You’d just got out of a stifling relationship with your home where you felt trapped and cut off from the world. I’d been lonely for longer than I’d ever been. It was a match made in heaven.
That summer of 2020 it was like we rediscovered ourselves and each other. It felt so good having you inside me. You’d had your dalliances with Tuscan retreats in the past, but it felt like finally you’d grown up enough to know what you had at home.
And last year? You proved it was real by coming back to me. By showing it wasn’t a one-time thing. By returning to the shores of Cardiganshire and to my quartz-veined mudstone for a second rapturous holiday.
I know it rained. I know there were times when you didn’t want to play another board game. But didn’t I protect you? Didn’t I keep you warm, and cherished, and loved?
So when the end of July came around again, I was trembling with anticipation. To once again feel the tracks of your wheeled suitcase on my uneven floor. To have your firm, confident hand sign me right in the visitors’ book.
And where are you? The first summer travel restrictions are relaxed you’re straight on a plane to hot, exotic Zante. You unfaithful, lying arsehole.
