Holidays.
What do they mean to us? We save all year. We work everyday in between. We exhaust ourselves with the preparational shopping, packing, cleaning. That's a lot of pressure on everything. So much so I'm not ashamed to admit we're yet to have one where there hasn't been some varying degree of friction fuelled from the pressure for everything to be FUN.
Then I get home, like now, I look over pictures, tickets, souvenirs and residual sand in shoes and I think back. I tell stories to myself without the tense edge we had the first morning because we didn't know how to get breakfast. I remember our first trip to the beach without Euna's tired winging from an unsuccessful nap in a strange cot.
Essentially every storyteller is biased. And if I want to be biased in recalling the good times... Then I think that's ok by me. Unless of course there's some entertainment merit to the part in the story where Steve drags us to the 2 hours across rural France to see the Bayueax tapestry... No. No. There's was no entertainment value there. ;)
So here's a little of our French holiday story...
Every. Single. Morning. I return with an acute case of "Croissant Thigh"...
Where we ate pizza...
So rare we get a family portrait! Thank you self timer and fence post!
Not this year... *Sigh*
Insert Greenpeace pun here... ;)
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