Oh, so you’re away, are you? I hadn’t noticed, what with those multiple, stage-managed shots of you draped in floral prints, sipping a mimosa as the sun sets beneath the Mediterranean. That must have taxed your considerable creativity.
I bring it on myself. It’s what I deserve for mindlessly scrolling through Instagram as my train decelerates into the hellscape that is any Central Line station before 10am.
The joke’s on you, I lie. It’s hotter here than it is in whatever European city or resort is humouring you for the foreign exchange.
It must be British Summer Time, when half of your friends, frenemies, acquaintances and colleagues are abroad. And it’s important, apparently, that you are fully briefed they’re having a great time. But here’s the rub: no one is happy for you.
People like me, we’re not monsters who are incapable of empathy or vicarious pleasures. Did you have a baby? Genuinely pleased. Get a promotion? Love that for you. Lost some weight? We didn’t want to say anything (to your face) but mate, you look fabulous. Erm, you took some holiday photos? That’s not a skill. It’s not even juggling.
We also note with interest that your photo dump — so random — could find no space for the gruesome bus from long-term parking or the horrific sunburn you suffered on the first day that is already beginning to peel.
This is not, by the way, a poorly disguised dig at my colleague (who happens to be the Evening Standard’s comment editor, so it’s important to keep onside), for whom I’m covering while he’s away. This runs deep.And to clarify, I am militantly pro-holiday. First, it can’t depress the UK’s chronically poor productivity rates any further. But more importantly, it is good for the soul.
We had our reasons, but my God, was Britain by the spring of 2022 a nation in need of a week away. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that the aim of work, like golf, is to do as little of it as possible. My boss will read this. But plenty of research suggests rising living standards are reflected not simply in people buying more things, but in a preference for increased leisure time, usually in the form of paid holidays.
Look, on an intellectual level, I know your holiday isn’t about me. And I firmly believe that Sartre was wrong about the whole “hell is other people” thing.
Without you, there wouldn’t be the demand to staff, let alone the economies of scale to justify building, the Channel Tunnel or that charming beach club I like in Provence. Guys, your holiday is essential. I just don’t need to see it.
Incidentally, by the time I next appear in these pages, I will (travel chaos-permitting) be sitting by a pool sipping one of those tiny French beers while feigning to read a book.
I may even post a picture during golden hour. This isn’t hypocrisy, you see. I’m on holiday.
In other news...
The thing about Sir Paul McCartney is he wields it so gently. The author (and fellow McCartney-ite) Ian Leslie put it best when he reflected that the British talk about the Beatle “the way they might a light entertainment celebrity who once hosted a game show.”
Curious, given he is one of the greatest, most prolific artists in history. Not only will he be remembered hundreds of years from now, people will still be humming the intro to Lovely Rita or screaming the final nah-nah-nahs of Hey Jude as they step into their hyperloop pods.
Yet you and I have enjoyed the fortune of being alive at the same time, able to watch and listen to him do it for us. And he’s still at it, headlining Glastonbury next week.
Paul, we needed you at 25, 64 and never more so than at 80. You never had to ask. But it was awfully nice of you, just to be sure.
