I’m taking a holiday at home, but don’t you dare call it a staycation. If I didn’t want to spend time at home I wouldn’t live here.
I have one more week of work and then I’m taking four weeks of annual leave.
When I tell people they inevitably ask, “Where are you going?”
“I’m going home.”
“You’re not going away anywhere?”
“Ah, you’re having a staycation.”
Let’s ignore for a minute how much I hate the word “staycation”. Let’s ignore the judgment that is always loaded into the statement.
I could go away, but I don’t want to.
Since when do we need a separate word for going on holiday at home?
I like my home. It’s away from the stress of work, it’s relaxing, and occasionally there are live mice running around the living room floor (fortunately not too often).
I can sit on the floor by the log burner (because His Royal Fluffiness took my seat on the couch) with my laptop on my knee and write my book.
I can look outside, hear birds nesting in the roof, and see wooded hills and green leaves.
I can walk into my library and have at my fingertips hundreds (thousands?) of books that I chose personally because I thought they were worth reading (or they had really pretty binding).
It’s warm, dry, and there’s tea and coffee in the pantry and a cosy bed in the bedroom.
And, of course, it’s where His Royal Fluffiness lives.
Isn’t this where I should want to go on holiday?
When I was at school, summer holidays were a magical time. My sister and I put the tent up in the orchard and slept in it for months. We swam in the pool or the water race, climbed trees, wrote books, jumped on the trampoline, and adventured.
Sure, we occasionally went away somewhere, but I never got bored of being at home.
As an adult, there seems to be an expectation that when I’m not working I will go away.
Probably to a vacation spot. That is, a noisy, tacky, crowded, expensive, overly hot location where His Royal Fluffiness is not.
Yes, when I go away from home on holiday I miss my cat. Don’t you?
Perhaps you’re curious what I’m going to do while I’m on holiday at home. (Maybe you’re not, but some people are weird.)
I have a lot of things I’d like to do, like murder the gorse and the rampant blackberries, finally prune the rose bush, weed between the paving stones, and finish unpacking. (Yes, I have lived here for more than two years–or has it been it three?–but you can’t rush some things.)
I probably won’t do many of those things.
I probably will spend a lot of time drinking tea and coffee, stoking the fire, reading books, and writing my book, and I might even go away somewhere overnight.
I’ve also had the wonderful idea that I might try to limit my time online (= on Twitter) to every other day. I’ll see how that works out.
So if you notice I’m not responding to your tweets when I normally would it might be that I didn’t see them. Or it might be that I don’t like you any more. It’s hard to say.
I’m kidding. I still like you very much.
Doesn’t that sound like a great holiday? I might even finish editing my book.
Did you know you can get my updates, which are almost as awesome as I am? All you have to do is put your soul in the box. Sorry, not soul. I meant email.
Or if you want to keep your soul, you can make me happy by sharing this post instead.