I'M VERY excited. Very, very excited. The butterflies in my tum think they're part of the Riverdance farewell tour. In two days, I will be off on The Holiday. A holiday without children. A holiday where we can go where we want – although I'm not saying that miniature villages and theme parks for under-10s don't have their charms. Eat what we want, when we want. I'll not have to eat at 5.30pm again until we come back and take Mother out for her birthday.
The big, months-in-the-planning trip is finally upon us. And now I'm getting scared. You see, it now means two weeks with Mr Turner. Fourteen days of just the two of us. Three hundred and 36 hours of him and me, me and him. What the hell are we going
to talk about?
People don't usually spend that kind of time together. During the week you dash in and out of the house at different times, communicating by Post It note and text message. Come the weekends, there's football, rugby, trips to the cinema, birthday parties and family to see. There's boys' nights out and girls' nights in. When we do end up at home together, it's all I can do to keep my eyes open for the opening credits of Midsomer Murders – let alone engage in sparkling repartee with my other half.
It's been the same since we got married. We'd been away for weekends before the wedding (separate rooms, I assure you Mother), but the thought of 10 days with just the two of us on honeymoon was bringing me out in a cold sweat. What would we do for all that time? I suppose you could call it normal honeymoon nerves. I had the same questions and concerns that all new brides have. Would I have to take the Monopoly, the Travel Scrabble and the Yahtzee? Should I save up witty bon mots over the preceding days so that I could entertain my new husband?
The mental image of the two of us sitting in a restaurant gazing into space in total silence made me feel queasy. I saw couples like that all the time. People might try to call it companionable silence, but it looked like a long, lingering death to me. Surely that wouldn't be our fate? I needn't have worried. Mr Turner is slightly older than me and wise to the ways of the world. He had it all in hand. We took someone else with us.
It was the perfect solution. Jim kept the conversation bowling along on the journey. He helped out with the cooking and washing up. He showed us great bars and even better restaurants. I don't really know why Princess Di complained about there being three people in her marriage, we wouldn't have had nearly such a good honeymoon if there had only been the pair of us.
Our next attempt at a fortnight's holiday together was nearly over before it began. After only two days of my darling husband's constant company, I was climbing the walls and begging to be allowed to go home.
Over the years, we've taken reasonable precautions to stop anything like that happening again. Short city breaks seemed like the perfect answer. Four days of walking, eating and drinking doesn't leave much time for the art of conversation. Thank goodness for mobile phones and wireless laptops. And for Gav and Alex who are coming with us this time.
The full article contains 586 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
