“If I hear the word staycay one more time, I am properly going to lose it,” my childless bestie wailed. “I mean, what’s fun about a holiday where you don’t even get to buy a multipack of Lancôme mascaras and a bottle Jo Malone at Duty Free before you even say adios?”


Of course, as she sipped on my attempt at a Kir Royale (mum hack: Ribena makes a pretty good crème de cassis substitute) while bemoaning the Balearic travel restrictions that had put a kibosh on her her luxury villa holiday, I have to say that I was quietly relishing the enforced quarantine orders.


Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love going abroad and all that it entails – floaty sundresses, the constant and justifiable flow of wine, warm weather, lying on a beach and so on… But the airport? With two kids in tow? Let’s just say, if I was given a choice, I would opt for a public colonoscopy in the centre of Hyde Park over a jam-packed airport filled with damp holidaymakers in July.


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