We went on holidays last week.  We’re very this season that way. Self-catering in a holiday house by the sea. By self-catering, I mean dining out every night; by holiday house, I mean an early introduction to retirement-home living where the furniture is designed more with orthopaedic support in mind than extravagant lounging. All right-angled austerity with Mary Kennedy appearing as her disturbingly inoffensive self on every available television channel.

I took one look around and made a mental inventory of the various irritations I was determined to complain about (lack of WiFi, filth on the curtains, lack of WiFi, dirty bathroom, lack of WiFi). No free shower caps, mini shampoos, or sewing kits to gleefully stash, so I had to fill the instant gratification vacuum somehow. I may have deployed that term so beloved of wimps  (“mark my words”), which had deflated to a crumpled up shadow of its former self by the week’s end. I waved goodbye to the owner in manner of lowly lickarse to departing dignitary on pulling out.

I mistakenly typed “pulling off” there initially. That’d be the sleep deprivation from the ward bed talking, and the snoring from my brother who we invited along for a few nights and had us re-negotiating our marriage vows at 4am. I returned embarrassingly overdrawn on my husband’s flexibility. I’m still doing the pitiful forgive-me face; often confused with the equally pitiful I’m-a-fucking-idiot face. Sure, you’ll have that.

Bleary-eyed and idle, I mooched around till the beachside café coolly flip-flopped its way into the breach with free WiFi, forcing me to abandon my habit of  avoiding surfer hipster types (not indigenous to where I live), and the news black-out I was banking on and bragging about before we left.

The grimness cascaded down daily. Caesarean Section at 26 weeks. James Foley. Suspected Ebola Case. Pat Kenny set to return to our TV Screen. Cliff Richard fans vow to get their man back in the charts. Where will it end? Morph reveals dark world of Tony Hart?

One of the other thousands of ways I like to test the limits of my husband’s patience is to engage him in a game of guess the potential song the producers of Reelin’ In the Years will marry with a moment from the here and now. The soundtrack must be released from the featured year and fit the footage.

‘Mr. Sun, Sun, Mister Golden Sun’ was automatically disqualified for failing to meet the first part of those criteria.  I made a unilateral decision and settled on visualising scenes of the follow-up protests of women on loudspeakers segueing into follow-up news clips of politicians clogging the silence with cowardice and back again to the strains of Seasons by Future Islands.

Seasons change, and I tried hard just to soften you
The seasons change, but I’ve grown tired of tryin’ to change for you
Because I’ve been waiting on you
I’ve been waiting on you
Because I’ve been waiting on you
I’ve been waiting on you

As it breaks, the summer awaits
But the winter washed what’s left of the taste
As it breaks, the summer awaits
But the winter craved what’s lost
Crave what’s all gone away

People change, even though some people never do
You know when people change
They gain a piece but they lose one too
Because I’ve been hanging on you
I’ve been waiting on you
Because I’ve been waiting on you
I’ve been hanging on you

As it breaks, the summer awaits
But the winter washed what’s left of the taste
As it breaks, the summer awaits
But the winter craved what’s lost
Crave what’s all
Crave what’s all gone away
‘Cause I’ve been waiting on you

All other suggestions welcome.