El Dorado

In August, airports are filled with couples jetting off to exotic destinations like Sydney, New York or the Bahamas....
Huh. How banal.
FH and I go for a romantic three-day break to... Sheffield.

The implicit sarcasm is of course, entirely unfair, because Sheffield turns out to be sunny, fun and relaxing. It also has the unrivalled bonus of being my sister's place of residence, so we are able to spend drinking and eating time with her and Adam ("th'usband", as they say in Yorkshire).

As we dump our overnight bags on the floor of our plush room in one of Sheffield's finest hotels, we are full of plans. We will visit the city, stop for drinks, take in the watercolour exhibition at the Winter Gardens... But - hang on - why don't we just lie down and relax for a few minutes.
Just a few minutes, you understand. Because we're not that tired, really.

Two hours later, we emerge groggily from the heaviest slumber we have experienced for some time. Just over a year, to be precise.
Our bodies have seized up and shut down, in yet another testimony to the breath-taking superiority of nature over man's best-laid plans.
It's as though, the moment we reach a child-free zone, a secret "off" switch is flicked somewhere deep inside. The body kick starts the regeneration process - months and months of fatigue to be alleviated.
A strange sort of paralysis. A good book, a bed, silence.
Holidays.