How I learned to stop worrying...

'VE decided not to worry about my neck. Or my upper arms. Or my jawline.

- CERI GOULD

It is a conscious decision because I could so easily while away hours - no, days, weeks, months - getting into a flap about all three.

In fact, it would be untrue to say those things don’t disturb me a little. I’m on holiday for a start and there is nothing so unsparing as a holiday. If a holiday were a person, it would be the child pointing and laughing at the naked Emperor.

As an aside, anyone know why holiday bathroom mirrors are so unforgiving? Ditto - “holiday” clothes.

Flick through my camera roll and the same holiday clothes appear like old friends. The same dresses. Tops. Bikinis. My holiday wardrobe is like ‘The Rolling Stones’ greatest hits and almost as old.

But they’re becoming frenemies. Too bright. Too faded. Too big. Too tight.

Please let the phrase “it’s all right for holidays” burn my tongue should I ever say it again.

Stop me from rolling up the awful red sun dress, whatever you do, because it’s easy to “throw on around the pool’ Yes, it’s easy to throw on around the pool, but so’s a crocheted blanket and I wouldn't normally wear one of those, would I?

Pull me out of those too-tight denim shorts. You may have to pull me.

Carefully now. Those thighs are a bit pink. Throw the shorts in the bin. They are unkind. They are pre-children shorts.

It’s time they went.

And if you see me ironing the leopard-print beach cover-up and there’s a suitcase in the room, distract me. Make sure I scorch it, never to throw it over tingly sunburned shoulders again.

And if I still fight you for it, claiming “it's so useful’, persevere. It is useful and ugly and its cost per wear is now pennies, so it’s time it went.