Twins: Ten Thousand Letters To My Children

I volunteered to book our summer holiday. How different things could have been. A fter a strong start, assembling a crew with the promise of nautical shenanigans in the Adriatic, things began to stutter. Somewhere between my first casual enquiry and my disbelieving return to the Easy Jet website, my cookies had been crunched. Bristol/Split flight prices had snuck away from the terminal and were rapidly approaching cruising altitude; the charter bill had ballooned to super-yacht dimensions, but h owever big the boat was, I knew I had missed it. D odging difficult questions while urgently formulating a backup plan, the only affordable alternative seemed to be a flood plain caravan on the outskirts of a heavy industrial town in decline. I settled on Scunthorpe which was precisely what I deserved. A quick web-trawl confirmed my worst fears: I was never going to convince anyone that a yacht was a floating caravan. Even worse was the discovery that number five in Trip Advi...