My eleven-year-old skin is burning. We’re spending half-term in the south of France. The Indian summer, whatever that is, has been very hot.
"I’m sorry, darling," Mummy says. "We forgot to cream you."
She and Daddy have been drinking and arguing in the shade of a beach café. I have lain on my tummy in the sun near the water. "You poor thing. You’re red as a beetroot."
All night Mummy dabs pink calamine lotion on me with cotton-wool. My back sucks it in — slurp! It hurts, but I love Mummy being in my bed instead of with Daddy.
The next day we go to a place called Nîmes in our Ford Popular, which Daddy bought last month when he passed his test. Although it’s new, it’s very slow and looks really old. People keep pointing, which makes Daddy angry. He gets even angrier when people laugh at his parking.
Nîmes is full of old buildings. Boring! Except for the Roman bullring and a butcher with heads of real bulls dripping blood on the pavement.
I want to see a bullfight, but Mummy says they’re disgusting and why did we ever come on this awful holiday. Daddy lashes out with his arm.
I don’t think he means to make Mummy’s nose bleed, but she jumps out of the front seat and joins me in the back. "You can pick up our bags from the hotel and drive us home right now," she tells Daddy.
That’s the last time we go on holiday as a family.
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