Kmareka.com

Recently, on a particularly dreary day, I found myself flicking wistfully through the  travel section of a broadsheet newspaper. As I sat on the sofa, slumped in my none-too-glam trackie bottoms and fleece-lined Crocs I tortured myself with page after page of unobtainable ‘bourgeois’ – which I believe is Russian for ‘jealous-making’ – holiday destinations. I ogled double-page spread after double-page spread of nut-brown bodies frolicking on pristine, deserted beaches, drooled over photos of towel-clad bodies being pummeled by tiny ladies with big muscles, and scanned ads promising, variously, views of the Northern lights, ‘big game’ and Alpine meadows in bloom. All while sitting listening to hail zing off the roof. And contemplating the wind shredding more twigs and branches from our scarily-close oak tree.

Well wouldn’t you know, all of this holiday lusting and tree-paranoia made me hungry.