Jo Davison: Let holiday control pass to husbands

In the 1950's it was common for entire families to go on holiday on a motorbike and sidecar
In the 1950's it was common for entire families to go on holiday on a motorbike and sidecar
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It’s all about trust.

Without it, what have you got in a marriage?

Ask a woman; she’ll tell you... Hopes, dreams, a LONG tick-list of achievements – and a household that runs like clockwork; bills paid on time and kids regularly fed and watered.

Such women believe that you cannot trust a man to do anything the way you want it done, unless you’ve found him in the classifieds and stood over him yourself.

They will say that should you relinquish one iota of control to a husband, the foundations, the very corner stone of home and family, would crumble and chaos would reign. You might even end up in a homeless shelter. And you’d certainly never get to Zakynthos every summer.

Hence the reason huge numbers of us refuse to let our men book the family summer holiday. Women just don’t trust them to get it our version of right.

To my mind, such control-freak females are missing a trick. Girls. Give the guys a break. Actually, give yourselves one.

He’s begging for the chance. Arranging a holiday is something three quarters of men really want to do (says free online flight finder and shopping tool InvisibleHand).

The task must appeal to a browbeaten man’s spirit of adventure; he probably thinks it has the potential to release his inner hero. That little Action Man tucked away in his sub-conscious.

The henpecked, wanna-be-hunter-gatherer views it as a rare opportunity to sally forth solo into the great unknown (courtesy of the internet or Thomas Cook) without anyone nit-picking at his shoulder.

He and he alone can decide exactly where he wants to take his little tribe.

He probably imagines himself affecting a manly, hands on hips stance as he presents the tickets, with the pride his ancestors reserved for a freshly-felled bison.

He pictures you and the kids, slapping him (gently) on the sunburnt back as you coo how wonderfully he did with your Las Palomas self-catering apartment.

So go on, treat him; let him have his chance to shine.

He’ll get something wrong, sure as eggs are eggs (talking of which, Belinda Askew of Ecclesfield, thank you for your tips: the hens are now laying four a day and we’re happily on our way to being egg-bound).

Not only will handing over the holiday reins have given you more pre-departure clothes-shopping time, afterwards it will present you with yet another of those lovely, heartwarming family stories to recount for years to come at his expense.

Like the time when Bloke and I went to Rome.

It was early doors; he was keen to impress. Knowing I’d always wanted to go to the opera, he’d searched the internet and booked tickets for a performance of La Traviata. In a church it was; it sounded spectacular.

Only, it turned out my hunter-gatherer had been looking at the website of Rome’s version of Manor Operatic. And for church, read tiny, 20th century back-street chapel.

I felt such a fool in my cocktail frock.