There’s an ongoing battle taking place on in a living room in Warwick. My father-in-law insists he will make space for me to use the kitchen. I insist that I have no intention of using the kitchen. In fact, I want to stay as far away from the kitchen for as long as possible. We go through the routine multiple times a day. “I’ll be out of your way soon,” he says. “Take your time,” I say. “You’re not in my way.” He seems desperate to get me into the kitchen to cook elaborate and time consuming meals for myself. But, while he busies himself making batches of hearty barley and vegetable soup and rich meaty liver and sausage stews (in the middle of a heatwave!), that he will freeze for use over the coming weeks, I want to use the kitchen for no more than making a cup of tea or grabbing something quick and easy out of the fridge.

You see, I’m a solo parent. That means that, like so many parents in my position, I am 100% responsible for everything. My kids are great, they help out (when asked or urged) but, ultimately, the buck stops with me and me only. Apart from Sunday lunch at our next door neighbours’ house and the very occasional meal out, I am responsible for planning and making three meals a day, every day of the week, week in and week out. Sure, I take shortcuts such as batch cooking and eating leftovers, but that still requires planning. In addition, we live in a remote place without take-away options or the option of a quick trip to the supermarket to buy something last minute. I’m responsible for making sure the washing up gets done (by me or the girls), that the shopping gets done, that the gas bottle gets replaced for the cooker, and so on. I love cooking and baking, I really do. But the day in day out of it can become monotonous drudgery that takes up far too much time and head space.

So, for me, a holiday is not having to do any of that or, at least, reduce it to an absolute minimum. The girls have been away all week and I’ve only had my own food needs to think about. For me, that was as good as spending a week in one of those 6-star hotels in the Maldives or Dubai. Seriously, it was bliss. I gave absolutely no thought to what I would eat for any of my meals. When I was hungry, I grabbed a piece of fruit from the fruit bowl or popped up to the M&S Simply Food just 200 metres away and bought a yogurt or a meal deal. One night I ate microwavable mac and cheese in front of the TV and it tasted like haute cuisine, simply because I didn’t have to cook it and I didn’t have to clean up after. For lunches, I popped into a bakery near the library and got a spinach and feta roll or a sausage roll.

The break from cooking is part of a larger sense of what ‘holiday’ means to me. As a solo parent, I am constantly in decision-making mode for every single aspect of my life and the lives of my two children (with advice and support coming from wonderful family and friends). Financial decisions, educational decisions, health decisions, house and car decisions, and on and on. So, a holiday for me is also a break from decision-making. When friends and family ask what I want to do when we’re in the UK and Ireland my answer is “I don’t care.” And I really mean it. So long as I don’t have to make a decision about what to do, I’m up for anything. By the end of the past twelve months we’ve just had, I can’t tell you what it’s like to set aside my decision fatigue and rest my tired brain.

The girls are back now from their week away and, boy, did I miss them. But it’s pizza for dinner tonight and maybe a take-away tomorrow. I’m still in holiday mode and, try as he might, my father-in-law is going to fail in his bid to get me into that kitchen.