Robert McNeil: Getting away from it all is easier said than done

Published on Thursday 6 August 2009 14:40

I'D HALF a mind to go to Texas, but it was too dear and too complicated, and I think you need a visa now, so I went to Galloway instead. It's quite far west. Another of the many halves of my mind thought momentarily of going to Dallas, Stirlingshire, where I hoped I might be able to let the spurs on my trainers clink freely. But several leading authorities told me that, despite the name, it wasn't that sort of place.

Getting ready to go on holiday is one of the most stressful things known to man, after losing your partner, job or house, and is not recommended by doctors. But most of us feel we have to do it. In my case, I spent the night before departure up a ladder in lashing rain trying to fix a section of the eaves that had collapsed. I'd to screw in brackets but I managed it and, while it doesn't exactly look aesthetically pleasing, it'll do. More importantly, I had done something practical and could now apply to become an Official Man.

Next morning, I'd to cut the sodden grass, because it was already long and would be condemned by the Neighbourhood Commando Committee for Suburban Safety if I left it to get any longer. Then, in an unprecedented move, I'd to vacuum the hall carpet and tidy the kitchen and the lavatorial suite, as there'd be tradesmen coming in my absence. Anticipating the tradesmen would be working-class, I'd to get some biscuits in. I don't know why I do this, because they never eat them. Nor do they touch the pre-cooked oven chips that I leave in a bowl.

Then there's the choosing of holiday habiliments. I take items for every eventuality. "I'm going to Galloway, so: crash helmet – check; reinforced underwear – check; Victorian bathing costume – check." As for ironing, other people tell me their clothes never need it, but mine always do. Same as I can't just jump out of bed and into the world, like normal people do. My barnet needs blasting with a power-shower then brushed with bristles from a badger's butt before it's even remotely acceptable. As for my coupon, it looks like a re-enactment of the Blitz and needs immersing in a bowl of goat-fat for 20 minutes.

Prior to leaving, of course, you have to close all the windows, water the plants and switch everything off, before switching some of it on again, in this case a couple of lights to deter burglars (who think: "His lights are on in broad daylight, he must be away on holiday.") and, more importantly, the computer to try out a gadget I'd got for it. I don't check my e-mails or surf the internut when I'm away – mainly because I've never been able to – but I've always felt that, these days, and in my top job as a leading sociological commentator and philosopher, I might need at any time to go online, particularly if there's an unexpected outbreak of humour in Scotland that might need urgent investigating. Memories of my news reporting days are still full of true-life nightmares in which I spent three hours getting the story and eight hours getting it filed.

When I got wireless internut for my portable laptop I thought that would be me sorted but, of course, the capitalists never tell you it only works within two to three feet of your home. So I'd to get this USB stick (if you're not computer-literate, don't ask; ultimately, I don't know what it is either) for 15 a month that's supposed to let you tune in from anywhere. So I tried it out before leaving and, in a surprise development, it didn't work.

Then – and you just know I'm digging a deeper and deeper hole here, readers, don't you? – I phoned the helpline and, after being given other numbers to phone, spent a pleasant period of time listening to muzak. Not "pleasant", what's that other one? Oh yes: "infuriating".

Eventually, this bored-sounding woman treated me disdainfully for a while before informing me I'd have to go to a portable telephone shop to get the gadget "activated". At the mall, I passed every other mobile phone shop before finding mine at the very end, with a queue that moved slower than a dead tortoise with gout. Eventually my gizmo was enzaculated (don't ask), by which time I decided I'd better eat, and treated myself to my favourite dining experience: Markies sandwiches in the car. As I wiped custard from my beard with a tissue, I glanced at the clock and was shocked to find it was 4 o'clock. And I still wasn't out of Edinburgh.

Next week: Bats, mysterious lights, and the spectre of witchcraft.

• Read Robert McNeil every Tuesday and Friday in The Scotsman.