Are the summer hols really everything they’re cracked up to be?

And so, the long summer holidays are finally upon us. That glorious time when, as a child, possibilities seemed endless; and when, as an adult with children, everything seems impossible. And that’s not even taking account of an ongoing pandemic.

On Wednesday, my children finished lessons at lunchtime. My daughter, leaving junior school for the last time, exited the gates to applause from parents at 1.15pm. I clapped, gave her a hug, then dashed the two-thirds of a mile to my son’s infant school, in time for his pick-up at 1.25. He greeted me with a carrier bag heavy with books, a lunchbox and water bottle, to add to the other water bottle I’d brought because I knew his would be empty, and a football.

He and I then headed back up the hill to the playing field next to my daughter’s school, where she and the rest of year six were waging water wars on one another. By the time we arrived I had sweat soaking through my T-shirt and would have been glad had the water bomb that came my way exploded onto my chest, rather than bouncing off to burst harmlessly on the grass.

Still, hot days, football and water fights are what summer holidays ought to be made of, right? And for half an hour everything seemed to be going swimmingly.

But my son can only play ball for so long before his anger and frustration get the better of him. He’s like Joey Barton without the self-control. And sure, I may have shoved him onto the grass a couple of times, but his kicking-based assault was really not called for. When the second water bottle ran out, I knew it was time to leave.

My daughter too was more than ready to depart by then, having had lengthy, tearful goodbyes with her friends, some of who will not be going to the same secondary school in September. Soggy, and a little muted, she tagged along with her sweat-drenched brother and her pack-horse father.

Really, that first hour after the end of term just about encapsulated the six weeks to come. Excitement about things to do and people to see; then the realisation that even fun stuff becomes interminable, and that going anywhere on a hot day is frankly a pain in the backside. And in the background, a frazzled parent trying to keep the peace and worrying about whether they are using valuable annual leave wisely. The days since have further demonstrated the point.

Looking back, my childhood summer holidays were the best of times and the worst of times. We had fantastic family holidays away, always lasting a fortnight; and during the other four weeks, I would usually find cricket to play – against my brother in the garden if nothing more serious were available. Long sunny days could drift pleasantly by.

But I also remember days when we would wake at 7.30am, put on the telly, and watch whatever crap was on for hour after hour, wondering why we felt so sludgy by lunchtime. My brother and I would bicker: I would try to provoke a fight; he would rise to the bait. Long days when the sun didn’t shine made me wish for school’s return. In the end, it turns out there isn’t much fun to be had in doing nothing (though I wouldn’t mind trying it again some time…).

As a parent, it can occasionally be hard not to catch the kids’ vacation mood – especially when working from home. On Wednesday, having taken the afternoon off to deal with the end-of-term shenanigans, I treated myself to a gin and tonic at 6.30pm – despite Wednesday normally being an alcohol-free day. But I was on holiday, so what did it matter?

In a week or so we’ll be packing the kids off to stay first with their granny, then with grandpa and granny number two. If the first few days of the hols are anything to go by, it won’t be long before the kids drive them to drink too.