I wish I had the chutzpah to take my kids on a term-time holiday

There must be any number of politicians – at least on the Conservative benches of the House of Commons – who will be delighted that the half-term recess has arrived. It has, after all, been a bruising period, so a few days rest and relaxation are surely deserved. What’s the betting that Russia invades Ukraine while ministers are shooting the breeze in Val d’Isere or using their hols to fill in a questionnaire from the Metropolitan police.

As a schoolboy, half-term holidays rarely held the same sense of anticipation as the longer vacations. There was no sense of festivity, or – in the case of the summer break – of endless weeks stretching out ahead of us. Yet perhaps because of that lack of expectation, those shorter holidays rarely disappointed; by contrast, Christmas was often anti-climactic and the summer ended in boredom and belligerence. Easter was often decent, until I realised I actually didn’t like chocolate as much as I thought I did.

During the precious week of a half-term holiday, we planned more stuff, trying to make the most of the time off school. In the May version, we often went on holiday to the Peak District, which we loved. In October and February, we might go on an occasional day trip to a museum or a country park; sometimes we’d be taken into a nearby town to spend some pocket money – usually on Lego in my case. When the week was over, we were left wanting more: but that was as it ought to be.

As a parent, however, I could readily do without half-term holidays. Much better to keep the brats at school – and if their teachers feel knackered, well, come and join the ranks. Even at the best of times, it’s a logistical quagmire debating which parent will take time off work, or which grandparent can take on some childcare duties. And since my daughter started secondary education in September, we have had the added thrill of having two children whose school breaks don’t overlap. Of all the inexplicable things about the English schooling system, this divergence from county to county over the best week for a holiday remains one of the most inexplicable.

Not everyone seems quite so grumpy about it all. There are always a few families who seem to have so much annual leave available (and enough money to burn), that they can disappear at the merest whisper of the words “inset day”, returning with a tan or an exotic leather bracelet. And of course, there are usually one or two kids who mysteriously develop a minor illness a few days before the hols officially start, and who it later emerges were working off their sore throat in Bali or the Azores.

Am I envious of these people? Yes, I am. Partly because I’d like the cash to spend a fortnight in Mexico in the middle of February. But I am also jealous of their confidence: the chutzpah not to worry that the school might report an unpermitted absence to the local authority; and more particularly in recent times, the sangfroid to head off to far flung places irrespective of Covid angst.

It is probably true to say that my environmental guilt is enough of a barrier these days to taking lots of foreign holidays, even if I did have the cash to splash. And I disagree as a matter of principle with the idea of taking children out of school when everyone else is in. Still, of all the things I wish I had more of, pluck is high on the list, which is no doubt why I have a sneaking admiration for people who seem to have it in spades.

Mind you, some might say it was a plucky decision not to take out pet insurance when we got our rescue cats sixteen years ago, and where has that got me this week? With a much smaller bank balance and a sad, post-operative kitty. Sometimes it’s better to play it safe and follow the rules. Even Boris Johnson may eventually find that out.