Ladies, it's time to accept that the summer holidays are well and truly over

As August draws to a close and this bank holiday weekend bids a final hurrah to the summer, it is at this time every year that Britain sinks into a post-holiday fug of collective denial. As our tans fade to a forlorn orange and two weeks of patatas bravas gleefully hunker down on our thighs, why does our sun-loving nation refuse to concede that the summer holidays are well and truly over?

First day back at school, Doctor Foster 2, black tights and – God help us – Christmas loom on the horizon. So pluck out that thong bikini from your whitening crevices and dispose of those bottom-expanding harem pants – they have no business here. The summer is over and it’s time for a clear-out.

Your husband may expect the sexual reawakening you experienced on holiday to continue now you’re back home. He will not understand that you are no longer slowly waking up in a sun-dappled bed while the kids sleep late after midnight swims and total parental neglect. You will no longer feel like the sun-kissed goddess you felt like in the flattering Tuscan morning light. You can no longer fool yourself that you are two stone lighter and look good in the doggy position.

You do not fall into a bed someone else has made in a tipsy and carefree manner. Back home, your husband returns to his pre-holiday paler, more bloated, more pungent self. You must gently reassure him that you will return to sexual activity on birthdays (his, not yours) and holy days – and curb his lust by walking around the bedroom in your vast period knickers.

Cut the ethnic hairwrap out of your hair this instant – you are a middle-aged woman and you look like a bag lady. Ditto ankle bracelet, toe ring and ribbon choker. They did not look good abroad and they certainly won’t fly in Marks and Spencer’s. Your toes will not be on display again until May – save money on pedicures and spend it on a sensible winter coat from Next.

If you are still sporting – God forbid – festival or nightclub bracelets, smite them from your wrists at once. You should not have been actually enjoying yourself anyway – you are a PARENT for God’s sake, and it is your job to drive your children to and from places of enjoyment, not to actually have any enjoyment yourself. Harem pants, sarongs, wafty maxi-dresses, “fun” playsuits – do not delude yourself that you can get a “ few more weeks wear” out of them. Your playsuit will be met with disdain at the school gates and you will catch a glimpse of your batwings in your strappy maxi-dress in the Tesco window and immediately reach for cake by way of comfort.

Do not, by the way, make the fatal mistake of thinking you can extend the life of your holiday glow with spray tans. Like Mickey Rourke’s cosmetic surgery, you will lose all perspective on what constitutes a “ natural” tan and will not be content until you leave the salon a deep and frightening orange that will stain the bed sheets you no longer have sex in and ruin the white harem pants you can no longer zip up.

Holiday food is like a holiday romance – never the same once you get back home.

Your husband may try to rekindle the holiday mood by spending an entire day trying to cook a rabbit paella in your kitchen. He will do this instead of helping with the kids or fixing the leaking toilet. He will put on bad French rap music that your kids played on a loop in the hire car and shout at anyone who tries to snack before dinner is ready. The paella will not be ready until around 11pm, when everyone has been secretly fortified with Pringles from the petrol station. And no one likes rabbit anyway. On holiday we all thought it was chicken.

Your husband will be left sad and alone at the kitchen table eating his bunny paella chased down with crème de menthe, while you go to bed a deep orange and carrying the rich aroma of sour cream and onion Pringles.

You do not want to go to a water park. They are all in Croydon. Adults playing on waterslides are not as accepted as they are on holiday. Everyone will assume you are a paedophile.

There are only 122 shopping days left till Christmas. Planning Christmas is the only way out of post-holiday denial. Search out the Heston gravy that takes the most months to prepare and start now. Do not be tempted to compulsively Google “winter sun”, because you can’t afford it. Your husband will be looking forward to Christmas anyway – he only has to wait 122 days for a shag.