KATY HARRINGTON

Detoxing is bull, but my holidays are bliss

IDON’T expect your sympathy but so far this year, my only holiday has been a long weekend in Ireland for a friend’s wedding which entailed a marathon piss up, one day being so hungover I wished for death, and the next two clearing boxes of old school copybooks and strings of fairy lights purchased in Thailand circa 2002 from my bedroom, at the behest of my parents.

So when an email arrives in my inbox offering me a spot on a four-day ‘detox’ trip to Greece, gratis, I want to jump for joy, but I’m too tired. This will be a chance to press the reset button, I tell myself.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions and the journey to the airport feels like it. I need to be there by 4am, which means leaving my house at 2.30 which means going out the night before and not bothering to go to bed at all. And that is how my detox begins — boozy, smoky and bleary eyed.

Personally, I think the word detox is bollocks, but I like the look of our itinerary which involves outdoor Pilates, Nordic walking, aqua biking, eating lots of real food and getting leg massages, back massages and facials. On the first day at lunch, I am the only member of the group who accepts a glass of wine, by the last night I am turning down drinks at the bar to be the first to bed. On the last morning I feel so relaxed and far from London, I have forgotten my address and what I do for a living.

Before I leave I make a list of things I like doing, that I need to do more of at home. In another column I list the things I should do less of. The first list is long, but the latter is short. In fact it only has three things: Drinking, smoking and social obligation.