Is it just ME?

Or do you have PHS (that’s Pre-Holiday Stress) too?

IT’S MIDNIGHT and I’m still working. My cat feeder has just texted to say she may be too ill to help this week. I’m coming down with an ear infection and I have cracked the big toe of my new pedicure.

I frantically discard holiday clothes that only work if a) I don’t eat or b) I don’t try to do up the zip. And, aargh, where is my passport?!

Welcome to the world of Pre-Holiday Stress (PHS). I started packing a week ago but have no idea what’s actually in my suitcase. Five matronly bikini tops — and no bottoms, probably.

I still need to locate the biodegradable wipes, water the garden, check the window locks and defrost the fridge. I’ve been living on horrid food all week to get through everything nearing its use-by date.

It seemed such a lovely idea when I booked the flights in February. Taking a whole week off for once seemed liberating. Now I’m cursing my delusion. Why do I want to go away? The prospect of staying at home for a week, sitting in the garden and reading, is delightful. I would have time to lunch with friends, catch up on podcasts.

Instead, I’ll be up at 5am to take a pricey taxi to Gatwick (no trains depart that early from my station).

I tell myself this is typical. The heavy suitcase won’t close, my liquids will be confiscated at departures, I’ll have to buy a mosquito spray in Boots that could wipe out an Army.

By the time I reach the plane, I’ll have forgotten my back-up contact lenses, ear plugs for swimming and the pillowcase washed in hypoallergenic detergent. Which means I’ll spend the week blind and deaf, with my complexion on fire.

But when I collapse into my plane seat and order my gin, PHS will melt away. And I’ll wonder why I made such a bloody fuss in the first place.

Staying at home for a week would be delightful. Instead I’m up at 5am for a flight