Passport, purse, pants & painkillers

You’ve been counting down to your holiday for months, but the moment the plane touches down, atishoo! It’s called leisure sickness, and Fiona Gibson is a perennial patient...

Ihate to tempt fate, but I’m generally a pretty healthy person. I hardly ever need to visit the doctor and I haven’t had a cold for ages. But put me on a plane heading for a sunny destination and

I’ll be struck down before the seatbelt sign has been turned off. Weird aches and pains happen with no warning; an eye will become mildly infected; a nail will dig itself painfully into my toe. Granted, none of these ailments sound terribly serious, but it’s enough to put a dent in my holiday fun.

I can’t be the only one who suffers from this particular affliction because some clever person has even coined a name for it. It’s called leisure sickness – and I am patient zero.

The first symptom? Marital tension. Last summer, my husband and I escaped to Majorca for a week. The moment we touched down on the island, my left ear sealed itself up with wax, leaving me bellowing at everyone. ‘Shush!’ he hissed at me. ‘You’re acting like one of those Brits abroad who assumes everyone can understand them if they shout.’ ‘Pardon?’ I barked, trying to dislodge the wax with my finger. ‘And stop poking your ear, it’s not pleasant…’ He was treating me as if I was an irritating child he’d found himself lumbered with. Naturally, as soon as our plane touched down back in rainy Glasgow, my ear mysteriously unblocked itself.

While certainly annoying, at least the wax issue wasn’t visible. Not like my heat rashes, which generally spring up on day three, defying even the most flattering of Instagram filters. Which brings me to the second symptom of leisure sickness: bad holiday pictures. Halfway through week one and my first crop of mosquito bites are usually looking pretty angry, while my feet will be battered and bruised, thanks to beautiful – but excruciating – new sandals. When we were in Madrid a couple of years ago, my shoes had me hobbling around the city in a quest for emergency footwear. The only non-painful shoes to be found in my size were a pair of yellow monstrosities that gave me cartoon feet. Carefully planned holiday outfits? Ruined. Lovely photographs to remember the trip? Not a chance.

Piling on the agony

And now for symptom number three: humiliation. I might as well pack it in my suitcase alongside the sun cream. Never have I been more mortified abroad than when I was struck by an attack of (whisper it) piles. In Paris, no less. At home, I think nothing of striding into a branch of Boots to buy my butt-easing ointment. Not so in the city of love. I found myself in one of those terribly posh French pharmacies and, while my husband sniggered by the shower gels, I stuttered and stumbled through my schoolgirl French. ‘J’ai un problème avec ma derrière,’

I winced, contorting my face in a bid to convey my posterior discomfort.

Five mortifying minutes later, I left the shop – not with the intended product, but with a new nail polish.

Why does this keep happening to me? I tell myself it’s because I don’t have time to be ill during my normal working week, so all my ailments store themselves up, only to strike the moment I begin to relax. In reality, though, I think they just happen to provide my husband with some holiday entertainment. Forget delicious food, swimming in the ocean or seeing the sights. The real highlight of any summer holiday for him is laughing at me covered in mossie bites, walking uncomfortably and wearing acid yellow Crocs.

Fiona’s new novel, The Woman Who Met Her Match (Avon, £7.99), is out now