MUM’S THE WORD

Holiday reading, I’ve packed plenty. Kate Atkinson, Ali Smith, David Mitchell, Cressida Cowell, by Cheryl Strayed and John Waters’ road trip all wait patiently while we give the kids a culture kick in Florence.

We’re dazzled by the Duomo (“Aw yaaasss, climbed this in

says Eldest), dander past Michelangelo’s and pant up the hill to gawp at the Gormleys. Descending, we pause outside Galileo’s gaff to belt out

then it’s on to the Baptistry to marvel at the mosaics.

“At least it’s cool in here,” says Youngest. “Italy’s hot. I like Scottish weather. Fog’s best.”

Cultured out, we head for the coast. I park myself on a beach towel ready to read but can’t face words. No novels, newspapers or screens. Instead I stare at the waves, progress to jumping in them and by week’s end, I’m kayaking. As for reading, well, what are children for? Eldest Child hums snatches of his Beatles biog, Middle gifts me tales from the and the Boyf paints a vivid picture of Caravaggio’s capers. Only Youngest keeps her teen horror with dead-eyed dolls on the cover to herself. Fine. “Are we coming to the beach every day?” asks Middle Child one day.

“Absolutely. Why?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing some art. Maybe some Michelangelo?” he says.

“Eh? Remember Florence? That statue. And all refusing to queue at the Uffizi. No! You’ll have had yer art. Now, read me another monkeygod story.”

Words fail me.

“Italy’s hot. I like Scottish weather. Fog’s best”