Page 1 of Harper's Holiday Romance
1
Thank God for Google.
At least once a week I contemplated how anyone used to survive without access to the internet. It was a live conversation. I was yet to have someone convince me otherwise. I only had to go back to prehistoric times, circa the early 1980s—my mum would kill me if she heard me refer to her “prime” as prehistoric times—when the average life expectancy prior to my birth was 70–73. It’s since increased to 80–85.
The only difference? The internet was invented.
Okay, it wasn’t the only difference, and I might have manoeuvred the narrative in my favour ever so slightly. I wasn’t saying it was purely down to having no internet, but I was confident in the belief that Google saved lives. I said it. I don’t take it back, and I would’ve written it on my gravestone if I had to.
Essential Holiday Itemswas the latest phrase I ferociously typed into the famous search engine. Yes, fifty thousand suggestions on travel lists were a tad excessive, but each of them offered me something different. The sheer number of helpful hints and tips calmed my brain and eased the tension. I wouldn’t categorise myself as a nervous traveller, but I felt like someone was repeatedly trying to dig their way out of my forehead with a rusty old shovel. My best friend told me that wasn’t a normal feeling, but neither was herobsession with themed bottle openers, and I didn’t judge her. Who knew you could get a bottle opener shaped like an octopus? Not me. The eight tentacles had great traction for the tougher wine bottles.
My brain processed information the same way a search engine did. I had sixty-five tabs open, like a revolving filing cabinet with no organisation, until I discovered Tab Groups—game changer.
The tabs were categorised like so:
The things I need to do
The things I want to do
The things I can’t find the time to do
Miscellaneous
The Miscellaneous tab was vital; whoever thought of that word was a genius. It comes from the Latin word miscere which means to mix. The internet taught me that too—every day was a school day.
My miscellaneous tab group contained TV recommendations, holiday destinations, and random questions like—Can dolphins talk?andHow much are the Kardashians worth?—both understandable things to search, in my opinion.
Of course, there was the occasional self-diagnosis. We’ve all done it. It was like having a doctor in your pocket, and I didn’t need to explain the benefits of that, or the cons. My best friend Sarah took self-diagnosis to the extreme; an insect bite on our previous holiday had her convinced without “proper” treatment immediately, her injury would result in an amputated limb. A cold compress soon relieved the itch.
The latest query––How do I get rid of a cold sore?
Yes, I had a cold sore, sadly. Who develops a cold sore five days before going on the holiday of a lifetime to Mexico?
Me.
The worst part—I’d never had one before.Ever.
I won’t pretend I was surprised. The reality—I was unlucky. I refused to buy a lottery ticket because I would end up owing money. I once entered a radio competition where the prize was ten thousand pounds cash. It couldn’t hurt to try, I’d thought. I marked the day in the events on my calendar. I manifested good positive energy out into the world, and I missed the call. I was in the shower, and I missed the goddamn call.
My mum tried to reason with me. “You were lucky to get the call in the first place,” she said.
My mum was the best. She’s kind, supportive, and generous, but her ability to evoke rage in me was a gift.
