Extracts

Gone Viking by Helen Russell

Alice is about to discover that her sister, Melissa, has booked something rather unusual for their ‘relaxing’ break. Finding her inner Viking was not exactly what Alice had in mind…   

Gone Viking

'In a rain-sodden no-man’s-land on an island somewhere in the North Sea, I finally wave goodbye to the last shreds of my dignity. And as someone who’s been stooped in the trenches of early parenthood for years now, this is a new low'

There ensued a very unbecoming tussle between two grown women over an item of fancy dress until our flight number was called and we passed the duration of the journey in silence.

It had been arduous enough explaining to Greg that he was going to be in sole charge of himself and two children (essentially: three children) for a whole week, with only an arsenal of takeaway menus for backup.

‘But you never go anywhere?’ had been his response.

‘Exactly!’ I’d told him. ‘That’s why I’m going away now. I’ve earned this.’

I bought up as many ready meals as our freezer could handle, then instructed Charlotte and Thomas on how to defrost them if necessary. I briefed the childminder that we might need extra hours in case Greg ‘forgot’ to pick up the kids (again) and asked her to call me in case of emergency.

‘Because I’ll only be an hour or so away,’ I’d told her. ‘I can easily come home’.

Ha! What I hadn’t banked on was travelling 1000km to spend a week with strangers.

I hoped that the kids would be OK.

I hoped that Greg could keep them fed and watered and generally alive and unbroken.

For Seven Whole Days . . .

Now, I’m crouching in a field with a wet bottom and knees that feel as though they’re going to give way at any moment. It’s raining. Again. That kind of persistent drizzle that makes the world smell like a portaloo. And we’re being shouted at. Again.

‘Squat down: get low! Channel your inner primate!’ the man-bunned hipster in harem pants is barking at us as he walks up and down, supervising our attempts at ‘chimp walking’. ‘This is natural movement,’ he tells us while scratching at facial hair in a manner that screams ‘monkey’.

‘You’re relearning basic mobility skills!’

That’s as may be, but I feel like a fool. I’m also cold, fed up, and inherently suspicious of people who substitute a beard for a personality. I’m already pretty sure that this trip is A Bad Idea.

‘See? No horned helmets,’ I hiss at Melissa.

‘Maybe they only wear them for special occasions,’ she responds mid-squat, unwilling to meet my eye.

‘Right. Sure. That’ll be it,’ I mutter and do some grade-A swearing under my breath.

Man-bun tells us to call him ‘Magnus’ and that he’ll be our ‘spiritual and physical guide’ for the next seven days.

Well, that sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen . . . I think.

‘Now I want you on all fours!’ he demands, prompting sniggering and a side-eye from the busty, older blonde next to me.

‘I need your legs wide and your butt low!’

Cue guffawing.

‘I want you crawling, chest to the ground!’ he says.

And by ‘ground’, he means ‘mud’.

In a rain-sodden no-man’s-land on an island somewhere in the North Sea, I finally wave goodbye to the last shreds of my dignity. And as someone who’s been stooped in the trenches of early parenthood for years now, this is a new low.

I want to stand up and shout, ‘What are we doing here? Surely nobody is enjoying this?’ But I don’t. Because I’m me.

Stupid old ‘me’.

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