There we are, having breakfast, when the subject of our family holiday comes up.
“So, what hotel are we staying in?” asks Monkey Boy.
“We’re not staying in a hotel,” I reply. “It’s a farm stay. Your uncle sent an email last night. It’s backpacker accommodation.”
“Yup” and I explain what I think backpacker accommodation is and mention the bunk beds. Bunk beds, apparently, are cool, and we go into a lengthy argument, a week out from our holiday, on who will have top bunk.
And then ….
“So, is it Five Star backpacker accommodation?”
“Um. No. I don’t believe backpacker accommodation has a star rating. And I’m fairly certain it’s not Five Star.”
The rest of the day he just thinks I’m teasing him about the accommodation, and whilst I sit there, dreaming of floral curtains and milking cows and soaking in hot baths after a day “on the land”, he’s asking about mints on pillows and where the restaurant will be located. And the pool.
I really don’t know where he gets it from.