Next week, I’m going on an all-inclusive holiday to Greece. All-inclusives have a famously bad rep for all-day boozing, and in certain quarters there is a sniffiness about their supposed chips with everything, Brits abroad vibe. For some people, the idea of being confined to a hotel, even one with a beautiful beach attached, sounds awful. But, like many parents, I’ve become a convert.
How did I get here? I think it was always on the cards. When I was small, holiday brochures were my bibles. I’d spend hours perusing them and comparing the hotels: their azure pools framed by water slides undulating in spaghetti-like nests, their private white-sand beaches with lines of striped parasols, and these things called “kids’ clubs”, which offered all kinds of fun activities and, most excitingly, a disco.
