There is a point in one’s holiday when the spectre of everyday reality begins to haunt your enjoyment of the present. The temporal balance has been tipped and there are more days behind than in front of you. It is like life in microcosm. How uneasy does the man in his seventh decade feel as he watches the sands of time gravitate into a big pile. That which you had planned to do is now impossible – so like the man with his mid life crisis buying a porsche, we try to cram pleasure into as small a space as possible, leading to excess.