Nobody Cares About Dad

That’s not so much a question these days as my friends’ default greeting—delivered via WhatsApp, Facebook, Snapchat, or whatever new platform the kids invent between take-off and landing. And, to be fair, they’ve got a point. So far this year I’ve racked up Thailand, Las Vegas, Dublin, India, Portugal… Hold up—scrolls frantic­ally through camera roll—oh right, I also squeezed in Rome back in January.

How did I forget that? Probably because I was busy making Roman history of my own: picture me, a borrowed e-scooter, and one too many Negronis in Trastevere. Julius Caesar once rolled triumphantly over those cobblestones; I rolled right over them too—just slightly less triumphantly, bleeding from the knee and apologising to my mate Mark for nearly turning him into modern art.

And now? I’m off to Morocco. When most lads are planning another Saturday night pub crawl, I’m comparison-shopping airline baggage allowances. A pint in the local is grand, but I can’t help feeling that swapping Guinness for a weekend in Marrakesh pays a better dividend. Besides, a can of beer in my fridge lasts longer than a Love Island relationship (the sell-by date on the lager will probably outlive the next three couples).

Why I trade nights out for boarding passes

Leaving the UK reboots my brain in a way no pricey mindfulness app ever has. The moment the wheels lift off the runway, the deadlines, invoices, and “Dad, where’s my PE kit?” notifications fade to background static.

• Out there the sky is bigger and so are my thoughts.
• New smells—petrichor after Bangkok rain, eucalyptus in rural Goa, charred sardines drifting across a Lisbon backstreet—remind me I’m more than my to-do list.
• Travel hands me clarity the way airport security hands back my laptop: gently, but insisting I take it with me.

By Monday morning I come home sun-kissed, slightly jet-lagged and strangely motivated to tackle the inbox. (Pro tip: answering emails while still tasting sea-salt Portuguese air makes even HMRC seem almost exotic.)

The counter-argument—and why I ignore it

Yes, flights aren’t free. Neither is the carbon footprint. And isn’t constant motion just running away in fancier trainers? Maybe—but I’d argue that spending the same cash on rounds of lager is just running on the spot, only sweatier. At least my souvenirs don’t end up in the recycling bin disguised as crushed aluminium.

Next stop: Morocco

So if you ping me next weekend and get a reply filled with camel emojis, you’ll know why. I’ll be haggling for spices in the souks, chasing the sunset over the Atlas Mountains, and trying (inevitably) to balance on yet another questionable form of two-wheeled transport. And when I get home, the fridge beer will still be waiting—like a loyal pet, or an unopened TV licence reminder.

Until then, keep the “Are you away again?” messages coming. They’re my favourite kind of postcard: proof that mileage may vary, but curiosity travels everywhere.

Safe travels—or cosy couching—whatever ticket you’ve bought this weekend. I’ll send you a camel-filtered selfie from the Sahara.

—Your perpetually airborne friend