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The only real annual holiday I have had since Olga was born is when my mother and I go to northern Italy, to an eye-wateringly expensive “health farm†for six days. As it is by invitation of my mother, and Marcus still wants her to think well of him, I have so far been allowed this luxury. No more than 1,200 calories a day, no alcohol, and being hosed down daily with an ice-cold jet to reduce cellulite are a small price to pay for a bed to myself, six evenings without putting the children to bed and the chance to read an entire novel in two nights.
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