Writer's Block

Holidays - he hated them. Dragged to flea-bitten corners of the world every year, just so his wife could spend money on shoddy local trinkets while he cowered back at the hotel, recovering from the previous night's deadly dinner. "It's good for the children to see foreign countries, dear", she'd trill, every time he dared suggest a simple relaxing week in the Lake District rather than a demented pilgrimage to see the Taj Mahal or something like that. He wasn't buying her explanation about the kids either - they'd travelled five times as a family, and he only remembered his kids learning some local swear words from a porter in Marrakech. Still, maybe they'd suddenly start spouting Sundanese or Tamil or Afrikaans one day and surprise him. They certainly never paid too much attention to where they went, unless it involved playing rather than 'absorbing foreign culture'.
Anyway, this year was different - he was stuck happily at home by himself, drinking beer, while her and the three snots traipsed around Caracas looking for God-knows-what. Sure, breaking his leg hurt at first, but it beat the hell of a family holiday. With a bit of luck she'd lose one of the little buggers too. Still, better not take any chances.
He reached out with the mouse, paused for a moment over the booking, then cancelled the return flight. Then he picked up the phone.
"Hello, i'm afraid i have to report the theft of my credit cards..."
He'd catch hell when she finally got back, but his leg was almost healed, the house would be sold on Tuesday, and in two weeks he'd be 'retired' somewhere far away...