Laura Craik on swimsuits as daywear, unwanted mouse guests and being a tourist hostage to fortune

Normally, I scarper off on my summer holiday the minute the schools finish.

This year, I’m going right before they start again — a very different proposition. Everyone is either bronzed and smug from having just returned from Hydra (no, tell me again about how clean the air is) or on their last legs, barely able to form a sentence that doesn’t contain expletives.

On the plus side, suntan lotion is reduced. On the minus side, I’ll be sunbathing in my bra and knickers, for there are only two items of swimwear left in the whole of London, and they’re either size six or minging.

Which isn’t surprising, for this has been the summer of the swimsuit. Blame Love Island. Blame the heatwave. Blame Bella and Gigi and Kendall for wearing theirs during the day. Either way, decent swimwear is in short supply. If you’re in the market for a crochet string bikini, soz — LI’s Hayley and Samira got there first. If a one-piece is more your thing, tough tittie: they were all snapped up in June by women with B-cups, flat stomachs and ickle stick insect arms, who proceeded to post Instagram Stories of themselves ‘just casually wearing my swimsuit to the office’ with jeans. I know I sound jealous. That’s because I am. Technically, I could wear my swimsuit to the office, because I work from home. But it wouldn’t be fair on the dog, who is already off her food.

Inability to go out in public braless notwith-standing, I could never wear a swimsuit as daywear because I never mastered that superpower by which you deftly hold the gusset to one side when you wee, and always had to take it off entirely, a process that took 47 minutes. Is it too early to start shopping for knitwear?

Scurry Favour

A mouse scuttled across my bedroom floor last night — my first mouse sighting since moving in 12 years ago, which probably deserves some sort of medal, although I’d settle for a Valium. I told all my friends. ‘Oh, we’ve had mice,’ every single one replied. ‘Hideous.’ Soon, I had numbers for Chris the Mouse Man, Mick the Mouse Man and Mark the Mouse Man. I chose Chris, on the basis that his name didn’t alliterate. As he inspected the house for evidence, he explained that Camden’s canals, railways, high-rise dwellings and bi-monthly rubbish disposal policy equate to a rodent’s paradise. ‘This is what a dropping looks like,’ he said, drawing a small blob on the side of a Hello Fresh recipe for chicken korma. ‘Like a grain of rice. But black.’ On the bright side, he couldn’t find any evidence of mice. But God, did he put me off my dinner.

Coffing Up

After being charged £5.50 for a latte in Copenhagen, I thought I’d encountered World’s Most Expensive Coffee. Nope. That accolade goes to Caffe Lavena in St Mark’s Square, Venice, where one will set you back £10.30. A tiny 25cl bottle of water is £9, though if you want to slake your thirst without first selling a kidney you can always sit inside, where prices are cheaper and pigeons don’t s*** on you. Nothing is more infuriating than working hard all year, saving up to go on holiday and finding yourself held to ransom by greedy vendors with a monopoly on a lovely view, deserted beach or packed superclub (I’m looking at you, Ibiza) that allows them to charge a fortune for something as basic as water. With the pound’s value falling against the euro, whether on holiday or at home, never has refilling old water bottles been more sensible — for the planet as well as for the purse.