As we reach the peak of summer, I notice that some people are still replying to messages, barely minutes after their out of office message has pinged in my inbox. I conclude from this that many of us are not terribly good at holidays. At least not the bit where we return from the museum and sit by the pool, unable or unwilling to slough off our work identities.

My own realisation about how bad I am at relaxing came a few years ago, when, on a glorious coastal cliff walk, I found myself cursing out loud that my mindfulness app wouldn’t download. My expletive attracted a glance from a passing cyclist who must have seen not a sleek holiday-maker embracing nature but a stressed tourist fiddling with her phone and missing the sunset.

Much of my life involves this kind of attempt to double run, to cram in a quick meditation while doing exercise. I love a bit of woo-woo, but my approach is 80:20. I’ll do 30 minutes of yoga but skip the final relaxation on the mat. I smuggled coffee cans into a recent detox retreat, to catch up on work without a caffeine headache.