We've been recalling the joy that is a family holiday, one of the inevitable by-products of which is divorce. Spending all day together is a risky business. Repeating this experience up to 14 times is asking for trouble. If God had wanted us to spend all day together, he wouldn't have invented work. He certainly shouldn't have invented fishing, the ultimate display of what men will do to avoid being with their partner. Holiday travelling is, as we all know, a nightmare. An opportunity to show the world how fragile your relationship is. Hanging by a thread. We started arguing as we were walking to the taxi. We stopped when we were leaving the taxi two hellish weeks later. Thankfully it was a different taxi driver. The children were, throughout the journey, The Spawn Of Satan. Their programme turned to Evil. And Toilet. One of them wanted to go to the toilet at all times. It was a perfectly executed programme of bowel-led irritation. It was like a rolling maul, as soon as one rejoined the pack, another peeled off saying, "He had to go." Pleasingly each of them refused to eat anything offered on the plane. The stuff we'd already paid for. Instead they wanted to eat rubbish - and expensive rubbish - alone. Travelling with children means anything, absolutely anything, for a quiet life. So we put big bags of sugar, via the medium of fizzy drinks, chocolate, crisps and other brightly coloured artery-clogging aids, into each child on request. During the journey each child took on the pallor and manner of a manic monkey. I think there was a link, between the sugar and the monkey. By the time we arrived in Portugal each child was convinced he could actually fly, and was pleading to be given the chance. I've written to David Attenborough to see if I'm onto something. I've asked him if monkeys would be calmer, more mature and businesslike if they gave the sugar a miss. Arriving at the destination gives a brief respite from the terrible psychological warfare. It's behind you. Sadly, my thoughts are pre-occupied by the thought of repeating it all coming back. The first day of the holiday itself is glorious. No work for two weeks. Fourteen lies-in. The sun, gloriously reflecting off your pasty body. The first drink. The first meal, served by a dishy little waitress. She smiles at you. The first female smile for a year, since the last Minx Like Waitress. You could almost kid yourself it's all going to be all right. Life is all right. Your marriage is all right. After dozens of years, this is as good as it gets. Blissful is a distant memory. Passionate long forgotten, unless you count Anger under Passionate. All right is good. This is not the day to buy anything. You are mentally disturbed on your first day. You're not thinking straight. This summer, on our first night, we wandered into the Old Town at Albufeira. There was the usual street entertainment. The living statues were everywhere; you know, the people who stand on boxes, absolutely stock still, and expect you to pay them for the entertainment. The urge to push them off the boxes, which by the end of the holiday was almost unbearable, was easily suppressed. On a happy day like this you simply want them to explode. Later on in the holiday I saw one of the statues having a break. He was sat on his box, having a can of lager. I told him I could see him moving. He didn't laugh. Back to the first day. We heard some music. A Native American group was playing, and dancing. We went to observe. I'll swear the music was enchanting, the dancing mesmeric. Cement Woman enjoyed it so much she suggested we buy the CD. And so, we're the proud owner of Buffalo - More Chants And Dances Of The Native American, including such legendary hits as Raindancer, Sun Of The Desert and, of course, Hope Of Hapitoe. It is a 60-minute dirge. Think of the noise you'd make if a dog bit your privates, and then add a tambourine. It was definitely not a good buy. Any holiday pressie disasters?
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Quote me unhappy I'm sure we've all been taken by the research showing who's happy. The man who asks the insurance company to "Quote me happy" makes me very unhappy indeed. A punchy, nippy, Chinese burn if I could lay my hands on him unhappy. There are occupations apparently full of happy people. A survey tells us that hairdressers are positively joyful, as are the clergy, chefs, beauticians, plumbers and builders. Obviously some of these are no surprise. The clergy should be happy. In their Appraisals, under the section "Looking Ahead," they have Eternal Life and Salvation. Certainly beats Project Management Course or Health and Safety Awareness Day, doesn't it? Plumbers and builders are now an officially endangered species. They are so rare that there is now a preservation order on them. If you knowingly offend a plumber or builder you can be imprisoned for three months. If you knock over a plumber and follow it with a swan sandwich, you'll be incarcerated indefinitely. Chefs are now, almost to a man or woman, millionaires, so they're clearly made up. Hairdressers and beauticians are a different kettle of fish, though. There are two schools of thinking here. One is that these occupations naturally attract optimists - they are life's helpers. The alternative, which on reflection, is where my vote goes, is that they know no different. Alternative views, anyone? | 
