It was one hell of a holiday.

It's taken me ages to write this, but I think I have now recovered sufficiently from the shock to set it all out in print.

We set off for the golden and promising shores of Lanzarote on January 23. Winter Sun, trumpeted the brochure.

Kiss goodbye to the frozen winter winds of England and embrace the healing warmth of the Canaries.

Sold to the man in black. Oh...

...YES! If there was one thing we needed, it was a few days of sunshine while we relaxed in the laid-back cool of the Canary Islands.

How could anything go wrong?

The aircraft made its juddering start along the grimey Manchester runway. Not yet airborne, and second-born she-child vomited.

During a four-hour flight, if you do the maths, vomiting every ten minutes means you can fill over ten thousand sick-bags in next to no time - FACT.

Eventually, the hell-flight ended and we staggered from the astonishingly soiled cabin while hundreds of our fellow passengers stared daggers at us for RUINING the start of their Winter Sun holiday by stinking the plane out with the smell of sick.

If looks could kill.

Naturally, our cases were last off the carousel.

Naturally, our pre-booked taxi to the resort didn't turn up.

With a child bent in two with agonising stomach cramps and sobbing fitfully in a heart-rending fashion, and with our cases eventually collected from a drunken airport baggage handler, and with us feeling as if we had actually died - ACTUALLY DIED - and been delivered unto Satan, we managed to call a cab.

Day one: It rained. Hard. And it was freezing cold.

Girl child seemed to make a recovery so we were happy.

The pissing rain and howling gales were a bit of a downer as they had not been specifically highlighted in the brochure when we booked our place in Winter Sun heaven.

Day two: Things deteriorate. Girl child is again retching uncontrollably and is unable to walk due to the pain.

A bit of sunshine in the late afternoon raised our spirits, but we had a very bad feeling about things.

Day three: It is now impossible to ignore the howls of pain and projectile vomiting from our girl child.

We stumble through a day of clouds, rain, gales and sunshine, inconceivably joyous when I realise I have been BURNT!

BY THE SUN!

In JANUARY!!!

Our euphoria at my brightly-pink neck is short lived.

Midnight-plus-one: Realise that girl child is desperately ill. Call "doctor".

Day four: Well, that was a nightmare.

400 quid to "doctor" for a jab in the arse that did nothing.

Six hours later and we are in the island's general hospital about 25 miles away from our apartment. Girl child is on a ward with a drip-line in her arm and still vomiting furiously.

Day five: Another day at the hozzy. Bright sushine.

Hurrah!

Only spoiled by boy child held by security for shoplifting at resort supermarket. Not great.

Day six: Girl child discharged.

Boy child makes a desperate error, despite my warnings.

Brilliant sunshine all day.

Sitting at last on a sunbed outside apartment in the late afternoon, I notice a bright red spot shining from behind me and picking out fellow sunbathers across the pool.

TOTAL PANIC.

This is a terrorist laser sight, drawing a bead on the foreheads of holiday makers in our resort.

SHIT!

Leap off sunbed and in an act of selfless heroism, charge towards the apartment in which the sniper is hidden.

Er, it appears to be our apartment.

Remove from boy child replica pistol complete with laser sight on which is written in several languages: "WARNING! Can cause blindness. Never point at eyes."

I had advised against such a purchase.

Leg it down to gun shop and bollock uncomprehending Spanish villain.

Day seven: Thank Christ. Time to go home.

Flight is a living nightmare of angry drunken pensioners, crazy terrifying turbulence and a landing at Manchester which felt like they had put speed bumps on the runway.

Day seven, 3am: Arrive back home after, naturally, taxi not turning up and having to wait hours at airport.

It. Is. Fucking. Freezing.

Temp down to -5. Get home tired, sick, pissed off and shivering. Turn on central heating.

A stream of black water spews out the back of boiler. Flashing LCD display says: You, mate, are fucked. This boiler is no longer WORKING.

Collapse on floor in cloud a frozen breath and icy tears. Blind fury.

Day eight: Waiting for the boilerman to come. Boy child struck permanently deaf.

What a wonderful, wonderful life.

You gotta laugh.