Our holiday is arranged.

Herself came in and thrust the phone into my hand.

“Give the man our credit card number” says she.

“Why?” says I.

“I’m booking a holiday in an hotel” says she.

So I gave him the number. He sounded very friendly. But then anyone who has just laid their hands on my card number should sound happy.

“Can I smoke my pipe in my bedroom?” says I. I have my priorities right. Forget about your star ratings and how near it is to the beach or whatever. I’ll stay in a kiphouse if I can smoke in my room.

“As much as you like” says he. “And we have a nice outdoor covered area outside the bar which I hope you will find very comfortable.”

I have stayed there before and it’s a lovely hotel. Very cosy and peaceful. And they have a great chef. It’s very quiet there. The nearest night club is about 50 miles away. There’s a nice cosy bar just down the road too, if I feel like a change of scenery. I don’t drink that much normally, but when I’m on holidays, I let the hair down and usually end up legless. I’ll probably be the noisiest guest in the place.

I can’t tell you where it is, because I know all you people in The West will come mobbing to see me, and the paparazzi might get word too. I mentioned this to the bloke on the phone, but he said I was OK as there were no under-passes nearby.

So I’ll be gone for a few days next week. You’ll have to manage without me.

The only problem now is that the memory is playing up again.

I can’t remember when we have booked for.