Package Holiday - end

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have now commenced our descent and in 10 minutes will be landing at Seville airport" announces Flight Attendant Anita. It is her first day on the tannoy and already she has irritated most of the passengers beyond belief with her annoying accent, poor pronunciation and erroneous announcements. She then goes blabbering on about fastening seat belts, extinguishing cigarettes (?) and putting seat backs in the upright position. But nobody is listening, Anita lost our attention the moment she uttered the word Seville. We all thought we were going directly to Dublin, so now there is intense speculation among the passengers as to the reasons for this sudden change of plan.

Wine Goose first checks that there are no flames licking the exterior of the aircraft. She then reassures herself that the back of the airplane has not become separated from the front. (No, she does not watch Lost, she does not have time. She has however seen the teasers many times and is familiar with the way the aircraft splits into two parts). Satisfied that whatever the problem is, it seems that we may well make it to Seville before disaster strikes; she turns to discuss the situation with Mr R, and those in the surrounding seats. What is about these type of announcements that prompt passengers to start talking disaster? The conversations start with "last year I was on a flight that overshot the runway," or "a friend of mine was on a flight from the Canaries that had to make an emergency landing in Spain a few weeks ago."

Wine Goose is not particularly superstitious, but she would prefer to withhold discussing such stories until she has been safely delivered into the terminal building. Now, she decides, thousands of feet above terra firma, is probably a better time to reflect on the falling value of her family home in the suburbs, or some such rubbish. And so she relaxes back into her seat, sort of, given that she has a young child on each side and is on an aircraft. "Mummy I need to go to the toilet" whispers our son. "That's fine, darling, as soon as we touch down in Seville we'll get you in there, only 2 minutes to go". Cue Anita: "Ladies and yentlemen (sp), during our refuelling stop in Seville, the toilets will be closED". We touch down; Wine Goose takes her son firmly by the hand and presents him to the first available flight attendant. "This little boy needs to go to the toilet. The toilets are closED" is the predictable response. So just how should Wine Goose respond "Well that's fine, he's 3 years old and will wait for another 2 hours while you useless fuel miscalculators refill the plane". The hell. Wine Goose suggests to her son that he find a suitable corner for his wee-wee. The toilets are magically reopened. For the next 2 hours, on the boiling hot tarmac of Seville airport, child after child files past to go to the toilet. Score 1 Wine Goose.

Then, hours later than planned, we arrive back at Dublin airport. Exhausted. Rather than battle with the fallout of the Sunday game at Croke Park Mr R decides to splash out on a taxi home. All the sooner to deal with the empty fridge, mountains of laundry, overgrown garden, piles of post....Vive les vacances. What else can Wine Goose do but pour herself a glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol, horribly sobering at €10.00 a bottle.

Package Holiday - middle

It's Groundhog Day. Wine Goose is awoken early by the energetic kids, keen to get a head start on building sandcastles. She urges them to keep quiet for another couple of hours - Mr R works hard for the money and needs his sleep. When the limited supply of toys permitted by the airline luggage allowance can entertain them no longer she wanders into the kitchen and rustles up a breakfast comparable to what they would be served at home. Bear in mind that in the comfort of suburbia she only has to make a very short journey from car boot to kitchen with the groceries, whereas here on the island numerous flights of stairs and sharp turns must be negotiated. Complete with a five litre container of water of course. The children predictably eat nothing, and in common with the home experience, Wine Goose drains the milk out of the cereal and scrapes it into the bin.

Her next task is getting them into UVF resistant swimwear. This is followed by face washing, teeth-brushing, and try as she might to put off the inevitable - sunscreen application. Can the manufacturers work on making it a little less sticky please? Better still, why can't they come up with a tablet so that all the child has to do is swallow a pleasant tasting pill before hitting the beach? It might seem a long shot, but given his ability to disappear at the crucial moment, it'll happen before Mr R ever gets his hands sticky. This process takes forever, so that as we arrive on the beach we are already entering the zone of deadly midday rays, so terrifying documented by our rep on the coach transfer. Wine Goose then spends her time closely monitoring the children. They have made lots of new friends and are busy playing imaginary games and creating fantastic sand structures complete with moats and drawbridges.

Mr R emerges from the apartment, clean-shaven and in yet another pristine set of holiday clothes. He settles himself onto a chaise-longue, angling the umbrella so that his face will be saved from the age-inducing rays. Carefully checking that his exposed lower body is sufficiently protected from sunburn, yet still likely to garner a golden glow, he opens up his third novel of the holiday. Wine Goose, meanwhile, has not make any progress with the dreadful chick-lit thing that set her back an arm and a leg at Dublin airport. Mr R is completely absorbed, but will from time to time acknowledge the existence of the children, perhaps helping them to retrieve a lost spade, or chuckling endearingly at one of their jokes. Wine Goose is not forgotten either - he occasionally points out how much she will enjoy the novel he is currently reading, conveniently forgetting that unless she cuts back to less than five hours sleep per night she will never improve on the current rate of one book per month.

As the week passes decisions become increasingly difficult for Mr R to make, so that instead of pushing him to choose between lunch at the pool bar and lunch at the apartment, Wine Goose organises a full day excursion to a local Water Park. The entrance fee is a prohibitive €77.00. What do we get for our money? Peeling paint, lopsided tiles and sleepy lifeguards. More terrifyingly, structures that look as if they are locked in a time warp. Helter skelters that claim to carry a dozen full grown men at any one time rest on a few rickety poles, the centrifugal force of the test ride selected by Mr R almost ejects him over the side, and the child friendly super slide entraps our daughter by her armband for a few terrifying seconds before Mr R manages to rescue her. Wine Goose fully expects Esther Rantzen and the entire "That's Life!" TV crew to come out of retirement and pop up beside her for a tragedy-filled half hour show on the dangers of ignoring EU health and safety regulations.

More and more families arrive, and by lunchtime Mr R is starting to feel naked without his tattoos. The children are lured from the pool by the promise of an ice-cream. Mr R then decides he has had enough, and so we leave the Water Park to return to the familiarity of the apartment. Mr R once more takes up his novel; Wine Goose once more looks after de-sunscreening and washing the children. Her task complete she dresses them in clean clothes, prepares a nutritious supper, before they all tiptoe past a clearly exhausted and by now asleep Mr R. It's time for the mini disco, and another attempt at keeping up with the Macarena. Vive les vacances. It must surely be time for a glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol (€5.00).