All things considered, the holiday didn’t get off to the best start – and inevitably, it was my fault. When we had to cancel our summer holiday the very nice insurance company gave us our money back. Then we discovered that a cottage in Derbyshire in July translates to a villa in Greece at half term. Or it would do, if your seven year old son wasn’t arrested as a terrorist.

The day before we flew tempers were a little strained. Having done all the packing, organised the tickets and changed the money, Jane’s patience was marginally on the thin side. Rashly, she left me in charge of supervising the children’s hand luggage. Naturally I immediately delegated the task.

“Ben, sort your back pack out will you?”

“What shall I put in it?”

“Whatever you like as long as you do it yourself.” In retrospect, that wasn’t the wisest thing I’ve ever said.

Having guided Tom and Jessica through the airport scanner without them triggering an international alert I was ready to reward myself with a full English breakfast – until I heard a commotion behind me. A security man was wearing an ‘I’ve nailed Al-Qaeda’ expression. Jane was looking furious and Ben was howling.

“I’m sorry, Madam,” I heard him say. “We have to confiscate all potentially lethal weapons.”

He was triumphantly waving Ben’s plastic gun – another victory in the war on terror. So much for the bacon and eggs – it looked like I’d be posting bail. “Could I ask who let the young man pack this, Madam?” Jane’s gaze swung menacingly towards me. I rapidly scanned the departures board. There weren’t any planes leaving for the Falklands.

The situation didn’t improve when we landed. The villa was in the mountains – which meant that I had to drive…on the wrong side of the road, for the first time in my life, in Greece. The rental lady was all smiles. “Much bigger car,” she said, forcing a set of keys on me. “No Golf. Instead, Jumpy.”

A Citreon Jumpy…Well, the nine seats would be handy if we adopted some more children. I needed a trusty Golf, not a bus. I’d already been having sleepless nights about hairpin bends with sheer drops – and as I rapidly discovered, the Greeks really know how to encourage terrified drivers. There were little shrines dotted along the roadside. “What are those?” I asked Jane.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re just where someone’s died.”

But first we needed food – and beer – from the supermarket. This involved my debut left turn in Greek traffic and Jane’s simultaneous conversion to the power of prayer. I thought 24 cans would see me through the week. I popped the slab of Amstel on top of the luggage, where it wobbled ominously.

And then we reached the mountains - and a succession of shrine covered hairpins. “Look at the lovely view, children,” Jane trilled, desperately trying to divert them from the driver’s bad language and our imminent demise.

I was so busy avoiding the abyss that I didn’t spot a particularly vicious pothole. The beer lurched forward and dealt Tom a savage blow on the right ear. “Well done, dear,” Jane said. “That’s Ben arrested and Tom with concussion. What have got in mind for Jessica?”

But I gradually improved and eventually I was trundling down the middle of the road like a Greek version of Postman Pat, waving at everyone I saw. I was quite proud of myself until Jessica turned up. “No offence, Dad, but…” This didn’t sound like good news – and she didn’t try to be diplomatic. “We still think you’re going to kill us on the way back to the airport. What’s the Greek word for taxi…”