IT’S not long until our holidays, which means it’s not long until we become good old English fault finders.

There are three things we have to inspect on arrival at our apartment — the balcony, the kitchen drawer and the bathroom.

Last time, the four-year-old was genuinely floored by the bidet.

“What’s that?”

We both hesitated. Is this one you can fully explain to kids, or is it one to gloss over?

I started to say: “For washing the sand out of your…”

“Feet,” hissed Mother Superior.

But it doesn’t matter because we can see the sea from our balcony.

“Look kids, the sea,” I announce, and then more quietly: “And that loud family that was in front of us on the plane are our neighbours.”

Which reminds me, I bet we forgot to pack earplugs.

The wardrobes are being frisked.

“Good, we’ve got blankets,” she says as the kids breathe sighs of relief.

That’s how cold England is. A genuine expectancy of death in the night without blankets.

And our cases fit in the wardrobe, can it get any better?

But there’s a problem in the kitchen drawer. We’ve nine carving knives, a boiled egg slicer and no corkscrew.

The ‘Mother Superior’ is already in the lift on the way to reception — after a short deviation via the hotel basement.

I always press the wrong button and a quick ‘lift’ row ensues. These start when the lift doors close and end as the lift doors open, where we emerge, beaming.

Receptions should be universally represented in lifts by zero rather than 1 — it’s my law.

She likes going to reception to ask things and get directions, whereas I prefer to spend the week getting lost.

Columbus never really ‘discovered’ America, he just set off and eventually hit it.

He was bound to.

At the end of the week, when we’re on the airport bus, I’ll spot a pharmacy just round the back of our hotel.

Much closer than that one eight miles up the beach that ‘I found’.

I bet it sold earplugs as well.