I AM standing under the shower in my childhood home when I first realise I am awake.

My dad, Nigel, is already banging on the door.

“Come on Helen. I bet Sophie Ellis Bextor takes less time in a bathroom than you.”

“I´ve only been in here for five minutes.”

My dad gives a disapproving ‘Hmm’, as if this is just another tell-tale sign that I have become extravagant.

It is 4am. This is an uncivilised time for any human being, extravagant or not. I imagine. For heaven’s sake, even the badgers are still asleep.

I drag my suitcase down the stairs while trying to finish brushing my teeth.

In the kitchen I find my mum, Sheila, looking sparky and eating a banana. She used to work on the night shift in Nottingham’s accident and emergency department so that a mere 4am is nothing new to her.

Contrastingly, I misjudge the fridge, walk into the door and stub my toe.

An hour later we are at East Midlands Airport and things start to get all the more disorientating.

People are wandering everywhere in snow boots and bikini tops, drinking wine and arguing about trolleys.

To add to the surreal atmosphere, staff are boarding flights to Lapland dressed as elves and reindeer.

When a rough-looking Santa wanders past me, heading towards an overpriced coffee bar, I start to wonder if I am dreaming.

We get ready to board.

Mum purchases the world’s largest supply of water, in case dehydration strikes – or maybe even just in case the plane catches fire.

Meanwhile, dad reads a Light Aviation Association article on 2010 plane crashes.

And in duty free, I am sprayed with so much Lacoste, Calvin Klein and Dior that I reach the plane smelling like a tiki bar.

It is 7am when we take off, mum, dad and me. Back in a week. Wish you were here.