The absolutely BESTEST, most SENSIBLEST way to deal with arriving home from a brill sunny holiday to a cold, cold country is to behave as though still on holiday by getting slammed on Rioja and stuffing your face with chorizo, thereby ensuring that the first day back at work/school will be made SO much easier by being repulsively hungover and extra-depressed…

Meeting in the kitchen at 7.30 this morning, Gwyneth and I congratulated each other on our fabulous decision to move on to a second bottle…and then, because we’re really mature and not at all alcoholic, a third…

Our return journey to this chilly isle was a smidge less magical than our outward one…

We booked the last flight out of Malaga so as to maximise our final day on the beach, not spotting that this would allow many of our fellow passengers the opportunity to maximise their boozing.

One sorry young fella spent the whole flight throwing up and then gave us all a lovely encore in the queue at passport control.

Our bags had put on even more weight than me and were so grotesquely over the allowance we had to pay extra. Turns out wet towels are heavier than dry ones! Who knew? Of course in truth, the extra poundage was due to what are now a rather more expensive ten bottles of Rioja.

The flight was delayed by half an hour, but this was welcome because the only food outlet open at that time of night was Burger King who had cleverly employed just one trainee to serve a hundred people.

Towards the end of our two-hour visit to that fine slow-food establishment, I checked the departures board and discovered our flight was no longer delayed and was not only boarding, but flashing FINAL CALL at me.

Our planned browsing of duty-free for eldest to buy bargainous essential Mac products and me 200 HALF-PRICE essential Marlboro Lights disappeared in a sweaty, panicky sprint to the gate which was, of course, fifteen miles away at the other end of the terminal.

Also Gwyneth had sprained his wrist that day when he comically fell over walking to the beach so the piggy-backing of youngest was left to me which considering my Rioja-induced extra poundage, made the sprinting all the more enjoyable.

Aside from the vomiting loon, the flight itself was super. Sitting between both kids, I had eldest sleeping with her head on one shoulder while youngest crashed out on my lap. It was the longest, most glorious cuddle I’ve had with either of them in yonks.

Between teeny dozings, I thought about my next stand-up gig. (20th October in Manchester. Oh do come, won’t you? Oh dooooo). It’s going to include a totally uncanny impression of Treeeza May and will also feature me playing the part of Socrates and his gang Athenian heathens. Half-asleep on the plane, this all seemed hilarious and easy. Sitting here now, hung-over and freezing, it seems a bit…serious and impossible…

Still, if there’s one thing I learned on holiday, it’s that there are in fact many hours in the day, most of which I tend to spend worrying, procrastinating and yelling about how busy I am.

I am determined to try and stay in holiday-mode, to go a little slower and make more time for thinking, to cherish my brood and make more time for just being, to get more sleep and make more time for relaxing, and above all else, to continue to start drinking at lunchtime thereby making more time for boozing.

It’s good to be back…