Bring Back Katie Boyle!

They arrive at five. After a two-hour drive Daddy Shortlegs is forced to seek immediate solace in the toilet. He pushes his way past us inexorably like a half-cut lava flow as he makes for the bathroom. Nothing stands in his path and we are buffeted out of his way. He wombles out to wash his hands in the brand spanking new kitchen sink until I point out there is a sink in the bathroom he has just left – cue furious muttering as he removes himself to his bedroom complaining about the lack of heating. The fan heater goes on full blast and the national grid starts to whirr with the effort. The regime has been restored.

We decide on pizza and Eurovision. I sit and knit my brows like a virtual Madame Defarge as the UK tumbrel heads towards nul points! Thank God for Terry Wogan who remains cheerful but where is good old Katie Boyle when you need her? The half time programme is a dire mish-mash of circus skills that would be moved along in any self-respecting festival. We all agree we can’t stand Finland’s answer to Sandra Dickinson (David Dickinson? asks Sonny above the roar of the music) as she totters about like Barbara Cartland’s ghost on speed.

Rich sits with his iPod on and the subtle leakage of harpsichord doesn’t enhance the viewing enjoyment or help the pizza go down. The judging is now so partisan that they may need to have BBC War correspondent Orla Guerin as a presenter (assuming Kate Adie or CNN's Christiane Amanpour wouldn't want to do it!).

BTW: here's a tip. If any of the above and/or Jessica Fletcher are listed in the hotel register when you go to check in - then check out ASAP!