The year before last, in the early spring, the two of us went to Vietnam.
And later that year, for our summer family holiday, we (two adults, those two girls), went to a resort a little way outside Marrakesh and had, frankly, a terrific bloody time.
That was the year before last.
Last year was different because and then there were five, when we two adults, those two girls, were joined by that there girl sprocker.
We discussed the options, but it was a unanimous decision to keep the family of five together for our family holiday.
So we all, yes, all five of us, went camping in Cornwall.
We crammed ourselves in to an eight-man tent and, being entirely truthful with you, we had a great time (despite the hyper-energetic sprocker putting a claw-hole in the adults airbed on the penultimate night).
But this year our family has expanded again, and the annual holiday has to accommodate two adults, those two girls and not one, but two hyper-energetic sprockers.
So throughout the winter there has been much thinking and saving: thinking about ‘how the heck are we going to do this?’, and saving for ‘whatever the heck it is we decide to do what will enable us to do this’.
Well, on Saturday it all happened.
We drove up to Swinderby (RAF Swinderby was my first ever posting) and picked up the means by which we are going to do this.
Yes, middle age has hit hard, but unexpectedly it is combined with a smug feeling of practicality.
Cornwall will be seeing all six of us this year.
Next year, maybe France.
If the EU will have us.