IT was a long drive – 384 miles to be exact – so I set off at the crack of dawn. As reported in my last column, my wife had decided it would be a good idea if I drove the luggage down to Cornwall for our family holiday while she travelled by train with three of our four children.

Her logic was simple: there’d be more room in the car for the bags, she wouldn’t find it so stressful, and we wouldn’t have to go to the expense of a hire car.

“I can’t bear the thought of eight hours in the car – it’s too far,” she said, without a hint of irony.

Our eldest, otherwise known as The Big Friendly Giant, took pity on me and volunteered to keep me company.

Having slept badly – I always do when I know I have to be up early – I picked him up from his flat at 6am.

The Cornish village of Portwrinkle was stuck into the sat-nav and off we set.

We chatted for 15 minutes or so before he plugged himself into his laptop for the rest of the journey, laughing hysterically at whatever he was listening to, and breaking off occasionally to hand me one of the buns my wife had thoughtfully packed for us. There was a choice of ham or tuna. She’s like that, my wife – considerate.

Thankfully, I had the excitement of the Olympics on the radio to take my mind off the tedium of the seemingly never-ending motorways: A1, M18, M1, M42, M5...

It wasn’t too bad for the first couple of hours but then the traffic began to thicken and, by the time we’d reach the Nottingham area, we were crawling along. Traffic jams are even more frustrating when you’re listening to a commentary of cyclists, rowers and cross-country horse riders flying along in record times.

In need of a break – 150 miles in one go is enough for me these days – I pulled into a service station. There was a text message waiting from my mum: “Are you driving?”

I rang her to reassure her we were safe and sound, although we would not have been if I’d answered her text while doing 70 miles an hour down the outside lane.

She was watching the Olympics: “The canoe salami’s been fantastic,” she said. “Did you see it?” She meant slalom – and no I didn’t.

I endured a cup of weak coffee that cost me an arm and a leg, read the paper for ten minutes, and set off again. We couldn’t afford to take too long – my wife’s train, which had left Darlington at a civilised 10am, was due to arrive in Cornwall at 5pm and she and her young travelling companions had booked Dad’s Taxi from the station.

I ploughed on as far as Bristol before we stopped again. The service station was so packed, we had to queue for half an hour for another exorbitant coffee while several babies cried, and a fat, tattooed man in front of me belched loudly to entertain his children.

At that moment, a text came through from my wife, giving us an update on their progress: “All going well. Just got to Derby. Not too expensive so decided to upgrade to first-class. Free drinks, nibbles & lots of leg-room. Lovely. See you soon x.”

We still had four hours on the road to go.

THE THINGS THEY SAY THANKS to Lindsay Parker, of Durham, for writing to tell me how daughter Sylvia, aged four and a half, came home and asked if she could watch “Cheeky, Cheeky Bang Bang” like she’d seen at her nursery holiday club.

What kind of stuff are they showing the kids at nursery club these days?

THANKS also to Phil Storey for telling me how he was cycling around West Park, in Darlington, with ten-year-old daughter Katie when she complained she was out of puff and sweating.

“Sweating is good for your skin – it cleans out your pores,” wheezed her dad.

“But I don’t have paws,” groaned Katie. “I have hands.”