MY parents frequently said it to me and my brothers when we were little. My wife and I often say it to our children when we get cross. And I have no doubt they will say it to their children when the time comes: "You kids just don't know how lucky you are."

We've just come back from our summer holiday in Spain and, as always, the kids wanted for nothing.

They had had more spending money than I saw in a whole year when I was a child, and they took a long list of things to keep them entertained: inflatables, swimming masks, snorkels, flippers, ipods, DVDs, computer games, and books which included the final instalment of Harry Potter.

We had perfect weather - too hot at times - idyllic beaches along the Mar Menor, crystal-clear waters, nice places to eat and drink, a hire car for trips out, an air-conditioned apartment with a pool, and a local tennis club at our disposal.

On our last night, the six of us sat round a table at a lovely open-air restaurant after a slap-up meal and marked the holiday out of ten.

Apart from Max who said it was 'OK' and gave it a six or a seven at best, the rest of us agreed on a highly enjoyable eight.

"It would have been a ten if you hadn't come, Dad," said Jack, 13, who insisted he was only joking before adding: "But you have to admit - you have been a bit on the grumpy side."

It's true that my wife and I had a running dispute over the air-conditioning in our bedroom - she was too cold, I was too hot - and that led to one or two midnight wrestling matches for the remote control.

But the only other time I can remember getting a bit hot under the collar was when my 15-year-old daughter got wolf-whistled by three Spanish youths. It's hard enough coping with hormonal boys back home, but I've never really forgiven Spain for getting England knocked out of the World Cup in 1982 and, somehow, that made the wolf-whistling harder to take.

When we got back to England, I visited my parents to reassure them that we were all safe and sound because they always worry, especially my 85-year-old dad.

"Those kids didn't go near any great white sharks, did they?" he asked straight away. "They're at Cornwall now, you know."

While I was trying to convince him that they'd been in no danger from Jaws, my mum showed me a fading letter she'd come across during a clear-out. It had been sent in 1934 by her brother Tom to his mum when he was 11.

Tom, who suffered from a rheumatic heart and died the day before his 21st birthday, had been taken on holiday to the Merseyside Holiday Camp as part of his treatment.

This is what the letter says:

"Dear Mother, Thank you for the shilling. I have got something for Dad, you, Margaret, Doreen and Donald. I could not get much for them because I did not have much left when I got you and Dad something. All I had was tuppence so I went to the tuck shop and got a ha'penny bar of barley sugar and a ha'penny bar of rock for Margaret. With the other ha'penny, I got a sherbet dab for meself. On Tuesday, I went to Rhyl. I only had five pence so I paid me fare - tuppence - and got a thruppeny meat pie for you, but it's a surprise. I remain your loving son, Tom.

S.P. I got an envelope off the teacher because the other one got smudged."

He didn't know how lucky he was, did he?

THE THINGS THEY SAY

MY son Christopher, 17, has had to have an operation to repair damage to his knee.

"You should be able to drive within four or five days," said the nurse afterwards.

It's amazing what the NHS can do these days, isn't it? He hasn't even had any lessons yet.

MAX, aged ten, remains madly in love with his mum. The other day, she was having an afternoon nap on the settee. He stood over her for a while and whispered: "She snores like an angel."