THE BEST THING ABOUT A HOLIDAY IS... Kids’ clubs

WHEN my three sons were young and on the rare occasion we landed happily at an all-singing, all-dancing beach resort with a (thank you, Lord) kids’ club, I couldn’t wait to herd them in.

Holidays (in theory) are all about spending quality time as a family.

Oh yes, those never-ending hours of attempting to rub sunscreen into writhing bodies, the endless sorting out of squabbles over beach toys, the wiping away of sand from various orifices.

I was a stay-at-home-mum and had a seven, five and two-year-old, so a few hours on a sunbed with a book felt like I’d won the lottery.

Occasionally, though, there were obstacles to overcome before I reached nirvana, like my middle son’s aversion to a duck named Kiko — the mascot of a kids’ club in Lanzarote.

‘Look, it’s just one of the staff in a silly costume. Nothing to fear,’ I explained, while edging him gently (but firmly) nearer to the entrance as precious moments of ‘me time’ slipped away. Then there was the late discovery of a rule that my youngest son must be four to join football camp with his older brothers. ‘If anyone asks, you’re four, alright?’ ‘But Mummy, that is lying!’ ‘Not lying, just adjusting the truth!’

But 90 per cent of the time, my sons skipped off happily, to be face-painted as pirates and engage in a bounty of activities, including kick-boxing in Thailand, DJ-ing in Turkey (doesn’t get much cooler), and I still have a fine collection of painted jewellery made of shell pasta (or ‘resort wear’ as I like to call it).

So, thanks to all the wonderful, smiley, energetic kids’ club staff for giving us tired old mums a break, and for turning a blind eye to our wine breath as we arrive to collect our broods, always a few minutes late. KATE WICKERS