Day 257. On the palm of her hand is a blister.

Assembling flat pack furniture starts in the seventh circle of hell - anger - and shortly after reading the first page, which has no words but instead shows you what is and isn't recommended in cartoon format, you enter the ninth circle - violence - ready to attack the maker of said flat pack with an allen key. Alan, Alan; seriously cannot say the name Alan/Allen in any voice but this one.

Also, why is the text so small in the instructions? My eyesight may have declined in recent years but this text is enough to fire me from the ninth circle straight into the eye of hell's storm without a thought for the three faces of Satan. I'm armed with a phillips screwdriver and a handful of leftover dowels; nothing is fazing me.

Halfway through putting this cabinet together I realised I had a blister on the palm of my hand. It's nothing to do with Liam Gallagher and more to do with the fact that the pre-tapped, minuscule hole does not hold any size screw. It's merely a pencil dot showing you where to screw in the fitting and requiring brute force to get it in. Three quarters of the way towards eternal damnation the blister burst.

Balance was restored to the world of furniture buying when I headed to our local second hand furniture shop 'Reloved' and bought a shelving unit for the bedroom. Not a flat pack in sight. Brutus, Cassius and Judas can only dream of this place. Not an allen key to be found. Speaking of Allen...

Day 215. Hi de oh no.

I will openly admit when I go on holiday I have certain standards. Good food. Pleasant accommodation. Good food. Ok it's generally about the food, and the location, but mainly the food.

At short notice I decided to head up to Southport to join my Mum, two sisters, five nieces and nephew for a long weekend. They were staying at Pontins; a holiday camp I had stayed at as a child and had always enjoyed. I was prepared for the fact this was not going to be Center Parcs, that there were fewer places to eat and the apartment (who are they kidding it's a chalet) would not have ensuites, patio doors through which to view the deer and squirrels or a handily positioned blackboard for prolific wall scribblers. After a three hour journey turned into six I was feeling just a little tired and in need of a blue curaçao (the first alcoholic drink I had tried there as a teenager).

Driving through the gates, I began to fear that I had entered some other world, something reminiscent of Dante's nine circles of Hell where I would remain caught in the first circle with, to be fair, some of the other guests, watching various other guests work their way through the remaining eight.

Unlike Dante I was sure there was no way to reach paradise. Our rooms hadn't been cleaned, the fish and chip shop ran out of fish, and then sausages, by 6pm on the first night and the trampolines in the children's play area cost £1 for five minutes. I was staggered by the number of parents I overheard swearing at their children. The problems and poor management were stacking up higher than the climbing wall that sat centre stage outside the main doors but was not in use due to staffing issues.

Then I had a G&T. The children watched the Bluecoats perform a show. Bea was delighted to be with her cousins especially as Alex was going to be staying with us for the weekend. It wasn't a place I'd head back to in a hurry but when you don't see your family very often it's easy to quickly put aside the superficial factors and just sit down, have a catch up and laugh the night away. So that's what I did although I totally forgot to order a blue curaçao.